Notice what I actually watch on the show. The Quince cotton modal Henley every episode. The team of cotton tea that holds its shape, wash after wash, soft, lightweight, breathable. The stuff I'd actually add to my own cart. Here's the thing about that. What I already reached for is what I'd wrap up. The Henley's one I'd hand to anyone on my list. And this holiday season, Quince is where I'm shopping for myself and everyone on it. Here's what's told me, real materials, Mongolian cashmere, 14 karat gold, Italian leather, stuff that's actually locked behind a four-figure price tag. Cashmere sweaters start at 60 bucks. Plus, down jackets will out-a-wear, cashmere accessories for one gift for the whole list. That's because Quince skips the middleman and works directly with the very same ethical factories the luxury brands use. So same quality, just minus the markup. And it's not only clothes either. Find jewelry, leather bags, hotel quality bedding, chef-grade cookware, five-star luggage. Basically, everyone left on your list. All right, here's exactly how to grab it. Give the gift of quality this holiday season. Download the Quince app for app exclusive offers or go to quince.com. Get free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. Now available on Canada and the UK too. And when Quince asks you where you heard about him, let him know it was the Y-Files. It's the best way to support the show. Gather out. This happened in Columbus, Ohio on April 1, 2006. Brian Schafer walked into a bar at 115 in the morning with two friends, one way in, one way out. The building was covered in cameras. Every exit monitored, every door, all watched, all recorded. Brian was a 27-year-old medical student. The plan was med school, then residency. The Mario's girlfriend Alexis. But that plan would never happen. In a building covered by security cameras, surrounded by 200 witnesses in a room with one way in and one way out, Brian Schafer vanished. Two weeks earlier, Brian's mother died. Renee Schafer lost her battle with a rare cancer that destroys bone marrow. She was Brian's anchor. The one who pushed him through undergraduate studies in microbiology, the one who celebrated when he got into Ohio State's medical program. She died in March. Brian was at her bedside holding her hand when she passed. Two weeks later, he carried it everywhere. Friend City handled it well, kept his grades up, he attended every lecture. But those closest to him noticed the exhaustion, the way he'd stare off during conversations, the forced smile when people asked him how he was doing. The night of March 31st, Brian had dinner with his father, Randy, just the two of them. Brian looked drained, dark circles under his eyes. Randy thought his son shouldn't grab that night, thought he should rest, but he didn't say him. He would regret that silence for the rest of his life. After dinner, Brian called Alexis Wagner, his girlfriend of two years, also a medical student. She got home to Delito to visit her parents. Brian asked Alexis if they were still on for my Annie. She said she couldn't wait. Brian was excited, three days on South Beach, and Brian planted surprise here with a proposal. The ring was already picked out. He said he'd see her Monday, then he called Clint Florence, his roommate, his closest friend. Time to celebrate the start of spring break. They started at the ugly tuna around nine, a bar on the second floor of the Gateway Building near Ohio State University. They had around then went bar hopping through the arena district and Chorg North. One shot at each stop. Nothing excessive, just two friends blowing off steam after a brutal semester and the worst month of Brian's life. Around midnight, they ran into Meredith Reed, a friend of Clint's. She offered to drive them to their next stop. Brian said back to the tuna. The last place Brian Schaeffer would ever be seen alive. The last place he would ever be seen at all. [MUSIC] The security camera captured them at 115 a.m., three friends riding the escalator to the second floor. Brian looked relaxed, happy even. The ugly tuna occupied the entire second floor, exposed brick, industrial lighting, the bar along one wall tables everywhere, a stage in the corner. The place was packed with college students celebrating spring break, loud music, and louder conversations. Brian moved through the crowd, buying drinks, talking to people. Witnesses later said he was more outgoing than usual, more social like he was working hard to have a good time. Around 140 a.m., Brian and Clint stepped out to the balcony area overlooking the atrium. The camera caught them there. Brian leaning against the railing, Clint beside him. They talked for a few minutes. But at some point during that conversation, they got into an argument. The camera saw it all. They went back inside. 15 minutes later, Brian was outside again alone. The camera recorded his final moments. He stood near the entrance, talking to two young women, bond early 20s. The conversation lasted about two minutes. Brian smiled, the women laughed. Nothing seemed wrong. Those two women were never identified. Not Ohio State students, not locals, anyone recognized. They appeared on no other camera in the building or surrounding area that night. 19 years later, nobody knows who they were. Brian said goodbye in the camera showed him turning, walking back toward the bar entrance, moving off screen. That was the last time anyone saw Brian Schaefer. At closing time, Clint and Meredith searched the entire bar. Bathrooms, back rooms, storage areas. They asked the staff. Nobody had seen him leave. 200 people came down the escalator as the bar closed. Brian wasn't among them. Clint called a cell phone. It would straight to voicemail. They waited outside until sunrise. Brian never came out. Police reviewed every second of security footage. Every camera, every angle. The lead detective tracked every person who entered the bar that night, then tracked them leaving. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone except Brian. The detective told reporters, "I can say with 100% certainty that Brian Schaefer did not leave via the escalator." The service elevator required a key card, only employees had access. Staff were on camera using it all night. None matched Brian's description. But the back exit was more complicated than it first appeared. A service door, not far from where Brian was last seen, opened to a first floor hallway that was connected to an active construction area with its own exterior exit. Officers said navigating it would be nearly a possible drunk. But the cameras covering that route weren't fixed. One pen back and forth on a cycle. The other was manually operated. There were gaps. Not many, but enough that a person could slip through unseen. That was the only crack in a sealed box. And nobody can prove Brian went through it. No witnesses saw anyone use the exit. Nobody saw anyone at the construction site. But the gap existed. In a case that seems impossible every detail matters. Police checked cameras at three other nearby bars. None of them saw Brian either. Wherever he went after walking off camera at the tuna, no other camera spotted him. Canon units tracked Brian's scent from the street to the escalator, up to the bar entrance. Then the dogs circled the same spot near the door and sat down. The trail stopped. As if Brian was there one minute, then gone the next. Police organized search parties, volunteers comb the campus, construction sites, abandoned buildings. They searched the Allentangie River, which runs through Columbus near the campus. They even convinced the city to let them search the sewer system, dumpsters, every alley within miles. Brian's apartment was only six blocks from the bar. His car was parked outside. Nothing inside was disturbed, closed, and his closet, books on his desk. Whatever Brian was planning, he was planning on coming home. His phone went directly to voicemail. There was no GPS in 2006, so no way to track it. He had his wallet with him, but he didn't use his credit cards. He didn't touch his bank account. No activity on anything. Monday morning, Alexis's engagement ring still sat in his apartment. She waited at the airport, but Brian never showed. And the flight to Miami left without him. Everyone who saw Brian that night was asked to take a polygraph. His father, Andy, took one and passed. Meredith Reed took one. Past. Bar staff. Other friends. All agreed. All passed. All except Clint Florence. Clint was the only person to spend the entire evening with Brian, the last friend to see him alive. The one who admitted they argued on the balcony, but wouldn't say why. When police asked him to take a lie detector test, he refused. Then he hired an attorney. Later, he was subpoenaed to appear before a grand jury. He refused to answer questions there too. Refusing a polygraph is legally smart. Defense attorneys tell clients to refuse them because the machines are unreliable. Clint's refusal doesn't make him guilty, but in a case with zero leads and zero evidence, it's the one thread that won't stop pulling. Meanwhile, the search spiraled outward.
A psychic told Randy Schaefer that Brian's body was in water near a bridge pier, so Randy and Derek, Brian's younger brother, bought waiters. They spent their weekends in the Untangie River, searching under bridges. Randy had just buried his wife, and now he was standing knee deep and freezing water searching for the body of his son. Brian had a Pearl Jam tattoo on his arm. When the band played Cincinnati later that year, Eddie that are stopped between songs and asked 15,000 people for information about Brian Schaefer. The lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the world, standing on stage, personally asking for help finding a missing fan. The website, I think, is trying to keep the issue to the forefront, to keep reminding people that they have to look out together, six, two, missing, they've got a Pearl Jam tattoo on his right arm. So the fans, I'm trying to keep the issue afloat, but to know what they also got. We just want to, we were taking a second back to try to figure out what to play. Nobody had anything, 15,000 people in a stadium, and not one useful lead. Then in September, something happened. Alexa said been calling Brian's phone every night before bed. Every single night since April, the same thing every time, straight to voicemail, straight to voicemail. But then one night, five months after Brian disappeared, his phone rang. For the first time in months, Brian Schaefer's cell phone rang, but nobody answered. Singular Brian's wireless provider said it was probably just a glitch. But a ping from the phone was detected at a cell tower in Hilliard, Ohio, 14 miles northwest of Columbus, something activated that phone. The lead was never explained. The phone went silent again and never pinged another tower. Some investigators looked at the so-called "smiley face killer" theory. Some believed the serial killer was targeting drunk college aged men in the Midwest and dumping their bodies in rivers. Young men sitting Brian's profile had turned up dead in waterways across several states. Please look into it. The FBI looked into it. Both rejected any connection. If the "smiley face killer" was real and most law enforcement said he isn't, Brian would be the only victim whose body was never found. Now possible sightings were recorded in Michigan, in Texas, in Sweden. A man matching Brian's description was seen at a bar in the Caribbean, another was spotted at a bus station in the southwest. Police investigated every single one. Sent officers, compared photos, checked records, nothing panned out. Randy Schaefer drove to Columbus every weekend for two years, walked the streets around the Gateway Building, handed out flyers, searched the river, hired investigators, spent everything he had. In 2008, two years after Brian vanished, Randy was killed in a freak accident when a branch broke from a tree and fell on him. Derek Schaefer, Brian's younger brother, inherited everything alone. The search, the questions, the weight of a family that stopped existing one member at a time. A brother, a father. Three people gone in two years. Derek kept searching, he still does. Shortly after Randy's death, Clint Florence's attorney sent a letter to a private investigator working the case. In it, he wrote, "If Brian is alive, which is what I'm led to believe, after speaking with a detective involved, that it is Brian and not Clint, which causing his family pain and hardship." The detective on the case believed Brian was alive. In 2020, the Ohio Attorney General's office digitally aged Brian's photo to show what he might look like in his mid-40s. Dayline covered the case, America's most wanted covered it, the internet never let it go. There's a subreddit dedicated to finding him, and every year on April 1st, people share his photo and ask the same question, "Where is Brian Schaefer?" He would be 46 years old today. 19 years of past, his phone has never pinged another tower, his credit cards have never been used. His social security number has never appeared in any database. No hospital records, no police reports, no death certificate, his body has never been found. The ugly tuna close years ago, the building still stands on North High Street. The cameras are gone now, new businesses occupy the space, but the escalators still runs. But somewhere in those final seconds, in an arrow window between camera angles, between one frame, and the next, a 27-year-old medical student vanished. The footage is still there, archived in police evidence, frame by frame, second by second. Cameras prove that Brian Schaefer entered that building. They also prove that somehow, he never left. Gather round. This happened. In October 2009, hunters found an abandoned pickup truck on a dirt road deep in the Samoy Mountains of Southeastern Oklahoma. The engine was cold, the doors were unlocked. Inside a small terrier named Macy was pressed against the seat, she was barely alive, she was trapped in the cab for days with no food, no water, and no one coming back for her. They also found two cell phones, two wallets, and a GPS unit. There were coats and jackets inside, even though the nights were dropping into the forties, and sitting in plain sight, $32,000 in cash. There were no footprints leading away from the vehicle, no blood, no sign of a struggle. The truck was owned by Bobby Jameson. He drove to the mountains with his wife, Cheryl Lynn, and their six-year-old daughter, Madison. For what reason the police never figured it out, the only thing we know for sure is, that Jameson family is gone. Bobby and Cheryl and Jameson lived in Ufala, a quiet town on the shore of Lake Ufala in Southeastern Oklahoma. Bobby was 44, a bad car accident years earlier and left him with chronic back pain. He lived on a disability settlement. Cheryl Lynn was 40, she suffered from bipolar disorder for years, they fought, they struggled, but they had their daughter, Madison, and made a plan to get out. In the fall of 2009, the Jameson's found a 40-acre plot of land near the town of Redoak about 30 miles from home. It was deep in the Samboi range, remote, and wooded, the kind of place where you could disappear from the world. They wanted a fresh start to leave Ufala and everything in it behind. On October 8th, they loaded up the truck and drove out to see the property, Madison rode in the back seat with her dog, Macy. This was the last day anyone saw them alive. The truck was found a few days later by hunters who reported it to the Latimer County Sheriff. When deputies arrived, the first thing they noticed was the dog. Macy was dehydrated and weak, but alive. The second thing they noticed was the money, about $33,000 in cash sitting in plain sight, nobody touched it. The family's belongings also told a strange story. Their IDs were still in the truck, so were their phones. Their coats were still in the truck, and October nights in the Samboi range got cold. Wherever the Jameson's went after they parked, they went without identification, communication, money, or the right clothes for the weather. They took nothing. One detail the Sheriff noticed from security camera footage, at one point, Sherylaine placed a brown briefcase in the truck, that briefcase was never recovered, neither was the 22 caliber handgun that she stashed in it. The cash, all $32,000 of it, sat untouched when the truck was found. The Jameson's weren't wealthy, they weren't known for carrying cash. The disability settlement may explain where the cash came from, but it doesn't explain why they brought every dollar they had to look at a piece of land in the mountains. But the security cameras at their house recorded something that investigators have never been able to explain. The footage is timestamped the morning they left. It shows Bobby and Sherylaine making a trip after a trip between the house and the truck, back and forth, loading boxes, carrying bags. They don't speak to each other, they don't look at each other. Same trips, they stop, staying completely still, and stare at nothing, not at the ground, not at the sky, just somewhere in the middle distance. Then after a few seconds, they start moving again, same pace, same silence like robots or zombies. The sheriff who reviewed the tape said they looked like they were in a trance, not arguing, not rushing, not behaving like a normal couple packing for a day trip, just silent mechanical repetition, like two people running on a program, like two people without free will.
The Jamesons were already in trouble long before they disappeared. And every layer of the investigators pulled back, revealed something darker. Bobby was locked in a bitter legal battle with his own father, Bob Dean Jameson. In 2008, Bobby had filed a protective order claiming his father had tried to run him over with a car. Bobby's petition described his father as "a very dangerous man." He accused him of being involved with meth and other criminal activity. He said his father threatened to kill him, his wife, and daughter. Then there were the spirits. Bobby and Sherylin had both visited their pastor separately. They told him the same thing, something was living inside their house, spirits, entities they could see but couldn't make leave. Bobby told the pastor he'd gone out and bought a copy of the Satanic Bible. Not to worship anything, he said, but to find instructions for driving the spirits out of the house. He asked if he knew where to buy special bullets that could shoot the entities off the roof. The pastor didn't know what to say to that, nobody did. A handyman who'd been staying with the family in the weeks before they disappeared had connections to white supremacist groups. After the Jamesons vanished, investigators took a hard look at him. They interviewed him multiple times, they couldn't tie him to the disappearance. On the property was a large metal storage container the family planned to move into while building on the new land. Sherylin had spray painted messages across its sides. One line said, which is don't like it when their cats are killed. The neighbors didn't know what to make of it, neither did the police. Inside the abandoned truck was an 11 page letter from Sherylin to Bobby, handwritten and full of rage. She called him a hermit, she said she resented him, she said she didn't need him. Friends who read it later said it wasn't a good buy note, it was angry and raw. The kind of thing you write at 3 in the morning when you've had enough. And then there was the last photo, it was on Bobby's phone, taken the day they vanished. The image shows six year old Madison standing alone in the woods, not smiling, not crying, just standing perfectly still among the trees, looking directly into the camera with a blank hollow expression like she was waiting for something to happen. Nobody knows who took that picture, it was on Bobby's phone but he wasn't in it, neither was Sherylin, Madison is alone, trees behind her dirt under a feet and whoever was holding that phone was the last person to see that little girl alive. Search teams covered hundreds of acres, dogs tracked sent trails that went nowhere, helicopters flew grid patterns over the mountains, volunteers walked shoulder to shoulder through dense brush and still they found nothing, in four years past. In November 2013, two deer huckers were scatting a remote part of Lattera County, dense oak forest rocky terrain, less than three miles from where the truck was abandoned in 2009. One of them stopped walking, something pale on the ground caught his eye, have hidden in the underbrush, were bones, scattered across the forest floor by four years of storms and animals to adults one child. In July 2014, the Oklahoma medical examiner confirmed what everyone already knew but no one wanted to hear. Bobby Jamison, Sherylin Jamison, Madison Jamison. The official cause of death was undetermined and that word undetermined is rare. Medical examiners almost always find something, a fracture, a puncture, toxicology, something but the Jamisons gave them nothing, no bullet damage to any of the bones, no knife marks, no damage to the highway bone, which means they weren't strangled, four years of Oklahoma heat, cold rain and wildlife destroyed the evidence of whatever killed them. The case became national news, hundreds of tips came in over the years and none of them led anywhere. Every theory fell apart, meth, police searched the house and found nothing, no drugs, no power for Nalia, no evidence of dealing or using, murder suicide, but Sherylin's gun was missing and the bodies were three miles of rough terrain from the truck. Now Bobby's father, he had an alibi and died two months after the family vanished. The handyman with white supremacist ties was a person ventures for a while but nothing connected him to the disappearance. Sherylin's mother believed that the family was pulled into a cult and she never changed her story. The sheriff who worked the case said one thing stayed with him above everything else, not the money, not the letter, not the photo of Madison in the woods, it was the footage. Bobby and Sherylin moving through their house like they were sleepwalking, loading that truck in total silence, stopping to stare at nothing, then starting again, over and over and over. He said he watched it more than a hundred times and every time it looked less like a family packing for a trip, and more like robots running a program. The $32,000 is still in an evidence locker, the briefcase has never been found, Sherylin's gun has never been found, and nobody's ever explained what made Bobby and Sherylin load that truck like zombies on the last morning of their lives, and most likely, nobody ever will. Gather round. This happened. Marshall, Minnesota, May 14th, 2008, 154 AM. Brandon Swanson called his parents from the side of a dark road. He was 19 years old, last day of college. His car was in a ditch, he just needed to ride. His father Brian drove out looking for him. They stayed on the phone for 47 minutes. Brandon saw lights in the distance. He started walking toward what he thought was town. Then on the phone with his father, he said, "Oh, shit." Then the line went dead, and Brandon vanished. Brandon told his parents he crashed near Lynn, a small town about 7 miles from Marshall. That's where his father searched, up and down those roads, looking for a gray Chevy Lumina in a ditch, looking for a son walking along the road. But he found nothing. At 6.30 AM, the Swanson's reported Brandon missing. The officer wasn't concerned. Young guy, last day of school, been out drinking, probably sleeping at office somewhere. One cop told Annette Swanson that her son had a right to be missing. She didn't accept that. She pushed. She demanded they check the cell records. Well, the records told a different story. Brandon's last call didn't ping a tower near Lynn, it pinged near Porter, 25 miles in the opposite direction. Brandon was completely wrong about where he was. He thought he was 7 miles from home. He was 30 miles away. On a gravel road in the middle of farmland, surrounded by fields and darkness, no streetlights, no houses, nothing but flat ground and sky in every direction. Yellow medicine county sits in southwestern Minnesota, its prairie land. The kind of place where you can see headlights from 10 miles away on a clear night. And in May, the corn hasn't come up yet. The fields are bare dirt and stubble. There's nothing to hide behind. There's nothing to fall into. There's nothing that should swallow a person whole. Police found his car that afternoon stuck up on an incline near a bridge on a county road. Or as open, he's gone, Brandon had taken him with him when he started walking. The nearest town was Porter, population 178, but Brandon never made it. Now think about that, Brandon grew up in Marshall. He driven these roads his whole life, and somehow after his car went into the ditch, he was convinced he was near Lynn, a town he knew. He recognized nothing around him because there was nothing to recognize, just gravel and darkness and the flat line of the horizon. And here's where it gets strange. The lights Brandon saw in the distance, the one he walked towards, were probably a red beacon on a grain elevator in tone. A single light on top of a tall metal structure visible for miles across the flat prairie. Now from that distance through the darkness, it looked like a town. It looked like safety. It wasn't. Between Brandon and that light was three miles of open farmland, the yellow medicine river, and nothing else. No roads leading where he was going, no buildings, just black earth under a pitch black sky. Brandon walked into the night, phone pressed to his ear, convinced he was heading towards civilization. He was heading into miles of empty fields. Then he cursed into his phone, then the line went dead. Searchers started at first light, helicopters overhead, officers walking the roads and ditches, volunteers combed the fields. They brought in dogs trained to track human scent across miles of open ground, canine units with hundreds of successful tracks between them. Dogs that had found bodies buried under six feet of soil. The dogs picked up Brandon's trail near his car and followed it. West, northwest along field roads, three miles through darkness, past barbed wire fences and drainage ditches, then to an abandoned farm, building dark doors hanging open, no one living there for years. Then the trail turned south and followed the yellow medicine river, a shallow waterway that cuts through the farmland, muddy banks, thick brush on both sides, and branded and mentioned hearing.
water during his call. He mentioned passing fences. He told his father the ground was getting uneven and harder to walk on. The details matched perfectly. The handlers expected the trail to end at the river's edge, confirming Brandon fell in and drowned. But the dogs didn't stop. They waited across the Yellow Medicine River, way steep in places. The current strong enough to push against their legs. The dogs picked up the scent on the opposite bank. Brandon had crossed the river and the dark he didn't fall in. He didn't drown. He made it to the other side and kept walking. The dogs kept going north along a gravel road until they hit the Yellow Medicine County line. Then the trail ended. Not at the river, not at a body. It stopped in the middle of nowhere. Open farmland, no structures, no landmarks, as if Brandon had been lifted off the face of the earth. No searches continued for years. Every spring after snow melt, when the frozen ground thawed and the rivers dropped low enough to wait. Every fall after harvest, when the fields were cut, and you can see the ground for miles. Volunteers walked in lines across the prairie. They covered 122 square miles. They walked every inch of the river. They drained puns. They searched abandoned farm buildings one by one, barrens with collapsed roofs. Roots sellers filled with standing water, grain bins that hadn't been opened in decades. Nothing. No body, no clothes, no phone, no keys, not a single thread. Brandon swans and walked into the darkness that night and disappeared. The official story is Brandon drowned in the Yellow Medicine River. Walking in the dark disoriented, he stumbled into the water, and that's the simplest explanation. But the evidence doesn't support it. The bloodhounds tracked his scent across the river, not into it. If Brandon had drowned, the trail would have ended at the water's edge, but it didn't. The dogs picked up his scent on the opposite bank and kept following it north. His father talked to him for 47 minutes. Brian Swanson says his son didn't sound drunk or confused. He sounded like himself, frustrated about the car, and eager to get home, but coherent. He was navigating by landmarks. He was making decisions, not stumbling blind through the night. And then there's the final words. Oh shit. Now listen to what that phrase is and what it isn't. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a cry for help. It was surprise. The kind of thing you say when you see something unexpected. Brandon saw something in the darkness. He reacted, then he was gone. Fileplay has never been ruled out. The area is remote. Miles empty farmland, isolated roads abandoned properties. Someone could have been out there. Could have seen his headlights from the road, watched him crash, and followed him into the fields on foot. At 230 in the morning and that kind of darkness, you wouldn't see them coming. You wouldn't hear them over the wind. But there's no evidence of that. No witnesses, no suspects, no motive, no DNA, no tire tracks, no sign of a struggle, just a trail that ends in the middle of nowhere. Brandon's parents never moved. They kept their porch light on every single night for years. A net left his bedroom exactly the way it was. Bed unmade, clothes on the floor, textbooks stacked on the desk. She said she wanted it ready for when he finally came home. Brian Swanson replayed that phone call in his head a thousand times. 47 minutes of his son's voice, the last 47 minutes, anyone heard Brandon alive. He told reporters the hardest part wasn't the silence after the swear. It was the 47 minutes before it. The normalcy, the casual frustration of a kid whose car is slid off a road. Father and son talking like it was any other night, like everything was going to be fine. The Swanson's lobby the Minnesota government, they testified they pushed. In 2009, Minnesota passed Brandon's law. Police now have to investigate missing adults immediately. No more waiting periods. No more right to be missing. Every state should have that law, but most don't. Brandon's case was reclassified from missing person to endangered missing person, then to suspected homicide. But no arrest has ever been made. No person of interest has never been named. The case file remains open with the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office. The Yellow Medicine River still runs through that farmland. The grain elevator in Tonton still has its red light. The gravel roads are still empty at night. And if you drive County Road 10 past Porter at 2am, you'll see exactly what Brandon saw. Darkness so complete, it swallows your headlights 30 feet ahead. And somewhere out there, in the space between Porter and nowhere, is the answer to what Brandon Swanson saw in the last moment of his phone call, a surprise swear, and then silence. He's been out there almost 18 years, and he's still out there, and his family is still waiting. Thank you so much for hanging out today. My name is AJ. This is The Wifeiles, and that was a camp fire story. No debunking, no analysis. Just a creepy story to scare you in the kids. And that one is true and unsolved. If you had fun, I'd appreciate if you can like, subscribe, comment, and share. That stuff really helps. And like what's topics we cover here, today's was recommended by you, so if there's a story you'd like to see, go to thewifiles.com/tips or send us an email, we'd love to cover that story. And if you'd like to hear any of these camp fire stories expanded into a full episode, there's a few I'd like to do, then definitely let me know. Remember the Wifeiles is also a podcast. You can take us on the road. I post deep dives into the stories we cover on the channel. Also post episodes that wouldn't be allowed on the channel. Podcasts call of the Wifeiles, Operation Podcasts, and it's available everywhere. And if you're listening on an audio platform, do me a favor, hit the thumbs up, or the like, or the follow, whatever those buttons are, those really do help. Now if you need more Wifeiles in your life, check out our Discord. We're about to hit 100,000 members over there. It's a lot of fun. It's a really supportive community. There's someone on their 24/7, and it's free to join. Speaking of 24/7, check out our 24/7, I'm plowing through the plugs. Speaking of 24/7, make sure you check out our 24/7 stream on the Wifeiles backstage. Over there, we run episodes back to back with some fun content in between. And the live chat is super, super fun. Special thanks to our patrons who made this channel possible and make every episode of the Wifeiles happen. Every episode is dedicated to our Patreon members. I could not do this without you. If you'd like to support the channel, keep us going, consider becoming a member on Patreon. For as little as three bucks a month, get access to perks, like videos, early-thilk commercials, exclusive merch, and two private live streams every week, just for you to hear the whistle on my teeth. It's 'cause I'm going to fast. The private live streams are a lot of fun. For members only, my web cam is on. Everyone on the team has their camera on. You can talk to all of us. Turn your camera on, jump up on stage, ask a question. It's a lot of, I think it's the best perk to risk. Another great way to support the channel. Grab something from the Wifeiles tour. That is
[email protected]. You'll find it. But if you've got a vibe urge to become a member on YouTube, YouTube members get 10% off everything in the Wifeiles tour. Forever, so you can get us fed 40 bucks on t-shirts and festival mugs. Become a member on YouTube for three bucks, pay for itself. And that money goes to the team, that's me. Those are the plubs I got through as fast as I could. And that's going to do it until next time you're safe, be kind, and know that you are appreciated. And I'm up on as well as me and my friends. So I'm saying it like I should. But then another piece of me is safe. They read. It comes the truth. My friends. And it never ends. I know it never ends. I feel the crack at it. I got stuck inside my own home. With them chaos truck. I've been only to a whair. Do you stand, look, you've red-faced the moon landing alone. On a field set, I wear the shadow people there. The ride's willing. It's just for the smiling man. I'm told and his name was Cone. I can't agree. I'm dancing with the fidget. And the fish on Thursday night's with AJ too. And when I have the read, I'll do the night. All I ever wanted was you to see the truth. So the waffles on your feet, I'll do the lie. The mouth man's side in van. The solos don't still come to a god. The city under ground. Mysterious number stations. When it's supposed to. Bracket stockade. And what the dark watchers found.
♪ I'm dancing with the fidgety ♪ ♪ Head and fish are Thursday nights with day two ♪ ♪ And one month's of night be off to the night ♪ ♪ Oh, every one of us should get to the truth ♪ ♪ So one month's of night be off to the night ♪ ♪ I'm dancing with the fidgety ♪ ♪ Head and fish are Thursday nights with day two ♪ ♪ And one month's of night be off to the night ♪ ♪ Oh, every one of us should get to the truth ♪ ♪ Yeah, girl, they love to dance on the dance floor ♪ ♪ Because she is a camel ♪ ♪ We can't block the dance with the feeling ♪ ♪ It's right on the way with him time ♪ ♪ We love to dance ♪ ♪ We love to dance ♪ [BLANK_AUDIO]
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