I've been a subscriber for about a year now, and I've been
meaning to write to you for quite some time.
It's taken me months to finally put pen to paper, so to speak,
and write this. You see, I used to be a YouTube,
and I had quite a lot of subscribers too.
Since this story is about some of the perils of being a big
YouTube, I think you're the perfect person to tell it to.
One rainy summer evening back in 2013, I was browsing YouTube to
combat some pretty severe boredom when I came across a
video called Something like Hellboy Comic Book Page Turning.
The user who uploaded the video was named Ephemeral Rift, and it
consisted of him doing something incredibly boring, or so I
thought. He did nothing more than exhibit
A hardback compendium of Hellboy issues, and if memory serves me
well, he didn't say a single word throughout the entire
video. He also delicately turned the
pages of the book at a rate which, while not fast by any
means, was too quick to read what was written.
Under any other circumstances, I might have been asking myself
why in God's name this person felt the need to upload this,
but under those particular circumstances, I got an
immediate sense of the video's purpose.
The man's slow, graceful movements and the sound of the
pages being gently turned were somehow phenomenally relaxing.
I sat there practically mesmerized, with my headphones
turned up to 100 for the entire 15 minute duration of the video.
When it was done, I actually wanted more.
That's how I discovered Autonomous Sensory Meridian
Response, or as you might know it, ASMR for short.
The light, tingly sensation certain people feel whenever
they're experiencing a relaxing interaction with someone or
something. From that day forward, I was
hooked. I soon discovered Gentle
Whispering ASMR, or Maria as she's known to her legions of
fans. Then I moved on to ASMR requests
and Heather Feather ASMR, but Ephemeral Rift was and remains
my all time favorite. It's crazy to think that I still
watch his videos more than a decade after I first discovered
them. I enjoyed his videos so much
that he inspired me to create my own channel.
Anyone who wants to start a serious ASMR channel will tell
you it's not easy and it's not cheap.
A decent camera is important, but by far the most essential
piece of equipment is a top of the line microphone.
For that, I had to wait until my 18th birthday.
My mom thought it was a rather odd gift request, but being the
wonderfully generous person she is, she honored it and I was in
business. I made my first video in mid
January of 2014, and with the help of all my ASMR Twitter
mutuals, my account had a few dozen subscribers by the end of
that week. My first video was a simple
softly spoken poetry reading, but I tried to get more creative
with each upload. After a while, one video in
particular seemed to get way more views than any of my
others. It was called something like
Sleep Fairy Conjures Pleasant Dreams and it was about 17
minutes long. The video consisted of me
suggesting pleasant, relaxing things for the viewers to dream
about. I put quite a lot of effort into
the script and my costume and I was over the moon to see that
the video was actually gaining traction.
One night when the view count of my video was around 2000, I woke
up the next morning to find it had over 15,000 views.
Not only that, but the number of subscribers I had jumped from a
few 100 to several thousand. My new viewers left dozens of
comments. Love the video, one said.
This video helped me finally get some sleep, said another.
The flattering comments went on and on until I found one that
wasn't so flattering. How am I supposed to relax when
someone so ugly is talking? Said one person.
You're so annoying. Delete your account and
apologize for thinking anyone wants to look at you, said
another. I was definitely taken aback.
I wasn't expecting anything so rude or confrontational.
But I was also very aware of the Internet phenomenon known as
trolling. For anybody unfamiliar, trolling
is when someone posts deliberately offensive or
provocative messages online to incite emotional responses,
adversely affecting the targets well-being.
Essentially, they don't mean what they say.
Their only goal is to hurt your feelings and demoralize you.
The trouble is, it can be very difficult to discern genuine
criticism from trolling. I thought encountering trolls
marked my first big test as an online creator, or ASM artist,
as we sometimes call ourselves. In reality, it was nothing
compared to what I would eventually face.
The sad fact of being a female creator online, especially if
you show your face on camera, is that you're going to get all
kinds of horrible comments from both men and women alike.
Female trolls say things to undermine your confidence and
self esteem, but the male trolls say things that make you afraid
for your physical well-being. At first it can be alarming to
realize just how many sad, nasty people there are out there, but
like most things in life, you can get used to it if you remain
headstrong. Over time the negative comments
bothered me less and less. By the time I was on the verge
of hitting 100,000 subscribers I could read venom filled comments
and emails all day without feeling a thing.
People talk about haters a lot because they're easy to address
and most make it obvious they're not to be taken seriously.
If someone puts you suck I hate you in the subject line of an
e-mail, you learn not to read it and delete it right away.
If someone emails you a suspicious looking file, you
know not to open it unless you want your entire day ruined.
But what no one warns you about when you wade into these online
spaces as a forward facing creator is your fans.
You can plaster F the haters on your timeline all day and no one
will bat an eye. But complain about people
calling themselves your fans and you might as well delete your
videos and burn your channel. That's why many trolls
masquerade as fans. You never really know who has
actual concerns and who's just concerned trolling.
But even then, they're still trolls, and for the most part,
their harassment starts and ends at their keyboard.
Fans, especially the less mentally stable ones, frequently
crossed that fine line between being welcome supporters and
becoming stalkers. Just over a year after I started
my channel, my subscriber count was around 1/4 of a million.
I was producing videos at a rate of roughly one per week.
I had thousands of regular viewers, all of whom left
encouraging comments. I'd even rented APO box at the
local post office so that fans could send gifts and letters
without me giving away my actual address.
At first, I was apprehensive about what people might send me,
but as I said earlier, trolls tend to favor minimal effort.
They also don't commit to paying high shipping fees.
Since most of my viewers were in the US, the cost to send
something overseas meant I only received the occasional
postcard, a package of foreign snacks or in one case a hand
knitted purple octopus. Things went on like that for
quite some time and it was one of the happiest periods of my
life. I was getting paid for doing
something I loved. Not quite enough to live on, but
I didn't care. What made it worthwhile was the
people who said I helped them sleep, calm down or feel less
depressed. I started to wonder how far I
could go in turning my channel into a full time career.
Around this time PewDiePie was starting to make serious money,
so it was an exciting time. I felt like I had a bright
future ahead of me. Then I got a letter from Will.
Will, who said he was 37 and also from the UK, wrote me a
beautiful letter waxing lyrical about how much I had helped him
in his day-to-day life. He said I helped him with his
anxiety, that I'd helped him sleep for the first time in
years, and that he was so grateful he wasn't sure how to
repay me. I always made a point of
replying to people who took the time to write to me, so I wrote
will a brief response thanking him for his love and support.
It wasn't a long letter, not by any means, which made me feel a
bit guilty considering he had written an entire page of a
four, along with a postscript that spilled onto the reverse
side. But at the risk of sounding
cold, I didn't want him to think I was interested in having a pen
pal. It might sound ungrateful to
some, but being so heavily followed and scrutinized by
people you don't know and can't see can be nerve racking.
I wanted to grow my following and interact more with my
viewers, but at the same time I didn't want a fan who would
obsess over me and then turn on me.
That probably sounds a bit arrogant, assuming that anyone
would become obsessed with me, but the longer I operated my
channel, the more aware I became that there are some very loose
cannons out there, and Will was one of them.
I posted my reply to Will on a Monday morning on my way to
work. Most of the people I wrote
letters to didn't reply, and some wrote comments on my videos
saying things like I got your letter, it means the world to
me. Most were socially adept enough
to understand that I wasn't looking for a pen pal, but Will
didn't seem to understand that I got another long letter from him
in my PO Box the following week. It was another long letter
thanking me for my reply and expressing what a pleasant
surprise it had been to hear back from me.
He went on to say that many Youtubers simply see their
audience as a means of making money and that I must have a
good heart if I took the time out of my busy day to indulge
those who, and I quote worship me.
When he used the word worship, I started to feel a creepy
discomfort. I disliked the idea of people
worshipping me. Being grateful that I helped
them relax or sleep was one thing, but anything more extreme
than gratitude made me feel uncomfortable.
Yet an attached drawing made me feel a lot better.
Will had drawn a picture of me with a note saying he was
completing an art course at the Open University and couldn't
think of a more beautiful subject to practice sketching
with. Credit where it's due, it was a
very good drawing. Maybe that's just my ego
talking, but it was so touching that it washed away the
discomfort from his use of the word worship.
I know it might sound hypocritical, disliking
scrutiny, but being flattered by a drawing of myself, but it was
such a beautiful sketch from such a talented artist that I
couldn't help but be overwhelmed with gratitude.
No one had ever drawn a picture of me before or been so
flattering, so against my better judgement, I wrote Will a very
short reply thanking him for the picture and posted it the next
morning. I expected a reply.
I'm not naive, but I didn't expect it to be so unhinged.
Curiosity drove me to open the letter.
When it arrived, I recognized his handwriting from the
peculiar way he wrote the A and I in my username, so I knew who
it was from before I opened it. This time it was even more
flattering, with him talking at length about his art projects
and the artists who inspired him.
But then towards the end, Will wrote that he had a confession
to make. He told me that since we'd
started exchanging letters, his feelings for me had grown
stronger than those for a friend or sister.
He said he had to face facts, and the biggest fact for him was
that he was more in love with me than he ever thought possible.
The final paragraphs were all about this love, how it had
started, how it had developed, and how it burned inside him
until he couldn't contain it anymore.
I skim read the rest, feeling a sinking sensation as I realized
just how unwell Will was. Towards the end he mentioned
he'd included another picture. I dreaded looking at it, but I
did. Will had drawn me again, only
this time I was naked with a very large round pregnancy
protrusion around my stomach. Standing behind me with his hand
cupping my belly was a man he claimed was himself at the
bottom of the page. He titled it Our Future.
I threw the picture and letter in my parents kitchen bin.
At the time I still lived with them.
Then I sat at the table and cried.
My mom came to see what was wrong and we had a big heart to
heart about the situation. Her advice was not to let people
like that ruin a good thing and to stop reading letters from
this Will character who clearly belonged in a loony bin.
Famous people attract weirdos, she said.
They always have and they always will.
It's just something you have to get used to while keeping
yourself as safe as possible. So that's what I did.
I carried on with what I was doing, uploading videos once a
week. I didn't reply to Will's letter
or his comments. I just hoped for the best.
Well, things didn't turn out for the best.
One day, I noticed Will had commented on my latest video,
and his comment had gotten more than two dozen replies from
other users. Will was complaining that I
hadn't replied to his letter, how he'd included a sketch of
me, and how he was upset that I hadn't even bothered to express
my gratitude. Some of my other subscribers
jumped in to defend me, saying they'd personally received
replies from me and that he should just be patient.
Will replied to each one, highlighting how long it had
been since he wrote to me and how unfair it was that others
got replies but not him. He did this in a way that was
clearly designed to cause conflict.
Not once did he mention that I'd written to him.
Not once, but twice. Nor did he mention that he'd
sent me a naked, pregnant drawing of myself with him
cupping my belly. Just thinking about it made my
skin crawl. Knowing what Will was up to made
me furious. But instead of replying to his
comments to correct him, I consulted an ASMR creators group
I was a part of. They advised that I simply block
him. You can't fully block people
from seeing your videos, at least not that I know of.
But you can restrict them from commenting.
They're not informed of the restriction, and from their
perspective it looks like their comments are being posted
normally, but in reality they're filtered out.
All I had to do was find Will's username, click the icon by it
and select Hide user from channel.
And just like that, he was gone. It was stunning how quickly the
problem seems solved. Will kept commenting,
occasionally oblivious to the shadow ban.
Then one day I noticed he hadn't commented in a while.
Days stretched into weeks. Since I'd already blocked his
e-mail, his only means of contacting me became the PO Box.
I thought he'd moved on, or I'd eventually get another letter
from him. It turned out to be the second
option, though. This time it wasn't a letter.
It was a postcard. Since he wasn't in the habit of
sending postcards, I picked it up and read it out of curiosity.
The picture was pretty, but when I turned it over and read the
message, a shiver ran through me.
All it said in Will's telltale handwriting was I know what you
did. It made for a deeply unpleasant
discovery, but it wasn't remotely surprising.
Like I said earlier, I had already expected I might receive
further correspondence from him. I just didn't think he had it in
him to be so direct. It was mildly intimidating, but
it was only a matter of time before Will realized I'd
filtered his comments. I felt somewhat relieved that
all he chose to do was send me a postcard with a mildly menacing
message. He could have sent me another
letter or creepy drawing. He could have sent something
worse. Instead he sent A5 word message
and that was that. To be honest, I thought I'd
gotten off lightly. I knew he could create a new
YouTube account or e-mail and harass me, but I could block
him. I was a mix of scared, angry,
and tired, but I felt safe. I thought things were pretty
much over, but they weren't, not by a long shot.
About a month later, I checked my PO Box a few times.
Each time there was nothing from Will, and I assumed he'd moved
on. More time passed.
I was still making videos, doing my thing, and planning on
starting a Patreon account. ASMR doesn't really run a lot of
ads, so my income wasn't great, but my subscriber base was
growing. I was discussing collaborations
with big ASMR artists that would boost my channel.
One of my subscribers had even knitted me another toy, an
orange octopus to go with the purple one.
The day came when I got a text alert saying a package had
arrived for me. I hadn't heard from Will in
about 7 to 8 weeks, so I had no reason to think he'd sent me
anything. I had errands to run, so I
zipped around town, then stopped by the post office to collect my
octopus. I walked up to the counter, said
hello to the lady and gave her my PO Box number while showing
her my ID. Normally, the person would
retrieve my mail and that would be it, but on this occasion, the
woman gave me a nervous look and asked me to confirm my PO Box
number. I'd never had to do that before,
but I didn't want to make a fuss, so I repeated the number.
The woman had a big smile when I first approached her, but after
just a few words, she looked serious, almost frightened, and
asked if she could have a private word with me.
I knew it had something to do with Will, but I wasn't sure
what. My first thought was that he'd
sent me something disgusting, maybe a letter or package they'd
had to destroy due to health and safety regulations, but that
wasn't the case. What she told me was worse.
The postmistress explained how not even a few hours earlier, a
man had come to the counter and asked about my PO Box.
He had a letter to deposit but started asking questions who
owned the box, how often they collected mail and what days of
the week they usually came in. She told the man it was against
policy to divulge personal information, but he insisted,
claiming the box belonged to a close friend.
When she pointed out that if they were close he should know
their name, the man became aggressive.
He only left when she threatened to call the police.
Instead of putting his letter in my PO Box, she kept it to give
to the police, knowing it likely had his fingerprints on it.
I felt sick as I realized what had happened and who had visited
her that day. I also felt like an idiot for
not realizing that PO Boxes can be traced to a location, not
just a number. I'd looked into opening a
private PO Box with better security, but it was too
expensive at the time. There's still a shred of shame
when I say this, but I gave up. I wasn't cut out for dealing
with psychos like Will, even if it was on an infrequent basis.
I deleted my videos, deleted my channel, and although it felt
like a weight had lifted, I still harbor some regret for
giving up. I've thought about getting back
into it from time to time. I could start a new channel,
keep my face and location off camera, kind of like this
channel. But every time I think about it,
I remember that picture Will drew of me, the one where I was
pregnant. Every time, that memory snuffs
out any desire I have in an instant.
I've been playing country music for almost 40 years now in bars
and honky tonks from Shreveport to Kalamazoo.
Music has always been my first love, but my second is people.
Part of the fun of playing music is getting to meet folks who
appreciate it so much after all their hard earned dollars.
Keep gas in our tanks, food in our bellies, and strings on our
guitars. So I figured the least I could
do is accept a beer or two when they offer to buy and let them
tell me all about their favorite Hank song.
Every so often you meet a truly Great American.
There are some folks out there I'll remember for the rest of my
life. But then sometimes you meet
someone who makes you glad to be leaving town the next morning.
We were in a college town called Brookings up in South Dakota.
Nice place, and for the most part, nice people too.
We played for 3 1/2 hours at a joint called the Wild Hare.
They had a good bar, a good crowd, and served alcohol until
2:00 in the morning. So after the show, we pulled up
a stool, ordered some bar food, and nursed a few beers with the
locals until closing time, selling CDs and shirts and
whatever else we could hawk to them.
But it wasn't just about making a few extra bucks.
You shake a guy's hand after playing his favorite song, and
he's twice as likely to come back and see you the next time
you're in town. Anyway, around 1:30 in the
morning, most of the bar's patrons were steadily making
their departure. Even some of the band had called
it a night and headed back to the bus.
In the end, it was just me sitting on a bar stool and our
drummer Larry, trying to convince people to play a round
of pool with him. I was getting ready to head out
when an old timer slumped down on the stool next to me and
started telling me how we played a damn good show.
I told him I appreciated it and then we got to talking about
music and what it's like touring the country and living on the
road. I remember how after ordering us
the last couple of beers, the stranger asked me if we ever
broke down in the middle of nowhere.
I told him sure, once or twice, but that sleeping at a truck
stop could sometimes be way scarier than sleeping on some
dirt Rd. outside of Nowheresville, USA.
He then asked if we carried any protection on the bus with us.
And by protection I don't mean the kind you keep in your
wallet. I told him our driver, who
doubled as security on an informal basis, was usually
packing a pistol of some kind. And sure, there was occasionally
a gun or two on the bus depending on where we were and
who was touring with us. I made a joke about how I hoped
he wasn't an ATF agent. The guy laughed before swearing
on his Mama that he wasn't no fed.
He then asked if our driver had ever had to use his pistol.
I told him we'd been in some sticky situations and had some
real close calls, but that by the grace of God I'd never seen
anyone shot. He then started telling me how
not only had he once been forced to defend his life and property,
but he had taken the lives of three men who tried to kill him.
I asked if he was a veteran because he looked about the age
to have served in Korea or maybe World War 2, but he shook his
head. Never served a day in my life.
He said it had been a home invasion, and According to him,
it was the most significant event of his entire life.
The old timer said that he lived in a big house he'd bought many
years before to house his wife and five children.
But after a car accident claimed her and their two daughters and
his sons grew up and moved elsewhere, he was left all
alone. That kind of lifestyle suited
the old timer for a while. But then crystal meth got a hold
of a lot of the folks around that county, and everything
changed. Theft and violent crime went
through the roof. Once all the gas stations,
liquor stores and credit unions had been hit, the tweakers
started targeting people in their homes.
The first time the old timer was robbed, the tweakers took one of
his air conditioning units while he was at work.
They must have figured it was just him living there alone,
because they started targeting the guy's house at least once,
sometimes twice a week. He took to staying up on his
porch with a pot of coffee and a shotgun just waiting for them to
show up. Depriving himself of sleep like
that damn near made him sick. But one night he saw lights at
the end of his driveway. Minutes later, 2 tweakers were
sneaking up the path. Then just as they came close
enough, he fired off a warning shot over their heads.
But instead of just taking off like scared Jack rabbits, the
tweaker started shooting back. As they ran off, the old timer
ducked for cover as bullets came flying at him.
The last thing he heard before the tweakers drove off was we'll
be back you dumb son of A, and when we do, we're going to kill
you. The old timer went to talk to
the town sheriff who told him that while he had every right to
use lethal force to defend himself against deadly threats,
it might not be such a good idea if he was outnumbered and
outgunned by a bunch of jacked up tweakers.
Under any other circumstances the sheriff might have placed
two of his boys on a nearby highway to act as a kind of
quick reaction force, but given the recent meth fuelled crime
wave, he didn't have the bodies to spare.
The sheriff told him it might be best if he made himself scarce
for a few days. Once he made sure he was up to
date on his home insurance payments, he was entitled to
stand his ground and put up a fight.
But he had to ask himself, was that old empty house worth dying
for? The old timer said he told the
sheriff that he was right. He'd head out of town for a few
days before returning home, picking through whatever was
left and spiking a for sale sign in the front yard.
He even stopped by the Sheriff's Department to let him know he
was leaving, but not before making a few arrangements and
tending to some unfinished business.
A few days later, this guy rolls back into town to find bullet
holes all over the rear doors of a moving truck he'd rented
before heading out. The house was fine, everything
was in its place, but someone had shot up the moving truck.
This guy checked things out and saw no one had tried to break
into the cab, but after opening up the back of the truck, he
found three dead bodies. A short while later, the sheriff
arrived. The guy said everyone was almost
gagging from how bad the smell was inside the truck, but it
didn't take long to figure out why it smelled so bad.
Before shooting and stabbing the hell out of each other, three
local tweakers had decided to use the rear storage of the
truck as a bathroom. Then, after relieving
themselves, the tweakers had closed the truck's door and
proceeded to cut each other up and blow each other away.
The sheriff said he'd never seen anything like it, but then
again, all kinds of weird things had been happening since meth
took over the narcotics scene. The old timer said that once the
scene was cleaned up, the sheriff told him the tweakers
had accidentally locked themselves in the back of the
moving truck because, by the looks of things, the lock had
malfunctioned and couldn't be opened from the inside.
According to the sheriff, if it weren't for the triple murder,
the truck company might be liable for damages, but they
might well have proof of maintenance proved the
malfunction was due to consumer fault.
The old timer said the sheriff then asked him real plain if he
had anything to do with that lock not working, and he said
no. So that was just about the end
of it. Only that wasn't strictly true
about the old timer not doing any lock tinkering.
Not only had he heavily tampered with the truck's lock, but he'd
never even left town in the 1st place.
The old timer told me he'd rented the most secure hauling
truck possible, one that was almost impossible to break into
from either inside or outside. He then tinkered with the
interior lock, tested it out on an unwitting friend of his to
make sure it wasn't functional from the inside, then got busy
with the next stage of his plan. He made the back of that truck
look like it was loaded up with electronics.
He used all the old TV, radio and VHS boxes he kept up in the
attic, stuffed them full of junk to make them feel fuller, then
left the rear doors to the truck wide open like it was bait.
And sure enough, the next night, those tweakers showed up just
like they promised. Three of them, all armed to the
teeth. They showed up to get revenge
for that old timer having fired that warning shot, which I'm
guessing they thought was just a missed shot and not a warning.
But upon seeing that big old moving truck with what looked
like thousands of dollars worth of appliances in it, well, they
just couldn't resist. All three climbed inside, looked
through all the boxes, and were grinning like they'd just won
the state lottery. Then outcomes you know who from
his hiding place to slam the truck's rear doors shut, locking
them inside. At first, the tweakers were
spooked, what with the doors slamming closed on them like
that. Then they got frustrated when
the interior door handle wouldn't function, each of them
saying something like here let me try and then cussing the
thing out when it wouldn't budget.
It took them a while to realize they were trapped in the back of
that old moving truck, but once they did they started to panic.
The old timer said they tried shooting the lockout, and when
that didn't work they tried shooting holes in the doors,
hoping their boots might do the rest.
He said they spent hours trying everything they could think of
to get themselves out of that truck, but it was no good.
There was no way out. The old timer and his buddy had
tested out just about everything, with the buddy being
none the wiser of course, until the old timer was satisfied that
the truck was inescapable, at least without some serious
industrial equipment. And unless they just up and
stole it, no meth heads are out there driving with industrial
strength cutting equipment. It took those fools.
Hours and hours before they figured out they were trapped,
and when they did, they started calling for help.
Then, and only then did the old timer call out to them and tell
them exactly what had happened. He said they were furious and
tried firing shots in his direction through the side of
the truck. But as his presence there before
me that night confirmed, those shots flew wildly astray.
He told those foolish sons of exactly how he'd tricked them
into walking into their own tomb, and he said it was only
when he used that word tomb that it really dawned on them what
was happening. He said they begged and pleaded,
swearing they wouldn't hurt him if he'd only let them out.
The whole thing had been a big old misunderstanding.
They said some people were not to be messed with, they just
didn't know he was one of them. They went from promising not to
hurt him to promising him hundreds, then thousands, then
10s of thousands of dollars as a reward.
The old timer said he knew it was all bull crap.
They'd have said just about anything to get out of that
truck. And unfortunately for them, it
was way beyond forgiveness. See, most people would have
trapped those tweakers in that truck, called the sheriff, and
then laughed their asses off while the deputies dragged them
out of the back in cuffs. But that's not what the old
timer had in mind. He let those tweakers sweat it
out in that truck with no food or water for three whole days.
By then they were drinking their own pee and eating the cardboard
from the TV and VHS boxes to stave off hunger.
After that, he didn't think it would be much longer before they
turned on each other. And when they did, it went off
like the 4th of July in there. I'm not saying that those boys
didn't get what they deserved. They're sure something poetic
about them getting stuck in a kind of man sized rat trap.
But what really sent a chill through me was how proud that
old timer was of himself and how he laughed until he wheezed
thinking about them begging for help.
He said they were praying, crying for their Mamas, and he
was grinning like a madman, telling me the things he'd say
to them. He used to talk about them
eating each other, wondering who was going to draw the short
straw. He did his best to make sure
they went slowly crazy without any food or water until they
finally just snapped. As I mentioned already, I'm not
saying those tweakers didn't get what was coming to them, but it
was the way that old timer described the whole thing, how
proud as a Peacock he was of what he did.
That's what I found so chilling. If he wanted to deal with them
in a permanent way, he could have shot the truck full of
holes or set it on fire or driven the thing into a lake.
But instead, he let those boys starve, dehydrate, and slowly
lose their minds until the thought of eating each other
drove them over the edge. At first, that old timer seemed
like a good man, and I guess he was in so many ways.
But to think that he had that kind of cruelty in him, that
kind of darkness, I'm not ashamed to say it terrified me.
I also know that if those tweakers had gotten their hands
on that guy, they would have done equally terrible things to
him. But you expect that kind of
behavior out of those kinds of folks.
I didn't expect that guy to have ever done something like that,
and certainly not to find it all so hilarious.
I mean, he laughed himself into a coughing fit after mimicking
one of the tweakers wailing. Mama Mama, I'm so sorry and I
shudder just imagining it. Again, I'm not saying that guy
didn't do the right thing, I'm just saying I think he went
about it the wrong way and lost a piece of his soul in the
process. In the winter of two. 1016
Donnie Ray, a 34 year old hair stylist, found himself living in
Brighton, a bustling, culturally rich city along the southern
coast of England. The vibrant atmosphere of this
seaside town had become a second home to Donnie, who originally
hailed from the fast-paced, sprawling streets of New York
City. Over a decade earlier, Donnie
had crossed the Atlantic and fallen in love with an
Englishman, sparking a whirlwind romance that led him to split
his life between the two countries.
His deep passion for hair styling, which had driven him
since childhood, had made this transatlantic lifestyle not just
feasible but lucrative. But Donnie wasn't just any hair
stylist, he was one of the most sought after in the world.
His remarkable talent and creativity had earned him a
glittering clientele that included household names like
Hailey Baldwin and Sigourney Weaver.
With his unparalleled skill, Donnie's career thrived on both
sides of the ocean, allowing him to seamlessly float between the
fashion forward salons of New York and the edgy artistic
spaces of London and Brighton. His name was.
Synonymous with style, innovation, and a certain kind
of magic only the most talented in his field could possess.
However, by the close of 2015, Donnie's life took a dramatic
turn. The end of his 12 year
relationship with his partner, A relationship that had been at
the center of his world, left him devastated.
What followed was a turbulent period in his life, one that
would spiral into a series of painful and life altering
events, shaking the foundation of everything he had known.
It's not exactly clear how Donnie's relationship came to an
end, but by his own admission, it sent him into a deep and
debilitating depression. Donnie was prone to such bouts
of melancholy, having already suffered his fair share of
personal tragedy when he was just a boy.
Both of his parents passed away after contracting HIV, which led
to the exceptionally deadly Acquired Immune Deficiency
Syndrome, AIDS. Donnie's father was a heroin
addict and contracted HIV through sharing used needles,
then unwittingly passed it on to Donnie's mother.
When young Donnie learned that his parents were going to die,
it terrified him. Watching them slowly slip away
had a profoundly terrible effect on him.
Separating from his boyfriend during the winter of 2016
resulted in similar feelings of grief and loss, which brought
back terrible memories of his parents passing.
Donnie knew he had. To do something to shake the
depression he was feeling. So after a period of
contemplation, he downloaded a dating app known as Grinder.
Donnie was no doubt looking for what is commonly referred to as
a rebound, a brief love affair believed to boost the recently
rejected self esteem. In doing so, he matched with a
24 year old Scottish man named Dave Sayer.
Dave, a native of Edinburgh, Scotland's historic capital,
endured a tumultuous and difficult childhood.
The specifics of his early years remain somewhat obscured, but
what is certain is that he was adopted at a young age by his
foster parents, Jackie and Harry.
This couple, who lived in the quaint seaside town of North
Berwick, took Dave in with hopes of giving him the stability he
had long been denied. Jackie, reflecting on those
early days, once described Dave as a really lovable boy who was
enjoyable to be around. Yet beneath this surface, it was
tragically evident that the young boy they welcomed into
their home carried deep emotional scars.
Physically, the signs of Dave's troubled past were impossible to
ignore. His small frame was covered in
scars, hinting at a life marked by trauma and hardship before he
ever stepped foot in North Berwick.
But what perhaps concerned Jackie and Harry even more was
the peculiar collection Dave brought with him. 120 Barbie
dolls. These weren't mere toys in his
eyes, Dave exhibited a fierce, almost obsessive protectiveness
over them. The dolls were the one constant
in his life, and he clung to them with an intensity that
spoke of unresolved pain. Despite these.
Unsettling Signs Jackie and Harry did everything in their
power to give Dave a normal, loving upbringing.
They spared no expense, emotionally or financially, in
their efforts to turn his life around.
Through the years, they hoped that their support and care
would help him heal from whatever had scarred him so
deeply, both physically and emotionally.
As Dave grew into. Adulthood.
He remained somewhat of an enigma.
Then, in his early 20s, he made an unexpected announcement.
He was leaving Edinburgh. With little explanation, he
informed Jackie and Harry that he was moving to Brighton, a
city on the southern coast of England.
This sudden decision marked a significant turning point, as he
sought to leave behind the place where he had experienced both
the turmoil of his childhood and the care of his foster parents.
Although an educated. Guess it's easy to assume that
Dave moved to Brighton due to its being a historical haven for
young gay men. Oscar Wilde was a frequent
visitor to the city, with one local historian explaining that
Brighton has long been a refuge for those seeking freedom from
the strictures of conventional society.
Dave thanked his foster parents for everything they had done for
him, promised to stay in touch, and ultimately relocated in
April 2016. Around 8 months later, Dave and
Donnie formed a connection on Grinder.
After an initial period of flirtatious conversation, Dave
proposed they meet. At first, the prospect of
meeting him excited Donnie. Dave was 10 years his junior and
knowing that he could attract someone so young and handsome
made the older Donnie feel much better about his recently
dissolved relationship. In fact, Dave seemed to be in
awe of his new matches, age experience and glamorous
profession. But the pride Dave's charm
allowed Donnie to rekindle may have seriously clouded his
judgement when it came to what happened next.
Dave and Donnie texted back and forth for a few days, toying
with the idea of meeting up for a date.
But then one day, Dave made a suggestion that made Donnie feel
deeply uncomfortable. When the subject of physical
intimacy arose, Dave seemed to flippantly dismiss the idea of
using a prophylactic. In other words, he flat out
refused to wear any kind of protection.
For Donnie, this was a definitive red line, and
although he and Dave had already swapped phone numbers, he took
such offence that he began the process of blocking him on
various social media platforms. It was only at the very last
second that Dave managed to salvage his attempt at romance
when he gave a categorical promise to wear protection if
they became intimate. Dave might have saved himself
from Donnie's blocked profile section, but he was still on
thin ice. Over the next few days, he
worked to regain Donnie's trust by swapping a series of
innocuous selfies with him. His efforts paid off, and it was
around this time that Dave convinced Donnie to share his
home address. Later, Donnie said the exchange
of information was simply part of getting to know his
perspective date. But just hours later, Dave
showed up on his doorstep. Naturally, Donnie was surprised
by Dave's sudden appearance, especially since he called his
cell phone using a withheld number before announcing I'm
outside your door. Somehow, Dave managed to talk
his way into Donnie's home, most likely through sheer force of
flattery and possibly with a dash of emotional blackmail.
Perhaps there was talk of a miscommunication with Dave
saying how he'd come an awful long way just to turn around and
go home again. There's no doubt that.
Donnie made a sizable error in judgement by allowing a near
stranger into his home, and by his own admission, it was an
extremely regrettable decision. Yet the price he paid was the
stuff of nightmares. After a few hours of drinking
and flirting, the two men climbed into bed together, and
at Donnie's insistence, Dave swore that he'd wear a
prophylactic. Once their lovemaking concluded,
the prospective couple engaged in deep conversation with Dave
sharing his passion for veganism and juicing.
Donnie then attempted to share some of his own passions, but
shockingly, Dave tried to convince him of the benefits of
drinking your own urine. Things got a little.
Weird, Donnie later put it. And I was like, OK, this was
nice, but you need to go now. Donnie made it clear that he
wasn't rude to Dave. He simply informed him of some
very real dinner plans he had made for that evening, thanked
him for a lovely time, and then politely asked him to leave.
On the surface, Dave respected Donnie's wishes, but in the days
that followed, he made it clear that he'd felt deeply
disrespected. Dave not only complained
bitterly to Donnie, but he also became increasingly erratic when
he felt he wasn't being given the proper amount of attention.
To Donnie, it was clear their budding relationship had no
future whatsoever. After informing Dave of his wish
to part ways, Donnie blocked his number, preventing him from
calling or texting. About a week later, Donnie
received a call on his cell phone from an unknown number.
Curious, he answered, only to hear Dave Sayers voice on the
other end. How dare you block me?
He demanded. Do you honestly think that you
can get rid of me so easily? You'll never get rid of me,
ever. You're going to burn, Donnie.
You're going to burn. Once it was clear the sole
purpose of the call was to unleash a torrent of abuse,
Donnie Ray ended the call and blocked the number.
He believed it was nothing more than the work of a bitter former
lover lashing out in spite. Little did he know, Dave's words
held a horrifying significance. Two weeks later.
Donnie woke up one morning feeling a little under the
weather. He figured he'd simply caught a
cold and with the proper rest, would most likely recover in a
matter of days. But when days turned into an
entire week's worth of malaise, Donnie visited a pharmacist to
purchase antibiotics. However, after describing his
symptoms, the pharmacist strongly recommended that he
visit a hospital for a more in depth diagnosis.
Donnie did as he was. Asked and underwent a full
checkup following a visit to his local GP.
Then, when the results of various tests came in, Donnie
received a call from his doctor, one that would change his life
forever. Donnie who?
Believed that he was suffering from nothing more than a
stubborn strain of influenza. Was told that he was HIV
positive. I felt like that was it, my life
was over, he later said. I was crushed.
Following the death of his parents, Donnie had moved in
with his older cousin, who he later came to regard as his
adoptive father. He was devastated.
He felt like he'd failed to protect me from the very same
thing that killed my parents, and he promised my mom I'd never
suffer like she did, Donnie said I had to tell him it wasn't his
fault over and over, but he still cried.
He still said he felt like a failure.
In the weeks following his diagnosis, Donnie made repeated
trips to a local medical clinic to receive medication and
examinations. Being the social butterfly that
he is, Donnie often engaged the clinic's nurses in casual, and
sometimes not so casual conversation.
In one case, he shared intimate details regarding the events
leading up to his diagnosis. As he spoke, the nurse Donnie
was talking to turned ashen faced and at first appeared
hesitant to speak before saying. I really shouldn't be telling
you this, but you're the 4th person this has happened to in
the last six months alone. Donnie couldn't believe his
ears. Assuming there had been some
kind of miscommunication, Donnie reiterated that in his deepest,
darkest thoughts, he wondered if a former lover had deliberately
infected him with HIV. There had been no
miscommunication. The nurse confirmed that in the
recent past, three additional men had reported being
deliberately infected with HIV by a recent lover.
Not only that, but the same malevolent person had actually
taunted them via phone call following their infection,
hinting cryptically at the ordeals that awaited them.
The first was a man in his early 30s, Stan Roger, who made
contact with Dave using the dating app Grinder back in July
2016. In a very similar fashion to his
interaction with Donnie, Dave was insistent that he and Stan
meet at the first available opportunity.
He insisted that Stan stop by his Brighton apartment, and when
he did so, Stan found the front door open and unlocked.
Just come on in, Dave said via text message.
I'm waiting for you. Shortly after Stan's arrival, he
and Dave became intimate, and as far as Stan knew, Dave had
warned the appropriate protection.
However, once their intimacy concluded, Stan noticed that a
prophylactic device had been removed from its packet, yet
appeared completely unused. Concerned that Dave had somehow
deceived him, Stan sought assurance that protection had
been used. Dave flippantly dismissed his
concerns by asking, Are you one of these paranoid people?
Yes. I wore protection, so chill out.
Once sufficiently reassured that Dave had complied with his
wishes, Stan began attempting to engage his new lover in
conversation. Yet when Dave seemed much more
interested in showing Stan his favorite Pokémon videos on
YouTube, Stan suggested they part ways and arrange to see
each other again soon. Again, Dave seemed to take the
polite dismissal in stride, but not long after his departure, he
called Stan on his cell phone. Stan assumed the purpose of the
call was to arrange a second meeting, but when he answered,
Dave remained silent. Stan asked if he was OK, but
again Dave chose to stay silent until he eventually ended the
call without a word. Having demonstrated himself as
unsuitable for a mature relationship, Stan opted for no
further contact with the increasingly erratic Dave.
But just eight days later, Stan received a flurry of text
messages from an unrecognized number.
You're a revolting idiot, one message read.
Ha, I took the protection off. Stan was stunned, but he didn't
understand the messages true significance until a few weeks
later when he began to feel gravely ill.
The second of Dave's more recent victims was a man named Peter,
who matched with the young Scotsman after realizing they
frequented the same gym. He.
Was a good looking. Guy Peter later said he was also
very charming at first, but that all changed very quickly.
Dave repeated the pattern of insisting he and Peter meet as
soon as possible, and when they did, he told Peter that he would
not be wearing any protection during physical intimacy.
Peter was hesitant. He knew the risks involved, but
Dave swore on all that he held dear, that he was clean and that
any intimacy they shared would be safe.
However, afterward, the same post coital pattern played out.
After displaying a shocking level of immaturity, Peter
proposed that they part ways. Yet just days later, Dave sent
him a terrifying text message. I lied, the message said.
I'm HIV positive. Peter was horrified.
He asked Dave if he was serious or merely trying to
psychologically terrorize him in revenge for discontinuing their
tryst. He's making this up, Peter told
himself. He's just being childish.
But Dave wasn't making things up.
He had deliberately infected Peter with HVA.
Third man named Andrew shared a similar story.
He matched with Dave via the same dating app as the others,
and at first, there was a great deal of chemistry.
He was hot and seemed like a nice person, Andrew later
recalled. At the same time, I didn't have
any reason to question that. When Andrew and Dave met for the
first time, neither of them had any kind of protection, but they
decided to become intimate regardless.
Andrew ended up staying overnight at Dave's place and
later claimed that at that point he believed they might kindle a
long term relationship. But this time it took less than
24 hours for Dave to turn on him.
The following morning, as Andrew travelled by bus to his home, he
decided to check for any new messages on the Grinder app.
However, when a user activates the app, it notifies connected
users of their activity. This is how Dave discovered that
Andrew was still using the dating app less than an hour
after they had parted Waze. The discovery sent Dave into a
rage. I can't believe you're online
already, Dave told Andrew via text message.
Andrew later said he believed Dave was kidding, thinking it
was flirtatious banter. Yet when it became evident that
Dave was genuinely furious, Andrew blocked him on all
platforms and resigned himself to moving on.
But just over a month later, Andrew was out drinking with a
Co worker when a series of text messages were sent to his cell
phone. I hope you enjoyed yourself.
The first message read, while the second came with a smiley
emoji and said I have HIV and now you do too.
It should be noted that the timing of Dave's text messages
is extremely significant. Today, if someone is exposed to
HIV, they can obtain a drug known as Post Exposure
prophylaxis PP, which has the power to stop an infection if
taken within 72 hours. Dave could have easily informed
his lovers of his status as an HIV carrier, but deliberately
waited weeks to drop the bombshell that he had knowingly
exposed them to one of the deadliest diseases in modern
history. Obviously, when each of Dave's 4
victims realized his claims were legitimate, they experienced a
mixture of disbelief, confusion, and fear before rushing to
medical services for testing. In some cases, the wait was just
24 hours, but every second of gnawing uncertainty was nothing
short of psychological torture. Andrew sat alone, guzzling a
bottle of wine and praying that the results would come back
negative. The next day.
When the call from the doctor came, he trembled with fear as
he went through the formalities of confirming his identity.
Andrew had almost resigned himself to the prospect of
living out what little time he had left as a carrier of HIV and
eventually as a sufferer of AIDS.
Yet once the security formalities were out of the way,
the doctor told Andrew that his test results were negative.
He almost collapsed with relief, and the same could be said for
Peter, who also received the all clear after a brief but
agonizing wait. Stan Roger, on the other hand,
was not so fortunate. When informed by his doctor that
he had contracted HIV, Stan was devastated, but he swiftly
informed the police of Dave Sayers actions.
Stan provided them with a detailed description of Dave,
along with his phone number, home address and several
screenshots of the text messages they'd shared.
From the moment I got my diagnosis, I was acutely aware
that I would have to report this, he later said, adding that
Dave was obviously an exceptionally dangerous person
who urgently needed to be stopped.
Thanks to the information provided by Stan Roger, the
police were able to track Dave to the nearby town of Salt Dean
before placing him under arrest. To ensure that he couldn't
escape, police executed a dawn raid rather than a regular door
knock. After smashing their way into
his apartment, officers discovered Dave in bed with
another man, later revealed to be his eighth known victim of
deliberate transmission. Yet after seizing Dave's phone
and attempting to get to grips with the extent of his
criminality, police discovered hundreds of potential victims
spread across his multiple social media accounts, many of
which had been established under false identities.
Each and every one of these men had to be contacted by police
and informed of their potential diagnosis.
Following his arrest. Police interviewed Dave under
caution. The number of charges rapidly
ballooned from 1:00 to 4:00 to 7:00 in the space of just a few
hours. During the interview, which was
recorded, Dave claimed he wasn't aware of his status as an HIV
carrier, but this was an outright lie.
By the time of the interview, he had been explicitly aware of his
diagnosis for almost 12 months. The police were well aware that
Dave was attempting to deceive them.
On paper, he could have been tried in England, but since the
majority of his known offenses had been committed in Scotland
before his relocation to Brighton, he was transferred
into the custody of Scottish police and then transported to
Edinburgh. For some reason, once safely
across the border, Scottish police released Dave on bail
into the custody of his foster parents.
Almost immediately after the emotional reunion, he attempted
to escape justice by hiding among the Pentland Hills, which
loom over Edinburgh. When he heard Dave had escaped
police custody, Donnie was furious.
I couldn't believe they released him, he said.
Especially since he kept saying that he was going to do it to
other men. He was obviously sick in the
head. I used to wonder, with all that
time that he spent in Edinburgh and Brighton, how many more
victims could be there. During a search of the Edinburgh
countryside, police eventually found an abandoned tent
containing a carton of prescription medication.
It was antiviral medication used by HIV carriers and the name
written on it was Dave Sayer. Police already suspected Dave
was hiding in the Pentland Hills, but what was particularly
alarming about the discovery was that all the pills remained
untouched in their blister packets.
The medication's purpose was to make his infection less
contagious. Refusing to take it made his
intention to infect others chillingly evident.
By November 2017, the hunt for Dave Sayer had entered its 11th
month and around 25 additional victims had come forward to
report physical interactions with him.
Naturally, the police focused their searches around the cities
of Brighton and Edinburgh. Yet little did they know Dave
had made his way to Newcastle. Using the pseudonym Gary Cole.
He attempted to keep a low profile, but continued to use
dating apps to infect additional victims, the first of whom was a
man named Tim. It's always been nearly
impossible for me to approach a man.
Tim later confessed. I guess that's probably why I've
been quite gullible. Dave managed to convince Tim
that he was in love with him and then spent a grand total of
three months living under his roof, completely rent free.
He said that I had nice eyes and that he liked older men.
I was very flattered, Tim admitted.
I might have fallen in love with the guy.
But Dave's behavior soon shifted from charming and thoughtful to
manipulative and malevolent. Let's just say that he was able
to control me in a way that I won't ever allow again, said
Tim. Meanwhile, police forces in both
Scotland and England were busy trawling the Internet for any
trace of Dave Sayer. Their search LED them to an
escort website where a detective noticed stark similarities
between the body of an advertised subject and Dave's.
They also had a cell phone number connected to it.
When police attempted to triangulate its signal, it was
determined to be in the home of Dave's unsuspecting lover, Tim.
Officers rushed to Tim's home, but when Dave realized that he
had once again been tracked down by the police, he attempted to
escape. Trapped on the upper floors of
the house, he leapt from a third story window into the garden of
one of Tim's neighbors. But when he landed on the wet
grass of the lawn, he slipped and fell on his back so hard
that he smashed several vertebrae in his spine.
The police found him lying in a lot of pain.
Tim said he couldn't move or walk properly.
Assuming Tim was an accomplice who knowingly harbored a
criminal, police took him into custody for around 5 hours.
However, once Tim discovered who Gary Cole really was, his arrest
became the least of his worries. Thankfully, the police.
Were able to issue him a 30 minute HIV test and Tim breathed
a sigh of relief when the results came back negative.
That was obviously good news, Tim said.
But I didn't really feel any better.
I felt used. As Dave was brought to trial, it
marked a watershed in British legal history.
Never before had anyone been tried for the crime of spreading
a dangerous pathogen. After viewing a catalogue of
damning evidence, including the text in which he taunted his
victims, a jury found Dave guilty on five counts of causing
grievous bodily harm and five of attempted grievous bodily harm.
The presiding judge sentenced him to life in prison, telling
Dave you waged a determined and hateful campaign of violence.
The messages you sent make it crystal clear you knew exactly
what you were doing, as well as the physical offenses.
It is clear that the psychological effects upon the
victims are immense. The judge continued.
It should be known that this sentence is not about
stigmatizing anyone living with HIV.
But I cannot envision a day when you will no longer be a danger
to gay men. It's reassuring to think that
Dave was jailed for his actions, but what he inflicted on his
victims will stay with them for the rest of their lives.
When I first got the diagnosis, I was terrified, Donnie later
shared, his voice heavy with the weight of the memory.
I kept thinking, this is it. I'm going to be that person, the
one nobody will ever want to be with.
I was consumed with fear, believing the stigma would leave
me isolated and alone. Even though there's still some
prejudice within the gay community, I've come to realize
that a lot of people don't care as much as I thought they would.
Yes, I had one bad experience with someone I was seeing, but
in the end, it didn't define me. It didn't break me.
Donnie paused, his expression shifting as he reflected on how
far things have come. It's no longer the death
sentence it once was. Not even close.
But what's hard to come to terms with is when someone else takes
away your power, when they decide something for you without
your consent. That's the part that's tough to
move past. It's a harsh reality to face,
especially when you sit with it for a while.
And honestly, that's the hardest thing for me to deal with day in
and day out. The cruelty of it.
How could someone do that to another person?
How can someone be so heartless?