THE DARK BENEATH: The Man Who Confessed Before the Murder Happened (Case File #14)
- Loretta & David Allseitz
- Dec 11
- 4 min read
Updated: Dec 15
CASE FILE #14
If you take Highway 190 past Livingston, TX long enough, the land stops feeling empty and starts feeling watchful.
The trees lean in closer.
The air sits heavier.
And every mile marker looks like it’s daring you to keep going.
People out there don’t trade stories with strangers.
Not about this.
Not because they’ve forgotten.
Because remembering feels dangerous.
This is the one they only whisper after the porch lights are off,
when the night is thick
and the world feels thin.
The Man Who Confessed Before the Murder Happened
In 2014, just before sunrise, a man walked into the Polk County Sheriff’s Office like he’d practiced it.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Hands empty.
He gave the desk sergeant a woman’s name and said:
“She’s dead. You’ll find her near the logging trail.”
No trembling.
No apology.
Just facts, delivered the way some men give directions.
He told them what she was wearing.
Where she fell.
Which way her face was turned.
How the ground looked under her body.
They checked her name expecting a cold case.
Instead, they found a timestamp.
She had clocked out of work only hours earlier.
Alive.
What Deputies Found in the Brush
They kept the man in the interview room while units rolled out.
They located her in eleven minutes.
Seventeen feet off the trail.
Throat opened in one clean line,
the kind meant to silence before it bleeds.
One shoe missing.
Phone crushed under her elbow.
Dirt under her nails from clawing at the ground.
She hadn’t died quietly.
But she had died recently—within the hour.
Meaning she was breathing when he walked into the station.
Meaning she died while he sat under fluorescent lights describing her last moments.
The Details He Shouldn’t Have Carried
He spoke like a man remembering, not imagining.
He knew she’d bitten someone hard enough to shake loose a tooth fragment.
He knew her necklace had snapped and lodged under her shoulder blade.
He knew her final breath was wet, heavy, desperate.
No one had mentioned any of that.
Hell, no one knew it yet.
When He Said “Another One,” No One Laughed
Hours later, while investigators were still photographing the first scene, he said:
“There’s another.”
Different stretch of road.
Different woman.
Different violence entirely.
He described bruising before deputies even saw the body.
Said her arm would be twisted wrong,
like the attacker didn’t understand how joints work.
Said she’d be left half-submerged,
as if someone had tried to wash the guilt off her but lost interest.
They found her exactly like he said.
He had never left the interview room.
Death Number Three
The next morning, over lukewarm coffee, he gave a third name.
Softer this time.
Almost apologetic.
He described blunt-force trauma in chilling detail—skull fractured on the left,
teeth missing,
blood pooled in a thin line toward the guardrail.
He even described the sound she made when the strike landed.
Deputies found her an hour later,
propped against the metal rail like she’d sat down to rest and never stood back up.
And while it happened?
He was on camera at a diner two towns over,
paying for breakfast and thanking the waitress.
The Pattern Nobody Wanted
None of the victims knew each other.
But each had crossed paths with him once—a nod in a hallway,
a receipt handed over a counter,
a single shared sentence at a laundromat.
Barely a flicker in their lives.
But somehow enough to anchor him to their endings.
The Last Name He Spoke
His final confession wasn’t about a dead woman.
It was about a living one.
A woman the deputies knew.
A woman making coffee in her kitchen when they called.
He listed details he shouldn’t know:
Her clothes.
The chipped mug in her hand.
The window she always forgot to lock.
Every detail correct.
They told her to stay inside.
She whispered:
“Someone’s at my—”
And the call snapped dead.
The Ending No One Can Explain
Deputies reached her house in minutes.
She was shaken, pale, alive.
Door still locked.
No attacker.
No footprints.
Just the sense that something had come close enough
to smell her fear
and then changed its mind.
Back at the station?
The man was gone.
One frame of camera footage showed him sitting at the table.
The next frame showed an empty chair.
What He Left Behind
On the metal tabletop lay a single sheet of paper.
Neat handwriting.
No smudges.
“I remember them before they die.”
**FINAL WORD
“Some Warnings Don’t Arrive to Save You.”**
Livingston, Texas isn’t haunted.
It isn’t cursed.
It isn’t even unusual.
It’s just a place where certain stories don’t wait their turn—they arrive early,
sit quietly,
and tell you how they end
before the ending ever happens.
Alright, Troublemakers—what’s your theory?
Relax, I’m not a snitch…
but your internet history rolled on you YEARS ago.
If CASE FILE #14 is the first you're reading, make sure to go back and check out "The Dark Beneath" series of posts! The Dark Beneath: Scary Folklore & Whispers in Texas
Until the next body drops,
Loretta & David Allseitz
*The Dark Beneath is fiction—lore, not evidence. If you take it as fact, that’s between you, your lying uncle, and whatever’s creeping around your woods at 2 a.m.
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