THE LOBBY

The Dark Beneath — Unmasking Evil Vacancy doesn’t mean empty. It means someone left without taking everything with them. In the world of The Dark Beneath, this roadside motel doesn’t trap people or chase them. It doesn’t need to. The beds remember weight, pressure, the moment a body realizes it isn’t leaving the way it arrived. Checkout is offered. Completion is not.

In a small East Texas town, the obituary page was never about surprises—it was about confirmation. That’s why people noticed when a familiar name appeared too early, written with the kind of detail only someone who knew the ending could manage. The paper called it an error. Then it happened again. And again. Soon, the page stopped announcing deaths and started scheduling them.

The job posting didn’t look strange at first. Regional hauls. Night shifts. Weekly pay. But the application asked questions no employer should care about—who would notice if you didn’t come home, how long before someone looked for you, whether anyone depended on you. People answered anyway. Because rent was due. Because work was work. And because no one realized the job wasn’t hiring drivers. It was selecting disappearances.

The house was cleaned, repainted, and rented again without incident. No footsteps. No cold spots. No whispers in the dark. But the people who worked the crime scene weren’t as lucky. Long after the body was removed, first responders began reporting nausea, scratches, and the sensation of someone standing just behind them. Whatever was left behind didn’t stay with the house—it followed the witnesses home.

In a quiet East Texas county, a routine autopsy was signed, filed, and closed as accidental. By morning, the report had changed—cause of death rewritten, injuries added, timeline shifted. The medical examiner swore she hadn’t touched it. Worse, when the body was reexamined, it now matched the new report. No access logs. No explanations. Just paperwork that corrected itself—and a truth that arrived late.

A man walked into a small East Texas sheriff’s office before sunrise and calmly confessed to a murder that hadn’t happened yet. Minutes later, deputies found the victim exactly where he said she’d be—killed while he sat in their interview room. When he predicted the next two deaths with the same impossible accuracy, the question stopped being who was doing the killing…and became what he was remembering.

They say the Pine Curtain keeps to itself, but anyone who’s lived near Nacogdoches long enough knows better. Shadows move out there—slow, deliberate, almost curious. When Hannah Cole walked out of those woods after three days missing, she didn’t come back alone. Something followed. Something that learned her shape a little too well.

The case ends where it began—with motive. Hal Crouse’s autopsy showed rage and intent, but the hidden clause in his will shifted suspicion. Martha stood to gain control of the dairy if Ray was cut out, giving her reason to want Hal gone. Whether she wielded the pitchfork or manipulated another hand, the violence was personal, not random. Case File #001 is closed, but Tyler County’s shadows remain.

Buried in Hal Crouse’s will was a clause no one saw coming: if Ray was cut out, Martha regained partial ownership of the dairy. The language was buried deep, missed by the first review. Now the motive shifts. Martha didn’t need to swing the pitchfork—she just needed Hal gone. Whether she manipulated the killer or simply benefited from the fallout, one thing’s clear: someone knew exactly what that clause meant.

Hal Crouse wasn’t just struck—he was finished. The autopsy shows two blows: one wild and splintered, the other clean and final. First came rage. Then came intent. Whoever did this didn’t lose control—they made a choice. The killer knew Hal, hated him, and stayed long enough to make sure he wouldn’t get back up. This wasn’t a robbery. It wasn’t random. It was personal, and it was planned.

Marlene Givens swears she saw Clint Dyer’s truck near the milking shed at 3 a.m.—headlights cutting through the fog like a blade. Clint says he was checking cattle, but the cows weren’t on his side of the fence. No forced entry. No alibi. Just a long-standing feud over water rights and a witness who knows that engine rattle by heart. Clint’s close enough to smell the feed. Whether he swung the pitchfork is another matter.

We found the pitchfork head behind the shed—no blood, no prints, just discarded in the straw. Hours later, the handle turned up in Jessie Morales’ truck bed, tucked under a feed sack. Wood grain matches the splinters in Hal’s skull. Jessie says it broke last week. No tool head, no blood, no prints. Just a clean break and a cleaner lie. Someone’s planting evidence, and they know this farm inside out.

The milking shed smelled of ammonia and iron. Hal Crouse lay face-down in the muck, skull cracked wide open, while the cows screamed like they knew justice wouldn’t come easy in East Texas. No forced entry. Blood spatter wiped clean in one spot. Under Hal’s desk, we found a feed ledger soaked in blood. One entry circled in red ink: “Ray – unpaid $15,000.” Someone wanted us to look at Ray. We’re not convinced.

Bragg Road in Saratoga, Texas is home to one of the state’s most chilling legends: the Headless Railroad Worker. Said to have been decapitated in a tragic rail accident in the early 1900s, his ghost still roams the abandoned line, swinging a lantern in search of his missing head. Visitors report seeing a glowing light drifting through the Big Thicket—silent, eerie, and impossible to explain. Some searches never end. 👻

The lake’s watching—and the cover just dropped. Teardrops of Lake Tawakoni – The Eras Remix: In My Gen Z Era is giving haunted soft launch, forensic dread, and emotionally feral chaos. Loretta and David Smitty are chasing bodies, trauma-coded symbols, and small-town silence. TikTok-style chapters like POV: The Lake’s Got Beef and Unsent = Unsolved make this a bingeable thriller for anyone who spirals at 2AM and screenshots before they cry.

In Point, Texas, the legend of Rosalea haunts Clifton Cemetery. After her grave filled with groundwater, she appeared to the diggers, warning them not to bury her there. They ignored her—and soon, an eerie image of her face appeared on a tree at the head of the grave. Every man who touched it died within weeks. The tree was burned, but its scorched stump remains. Visitors say it’s still cold to the touch. Rosalea’s warning lingers. Don’t dig. Don’t touch. Don’t forget.

Join authors Loretta & David Allseitz for Whispers & Witnesses, a thriller book signing and vendor haunt on October 18th, 5–7 PM at The Venue at 84 WEST in Denison, TX. Discover chilling reads like Teardrops of Lake Tawakoni and The Dollmaker of Point, shop eerie vendor goods, and experience a night of suspense. Limited books available—bring cash or VENMO. Dare to attend. Witness the whispers. Embrace the haunt.

In the fog-shrouded town of Point, Texas, eerie figures roam—three identical men marked by silent wounds, and a fourth soaked in blood. Locals whisper they’re victims of the Dollmaker, each shadowed by a handcrafted wooden doll. No one knows where they come from, but their presence leaves mirrors fogged and hearts racing. Are they ghosts, warnings, or something worse? Discover the chilling legend that blurs the line between folklore and fear. Do you believe?

Drivers near Point, Texas have reported picking up a barefoot woman on FM 47—only for her to vanish before reaching her destination. Locals say she’s the ghost of a girl who died in a 1979 wreck, still trying to find her way home. This chilling East Texas legend draws curious travelers and ghost hunters alike. Discover the haunting truth behind the Vanishing Hitchhiker of Lake Tawakoni.

In 1998, a woman in West Tawakoni discovered a torn shirt and muddy footprints beneath her backyard clothesline—where a figure had briefly hung at dawn. No body was found. Locals still whisper about the man who never left the lake. Dive into this eerie unsolved mystery that blends Southern folklore with chilling forensic detail.