"Taken in Matamoros":
I was supposed to be on that spring break trip in March 1989. My friends and I had been planning it for months, dreaming of South Padre Island’s sandy beaches and the wild nightlife across the border in Matamoros, Mexico. Mark Kilroy, my best friend since freshman year at the University of Texas, was the ringleader. Over burgers at our favorite diner, he leaned across the table, his eyes bright. “Picture it,” he said, waving a fry for emphasis. “Sun all day, cold drinks at night, and bars packed with people. It’s gonna be the trip of a lifetime. You’re coming, right?”
I grinned and nodded. “Count me in.” Mark was like that—his excitement pulled you in. He was a pre-med student, always studying, but spring break was his chance to let loose. Joining him were Bradley Moore, a laid-back guy who loved surfing; Bill Huddleston, the quiet one who always had our backs; and Brent Martin, the joker who could make anyone laugh. We were a tight group, ready for a week of memories.
Two days before we were set to leave, my roommate tossed me a curveball. “Ski trip in Colorado,” he said. “Last-minute spot opened up. You want it?” I hesitated. Skiing sounded amazing, but I’d promised Mark. I called him, feeling guilty. “Man, I’m torn,” I admitted. “This ski thing came up.”
Mark laughed. “Go shred the slopes,” he said. “We’ll catch you next time. Just don’t break a leg.” I felt a pang but decided to take the ski trip. That choice saved my life, but it’s haunted me ever since.
Mark, Bradley, Bill, and Brent headed to South Padre on March 10, 1989. They checked into the Sheraton, a bustling hotel with palm trees and a pool packed with college kids. Mark sent me a postcard, his messy handwriting joking about Bradley’s sunburn and Bill’s awful dance moves at the Miss Tanline contest on the beach. “Matamoros is wild,” he wrote. “Bars are insane. Wish you were here!”
They spent their days lounging on the sand, playing volleyball, and cheering at beach events. At night, they crossed the border into Matamoros, where bars like Sergeant Pepper’s, Los Sombreros, and the London Pub drew crowds with cheap beers and thumping music. The London Pub was their favorite—a cramped, neon-lit spot with sticky floors and a jukebox blaring pop hits. Mark loved it, always chatting up new people, his easy smile drawing them in.
On March 14, around 2 a.m., they were at the London Pub. The place was a zoo—bodies pressed together, laughter mixing with the clink of glasses. Bradley called me the next day, his voice tight. “Something bad happened,” he said. “Mark’s gone.”
My heart stopped. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“We were at the bar,” Bradley said. “Mark was talking to this girl from the Tanline contest—long dark hair, real friendly. He said he was stepping outside for air. The place was so hot, we didn’t think twice. But he didn’t come back. Brent saw him outside, near the street. A gray truck pulled up, and two guys jumped out. They grabbed Mark, threw him in the back, and peeled out.”
I gripped the phone, my mouth dry. “You saw it happen?”
“Brent did,” Bradley said. “He ran out, yelling for us. We searched the street, the alleys, everywhere. Asked bartenders, bouncers, anyone. Nobody saw a thing. It was like he vanished.”
My mind raced. Mark was careful, the guy who always made sure we got home safe. “What did the police say?” I asked.
Bradley sighed. “They didn’t care. Said he’s probably drunk, sleeping it off somewhere. But I know what Brent saw. Those guys took him.”
The group searched for hours, weaving through Matamoros’s crowded streets, calling Mark’s name. They crossed back to Brownsville, checking the hotel, the beach, even hospitals, thinking maybe he’d been hurt. Nothing. By morning, they filed a missing person report, but the Matamoros police brushed it off. “Spring breakers get lost all the time,” an officer said, barely looking up from his desk. “He’ll turn up.”
I cut my ski trip short and flew back to Texas. My dorm room felt too quiet, the walls closing in. I called Bradley every day. “Anything?” I’d ask, dreading the answer.
“Nothing,” he’d say, his voice flatter each time. “His parents are here now. They’re putting up flyers, talking to the news. The police still aren’t doing much.”
Weeks crawled by. I couldn’t focus on classes, my notes untouched. I kept picturing Mark—his goofy laugh, the way he’d quiz me on biology to help me pass. I’d lie awake, heart pounding, imagining him lost, scared, or worse. My friends and I met up, trading theories over coffee. “Maybe he got mugged and wandered off,” Bill said, stirring his cup endlessly. Brent shook his head. “Those guys in the truck—they targeted him. I saw their faces. They looked… cold.”
On April 1, my phone rang. It was Brent, his voice barely a whisper. “They found him,” he said. “He’s dead.”
I sank to the floor, the room spinning. “How?” I managed.
“Cops raided a ranch,” Brent said. “Rancho Santa Elena, outside Matamoros. They caught some drug runner, and he led them there. They found graves—13 of them. Mark was in one.”
I couldn’t breathe. “Graves? What happened to him?”
Brent’s voice broke. “It was a cult. Drug smugglers, but they did… rituals. They thought killing people kept their business safe. They grabbed Mark that night, took him to the ranch. They tortured him for hours—beat him, cut him. Then they killed him with a machete. They buried him with the others.”
I felt sick, my hands shaking. Later, news reports filled in the details, each one a punch to the gut. The cult, led by a man named Adolfo Constanzo, called himself a high priest of Palo Mayombe, a twisted mix of Santeria, voodoo, and Aztec beliefs. Their ranch was a nightmare—rundown shacks, dirt floors stained with blood, altars cluttered with candles and bones. They’d kidnapped Mark outside the London Pub, spotting him alone in the dark. They drove him to the ranch, tied him up, and kept him alive for hours, tormenting him. They believed his death would protect their drug shipments. His body, mutilated, was tossed into a shallow grave with 12 others—men, women, even a child, all victims of their rituals.
I kept seeing Mark’s face, hearing his voice from that diner. “Trip of a lifetime,” he’d said. Now he was gone, stolen in seconds outside a crowded bar. I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. If I’d been there, would I have gone outside with him? Could I have fought those men off? Or would I be in a grave too?
The story hit the news, headlines screaming about “satanic murders” and “spring break horror.” Constanzo fled to Mexico City but died in a police shootout in May. Several cult members got 30 to 60 years in prison, but others slipped away, never caught. Mark’s parents held a memorial, their faces gray with grief. Bradley and Brent drifted apart, haunted by guilt for not stopping it. I felt it too, a weight that never lifted.
I started speaking at colleges, telling Mark’s story to wide-eyed students planning their own spring breaks. “Stay together,” I’d say, my voice steady but my hands shaking. “Don’t walk off alone, especially at night. Watch your drink, know your surroundings, trust your gut.” I’d show them Mark’s picture—21, smiling, full of dreams. “He wanted to be a doctor,” I’d tell them. “He never got the chance.”
Every March, I think of him. I see that postcard on my desk, his handwriting faded but clear. I wonder what he felt in those final hours, trapped in that awful place. Did he know how much we loved him? Did he fight? His death changed me. I don’t trust crowded places anymore, always checking exits, scanning faces. I hear a truck engine and freeze, picturing that gray pickup speeding away.
Mark’s story is a warning, one I’ll keep sharing. Spring break is supposed to be fun, but danger can hide anywhere—a busy bar, a dark street, a moment alone. I was lucky, but Mark wasn’t. I’ll never forget him, and I’ll never stop telling his story, hoping it keeps someone else safe.
"Trusting Strangers":
I was beyond thrilled for my first spring break in Miami Beach. I’d been saving up for months, a sophomore from Ohio State, dreaming of palm trees, neon lights, and endless parties. Traveling alone felt bold, a chance to break free from my small-town life. I booked a room at the Albion Hotel, right in the heart of South Beach, where the Art Deco buildings glowed with pastel colors and the air pulsed with music. The lobby was all marble and mirrors, packed with college kids like me, laughing, snapping selfies, ready to live it up. I felt alive, like anything could happen.
On my first afternoon, I wandered to the hotel pool, a sparkling rectangle surrounded by lounge chairs and cabanas. That’s where I met Christine. She was sprawled on a chair, reading The Beach by Alex Garland, her blonde hair tied in a messy bun. I was feeling a bit lonely, so I took a chance. “Is that book as wild as the movie?” I asked, pointing to her paperback. She looked up, her green eyes lighting up, and grinned. “Way crazier. You read it?” I shook my head, and we started talking. She was from Pennsylvania, also traveling solo, a year older than me. “I needed a break from my boring job,” she said, tossing her book aside. “This place is like a fever dream.” We hit it off instantly, swapping stories about our hometowns and college drama. “Let’s team up,” she suggested, adjusting her sunglasses. “Two girls taking on Miami—what’s better than that?” I laughed, relieved to have a friend.
For the next two days, we were inseparable. We strolled down Ocean Drive, where convertibles blared hip-hop and waiters called out happy hour deals. We grabbed tacos at a tiny stand, the kind with plastic chairs and spicy salsa that made us cough and laugh. At night, we hit smaller bars, sipping fruity drinks and dancing to reggaeton. Christine was fearless—she’d talk to anyone, from street performers to random guys buying us drinks. I admired her confidence but noticed how she’d linger with strangers, laughing a little too long. “You’re so outgoing,” I said once, half-joking. She shrugged, twirling a straw in her drink. “Life’s short. Gotta make it fun.” I brushed off my unease—she was just living the moment, right?
By the third night, we were ready for something bigger. We chose Mango’s Tropical Cafe, a massive club with salsa music so loud it vibrated in my chest. The place was a sensory overload—neon lights flashing pink and green, waitresses in feather costumes, dancers on platforms moving like they were born to it. We pushed through the sweaty crowd, finding a spot near the dance floor. Christine was in her element, swaying to the beat, her sundress catching the lights. I was having fun, but the crowd felt overwhelming, everyone packed so tight I could barely breathe.
That’s when two guys approached us. One was tall, muscular, with dreadlocks and a tight black shirt that showed off his arms. The other was shorter, with a snake tattoo curling up his neck, his eyes sharp and unblinking. “I’m Evoire,” the first one said, his voice smooth, flashing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “This is Dorian.” Christine smiled back, already chatting. “I’m Christine, and this is my friend,” she said, nudging me. I nodded, forcing a smile, but something felt off. Their eyes lingered too long, like they were sizing us up, not just flirting. Evoire leaned closer to Christine. “You ladies need drinks?” She nodded eagerly. “Something strong!” she said, laughing. They headed to the bar, and Dorian stayed near me, his cologne sharp and overpowering. “You don’t dance?” he asked, his smirk making my skin prickle. “Not really my scene,” I mumbled, glancing at Christine. She was laughing with Evoire, her hand on his arm. I didn’t like it.
At the bar, I watched Evoire hand her a bright blue drink. She sipped it, giggling, her movements looser. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Their smiles looked fake, their eyes darting around like they were scanning the room for something—or someone. I pulled Christine aside, my voice low. “Those guys seem… off. You sure about this?” She rolled her eyes, playful but firm. “They’re just having fun. Don’t be paranoid.” I wanted to push back, but the music drowned me out, and she was already back with them, dancing closer to Evoire. Dorian kept glancing at me, his stare cold, like he was daring me to say something.
By midnight, I was exhausted, my head pounding from the noise and my gut screaming that something was wrong. I grabbed Christine’s arm. “I’m heading back to the hotel. Come with me, please.” She shook her head, her voice slurring slightly from the drinks. “I’m staying. They’re taking me to another spot. I’ll be fine, I promise.” Evoire was behind her, watching me, his smile gone. Dorian stepped closer, his tattoo gleaming under the lights. “She’s good with us,” he said, his tone flat. My heart raced, but Christine waved me off. “Text me later,” she called, already turning back to them. I stood there, frozen, then forced myself to leave, my legs heavy. I told myself she’d be okay—she was smart, she’d text me soon.
Back at the Albion, my room on the fourth floor felt too quiet. The neon glow from Ocean Drive seeped through my curtains, casting shadows on the walls. I checked my phone obsessively, waiting for Christine’s message. Nothing. By 1 a.m., I texted her: “You okay? Where are you?” No reply. I called, but it went to voicemail, her cheerful voice saying, “Hey, it’s Christine, leave a message!” My stomach churned. By 2 a.m., I was pacing, the bad feeling growing like a storm inside me. I tried to sleep, but every creak of the hotel made me jump. I kept seeing Evoire’s cold eyes, Dorian’s tattoo, the way they’d closed in on her like wolves.
At dawn, sirens jolted me awake. I’d barely slept, my eyes gritty. From my window, I saw police cars parked outside, their red and blue lights flashing against the hotel’s white walls. My heart sank. I pulled on my shoes, my hands trembling, and ran to the elevator. The lobby was chaos—guests huddled in groups, whispering, cops moving with purpose. I overheard a woman say, “They found a girl on the fourth floor… dead.” My knees nearly buckled. Fourth floor. My floor.
I pushed through the crowd, my pulse pounding in my ears. Outside the elevator, I saw a stretcher being wheeled down the hall. A white sheet covered a body, but a strand of blonde hair spilled out, catching the light. I stopped breathing. It was her. It had to be. A cop blocked my path, his hand raised. “Miss, you need to stay back,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “What happened? Who is it?” I asked, my voice breaking. He didn’t answer, just guided me to the lobby with the other guests.
I sat on a couch, numb, as the whispers grew. “Drugged… found in her room… so young.” My phone buzzed with a news alert: “Woman, 24, found dead at Albion Hotel. Suspected foul play.” I felt sick, my hands shaking so hard I dropped my phone. A detective approached me later, his badge glinting. He was older, with tired eyes and a notepad. “You knew Christine Englehardt?” he asked. I nodded, tears spilling over. “When did you last see her?” I told him everything—Mango’s, Evoire and Dorian, how I’d begged her to leave. He scribbled notes, his face unreadable. “We’re looking at two men, Evoire Collier and Dorian Taylor,” he said. “Seen with her last night. We found her in her room. Fentanyl overdose, and… other injuries.” His voice softened. “She didn’t make it.”
I couldn’t speak. My mind replayed every moment—her laugh, her promise she’d be fine, the way I’d walked away. The detective asked more questions, but I barely heard them. Later, the news filled in the horrors: Evoire and Dorian had drugged Christine with fentanyl, assaulted her, and left her to die, her face pressed into the bed, unable to breathe. They’d stolen her credit cards, using them at shops down the street like it was nothing. The police found security footage of them leaving her room, laughing. I couldn’t stop picturing it—Christine alone, helpless, while I was just down the hall, useless.
I left Miami the next day, my spring break a nightmare. The hotel’s glitzy lobby, the crowded beaches, the pulsing music—it all felt like a lie, hiding something sinister. I kept replaying that night, wondering if I could’ve stopped her, if I should’ve grabbed her arm and dragged her back. Back in Ohio, I can’t sleep without seeing that blonde hair under the sheet, Evoire’s predatory grin, Dorian’s snake tattoo slithering in my nightmares. Spring break was supposed to be a story of fun, of freedom. Instead, it taught me a truth I’ll never forget: danger hides in the brightest places, and sometimes, your gut is the only thing keeping you alive. I wish I’d listened to mine that night. I wish I’d saved her.
"Not Safe":
I couldn’t wait for spring break. College had drained me—endless assignments, late-night study sessions, and the constant pressure to keep up. I needed an escape, somewhere far from campus. After scrolling online, I found a cheap hostel in a small coastal town in Oregon. The website showed a quaint, two-story house with ivy climbing the walls, just a short walk from the beach. It promised a cozy vibe, shared rooms, and a fire pit for evening hangouts. Perfect for a broke student like me. I booked a week, packed a duffel bag with clothes and a few books, and caught a bumpy bus ride to the coast, my excitement growing with every mile.
When I arrived, the hostel was just as I’d imagined. The wooden floors creaked under my sneakers, and the air smelled faintly of cedar and salt. The manager, Carla, greeted me at the front desk. She was in her forties, with short blonde hair and a warm smile that made me feel welcome. “You’ll love it here,” she said, handing me a key. “Your room’s upstairs, second door on the left.” She led me through a narrow hallway lined with faded beach photos and showed me to a small room with two bunk beds, a scratched wooden dresser, and a single window with a thin curtain. My roommate wasn’t there yet, so I claimed the bottom bunk, unzipped my bag, and neatly folded my clothes into the dresser. The room felt cozy, like a place where I could finally relax.
That evening, I wandered to the backyard, where a group of guests sat around a crackling fire pit. The smell of burning wood filled the air, and someone passed me a soda. A guy named Jake, with curly brown hair and a loud, easy laugh, introduced himself. “First time here?” he asked, popping open his own soda. “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Needed a break from school.” He nodded. “This place is great. The beach is just down the road. You’ll have a blast.” His enthusiasm was contagious, and I felt my shoulders loosen for the first time in weeks.
Then I noticed her. A woman sat across the fire pit, staring into the flames. She looked about my age, maybe twenty-two, with stringy brown hair that hung past her shoulders. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent in the firelight, and her hands fidgeted in her lap, twisting a woven bracelet over and over. She didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t even look up, but I felt her presence like a weight. Jake leaned over, his voice low. “That’s Emily. She’s been here a couple of days. Keeps to herself.” I nodded, but her stillness unnerved me. Then her eyes flicked up and locked onto mine. They were wide, unblinking, like she could see right through me. My stomach twisted, and I quickly looked away, pretending to sip my soda. The chatter around the fire continued, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still watching me.
Back in the room that night, Emily was there. She sat cross-legged on the top bunk, staring at the wall, her hands still twisting that bracelet. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the dresser. “Hi,” I said, trying to sound friendly as I kicked off my shoes. She didn’t respond at first, and the silence stretched, heavy and awkward. Then, in a low, raspy voice, she said, “You should leave. It’s not safe here.” My heart skipped a beat. I stood frozen by the door, my hand still on the knob. “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice shaky. She turned her head slowly, her wide eyes glinting in the lamplight. “Just leave,” she whispered, then climbed down the ladder with jerky movements and slipped out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her. I locked it, my hands trembling, and climbed into bed, pulling the thin blanket up to my chin. Her words echoed in my mind, sharp and cold. I lay awake for hours, listening for any sound, but the hostel was silent.
The next morning, I dragged myself to the shared kitchen, still rattled. Emily was there, standing by the counter, stirring a cup of tea with a spoon that clinked against the mug. Her movements were slow, almost mechanical, and she was muttering under her breath, words I couldn’t make out. I grabbed a muffin from a basket and sat at the far end of the long wooden table, keeping my distance. Jake came in, wearing a bright red hoodie, and plopped down next to me. “You look tired,” he said, grabbing an apple. I glanced at Emily, who hadn’t looked up from her tea. “My roommate’s kind of… strange,” I said quietly, peeling the wrapper off my muffin. Jake raised an eyebrow. “Emily? Yeah, I heard her muttering in the hallway last night. Sounded like she was talking to someone, but no one was there.” My stomach churned. “She told me it’s not safe here,” I admitted. Jake’s face grew serious. “That’s weird. Maybe she’s just… I don’t know, stressed? I wouldn’t worry too much.” But his words didn’t comfort me. I could still feel her eyes from the night before, boring into me.
That night, I woke to a sound. Soft, deliberate footsteps paced outside my door, back and forth, back and forth. I lay still, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. The pacing stopped, and then I heard it—a faint whisper, just outside the door. “Not safe… not safe…” It was Emily’s voice, low and urgent. My skin prickled with fear. I wanted to get up, to check the lock, but my body wouldn’t move. I clutched the blanket, staring at the door, waiting for it to creak open. The whispering stopped, and the silence that followed was worse. I didn’t sleep again that night, my eyes glued to the door until the first light crept through the curtain.
The next day, I avoided the hostel as much as I could. I spent hours at the beach, walking along the shore, trying to focus on the waves and the salty air. But Emily’s words clung to me like damp sand. When I got back, Jake was in the lounge, sprawled on a couch, scrolling on his phone. He looked up, his face tense. “Hey,” he said, lowering his voice. “I saw Emily earlier. She was just standing in the hallway, staring at your door for, like, ten minutes. Didn’t move, didn’t say anything.” My throat tightened. “I heard her last night,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “She was pacing outside my room, whispering that it’s not safe.” Jake’s eyes widened. “That’s creepy. You need to tell Carla. That’s not normal.” I nodded, my hands clammy.
I found Carla at the front desk, organizing a stack of brochures. “Can we talk in private?” I asked. She nodded, leading me to a small office behind the desk. I told her everything—Emily’s warning, her muttering, the footsteps, the whispering outside my door. Carla’s smile faded, and she rubbed her forehead. “I’ve had complaints about her before,” she said. “She’s been acting strange since she arrived—talking to herself, wandering the halls at odd hours. I thought she was just shy, but this is concerning. I’ll talk to her today.” I swallowed hard. “Can I switch rooms?” I asked. Carla sighed. “I’m so sorry, but we’re fully booked for spring break. I’ll keep an eye on her, I promise.” I left the office, my stomach in knots, feeling no safer than before.
That evening, I stayed in the lounge with Jake and a few other guests, playing cards and trying to distract myself. The laughter around the table felt forced, and I kept glancing at the door, expecting Emily to walk in. Around midnight, I couldn’t avoid my room any longer. I walked down the dim hallway, the floorboards creaking under my feet. I opened the door slowly, my heart racing. Emily wasn’t there. Her bag sat on the floor, unzipped, with clothes spilling out—a tangled sweater, a pair Medieval literature books, and a cracked phone case. The sight of her things, abandoned like that, made my skin crawl. I locked the door, checked it twice, and climbed into bed, keeping the lamp on. I tried to read, but every creak in the house made me jump.
Hours later, I woke to a new sound. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. It was coming from the door, like fingernails dragging across the wood. My blood ran cold. I sat up, staring at the door, my breath shallow. The scratching stopped, then started again, slower, deliberate. Scratch. Scratch. I wanted to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. I grabbed my phone, my hands shaking, and texted Jake: “I hear scratching at my door. I’m scared.” He replied instantly: “Stay there. I’m coming.” Minutes later, I heard his footsteps in the hall. The scratching stopped. Jake knocked softly. “It’s me,” he whispered. I unlocked the door, and he slipped inside, his face pale. “I didn’t see anyone,” he said. “But I heard it too, just before I got here.” We sat on my bunk, listening, but the hallway was silent. I didn’t sleep that night, and neither did Jake.
The next morning, Emily was gone. Her bag was still there, its contents untouched, but she was nowhere in the hostel. I told Carla, and she checked the room, her face tight with worry. “This isn’t right,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “She didn’t check out. I need to call the police.” I waited in the lounge, my hands shaking, while Jake sat with me. “This is so messed up,” he said, his voice low. “Where could she have gone?” I didn’t answer. My mind kept replaying the scratching, the whispering, her wide, unblinking eyes.
The police arrived within the hour. They asked me questions—what Emily looked like, what she said, how she acted. I told them everything, my voice trembling. One officer took Carla aside, and I overheard him say, “Her ID says her name’s Lisa, not Emily. She’s been missing for weeks. She has mental health issues and a history of wandering.” My heart stopped. Lisa? Missing? The room spun, and I gripped the arm of the couch. The officer continued, “We’ll take her belongings and try to track her down. She’s not dangerous, but she’s unstable.” Not dangerous? I didn’t believe it. Not after the scratching, the pacing, the whispers.
Carla apologized over and over, her face pale. “I should have acted sooner,” she said, her voice breaking. “I thought she was just eccentric.” I didn’t blame her, but I couldn’t stay. I packed my bag, my hands still shaking, and caught the next bus home. As the bus pulled away, I stared out the window at the hostel, its ivy-covered walls no longer charming. My spring break was supposed to be a fun escape, but all I felt was fear, cold and heavy in my chest. I can still hear her voice, low and urgent, whispering, “Not safe… not safe…” I don’t know where Lisa went, or why she was there, but I hope I never cross her path again.
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