"One Quick Sale":
Our house on Edgewood Drive in Tacoma was our sanctuary. It was a modest two-story home with a small garden out front, where the boys loved to play catch. James, my husband, and I had built a life here for over a decade, raising our sons, Tommy and Alex, who were 10 and 14. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind where you waved at neighbors and left your doors unlocked. That sense of safety made what happened feel like a nightmare we couldn’t wake from.
It started with a simple decision. James had inherited a diamond ring from his grandmother—a beautiful piece with a large center stone framed by smaller diamonds. It was stunning, but I rarely wore it, and with the economy tight, we needed money for home repairs. “Let’s sell it on Craigslist,” James suggested one evening, his eyes bright with optimism. “It’ll go fast, and we’ll have the cash we need.” I hesitated, uneasy about inviting strangers into our lives, but James was confident. “It’s just a quick sale,” he assured me. So, he posted the ad, describing the ring and setting a fair price.
The next day, we got several responses. One group stood out—a couple and their friends, they said, looking for an engagement ring. They seemed eager, asking detailed questions about the ring’s carat weight and condition. James arranged for them to come by the following afternoon, April 28, 2010. I spent the morning tidying the house, wanting it to look welcoming. Tommy and Alex were sprawled on the living room couch, playing video games, their laughter filling the air. James was in the garage, polishing the ring one last time.
Around 3 PM, the doorbell rang. I was in the kitchen, slicing apples for a snack. “I’ll get it,” James called, heading to the door. I heard him greet the visitors, his voice warm and friendly. A moment later, he returned with four people: two men and two women. The men were in their twenties, one with a shaved head and tattoos snaking up his arms, the other with messy brown hair and a goatee. The women were younger, one with long blonde hair, the other with dark curls. They introduced themselves, but their names—Kiyoshi, Joshua, Amanda, Clabon—blurred in my mind. They seemed polite, if a bit nervous, which I chalked up to the awkwardness of buying something valuable from strangers.
“Nice to meet you,” James said, shaking hands. “This is my wife, and those are our boys, Tommy and Alex.” The boys glanced up from their game, offering shy waves before returning to the screen. We led the group to the dining table, where James opened the velvet box to reveal the ring. The women gasped, admiring its sparkle, while the men asked about its authenticity and price. Everything felt normal, like any other sale. I started to relax, thinking we’d made the right choice.
Then, without warning, the man with the shaved head reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. He pointed it at James, his face hardening. “This is a robbery,” he said, his voice flat and cold, like he’d rehearsed it.
My heart stopped. I looked at James, whose eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing?” he stammered, stepping in front of me.
“Shut up and don’t move,” the man snapped. The other man, with the goatee, pulled out a second gun and aimed it at the boys. “You kids, stay still,” he growled. Tommy whimpered, clutching Alex’s arm. I wanted to run to them, but my legs felt like lead.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Take the ring and go. Don’t hurt us.”
The man with the shaved head smirked. “Oh, we’re taking more than that.”
The blonde woman stepped forward, pulling zip ties from a bag. “Get on the floor, all of you,” she ordered. Her voice was sharp, like she was used to giving commands. We had no choice. James helped the boys lie down on the living room carpet, then took my hand as we followed. The carpet smelled faintly of the lemon cleaner I’d used that morning, a cruel reminder of normalcy. My hands trembled as the blonde tied them behind my back, the plastic biting into my wrists.
The man with the goatee started ransacking the house, yanking open drawers and stuffing our laptops, phones, and jewelry into a duffel bag. He moved with purpose, like he’d done this before. The other woman, with the dark curls, stood watch, her eyes darting between us and the door.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” the man with the shaved head warned, pacing in front of us. He held the gun loosely, but his grip tightened every time one of us moved. “We just want your stuff. Cooperate, and you’ll be fine.”
I didn’t believe him. His eyes were too cold, too empty. I glanced at James, who was whispering to the boys, trying to keep them calm. Tommy was crying silently, tears streaking his face. Alex stared at the floor, his jaw clenched. I wanted to tell them it would be okay, but the words stuck in my throat.
The man with the goatee returned, holding my wedding ring between his fingers. “Nice,” he said, grinning. He grabbed my hand, and I tried to pull away, but he was too strong. He twisted my finger until I gasped in pain, then yanked the ring off. “Don’t need this anymore, do you?” he taunted. Before I could respond, he kicked me in the side, hard enough to knock the breath out of me. “Stay quiet,” he hissed.
James’s face twisted with rage. “Leave her alone!” he shouted, struggling against his zip ties. His voice was raw, desperate.
The man with the shaved head turned, his gun now pressed against James’s forehead. “You want to be a hero?” he said, his voice low and menacing. “I’ll count to three. One…”
James froze, but his eyes burned with defiance. I wanted to scream at him to stop, to stay still, but fear choked me.
“Two…”
James shifted, and I saw his wrist move—he’d been working at the zip tie, loosening it. In a sudden burst, he freed one hand and lunged at the man, grabbing for the gun. They struggled, a blur of motion. The boys screamed, and I shouted James’s name.
Then, three gunshots shattered the air, each one louder than the last. James collapsed, blood pooling beneath him on the carpet. I screamed, a sound I didn’t recognize as my own. The blonde woman slapped me across the face. “Shut up!” she barked.
The man with the shaved head stood over James, breathing heavily. “He shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, almost to himself. The others didn’t react, just gathered their loot—our electronics, jewelry, and my wedding ring—and headed for the door.
“Stay down, or we come back,” the man with the goatee warned. Then they were gone, the front door slamming behind them.
I lay there, sobbing, staring at James’s lifeless body. The boys were crying, their voices muffled by shock. It felt like hours before Alex, with shaking hands, managed to free himself and untie us. I crawled to James, hoping for a miracle, but his eyes were empty. I held him, my hands slick with his blood, until the police arrived.
Our home, once filled with laughter, was now a crime scene. The safety we’d taken for granted was gone, replaced by a fear that lingers in every shadow. Those four were later caught and sentenced to decades in prison, but no punishment could undo what they took from us that day.
"A Killer’s Job Ad":
I was out of work, scrolling through Craigslist on my laptop, desperate for anything to keep me afloat. My savings were nearly gone, and the bills were piling up. That’s when I saw it: “Ranch hand needed, $300 a week, room and board included. Must be hardworking and reliable.” It sounded perfect, almost too good to be true. I hesitated, but my empty bank account pushed me to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” a deep voice answered.
“Hi, I’m calling about the ranch hand job,” I said, trying to sound confident.
“Great! You interested?” the man asked, his tone warm and welcoming.
“Yeah, can you tell me more?”
“It’s a small ranch. Need someone to help with animals, fix fences, basic stuff. Pay’s $300 a week, and you get a cabin to stay in. You got any experience?”
“Not much with ranches, but I’ve worked hard all my life. I’m a quick learner.”
“That’s fine. Can you come for an interview tomorrow, say 10 AM?”
“Sure,” I said, jotting down the address he gave me. It was about an hour’s drive into the countryside. “See you then.”
“Looking forward to it,” he said, and hung up. He called himself Jack.
The next morning, I drove through winding roads, passing fields and patches of woods. The farmhouse at the address was rundown—peeling paint, sagging porch, not at all like the tidy photo in the ad. A man stood on the porch, sipping coffee. He was tall, muscular, with a skull tattoo on his neck that made me pause.
“You must be the guy for the job,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Jack.”
I shook his hand, his grip firm. “Nice to meet you.”
“Come inside,” he said, leading me into a cluttered kitchen. Old newspapers were stacked on a rickety table, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. He poured me a coffee, and we sat down.
“So, tell me about yourself,” Jack said, leaning back. “What makes you want this job?”
“I’ve been out of work for a while,” I admitted. “Used to work at a factory, but it closed. I’m ready to try something new, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”
He nodded, his eyes studying me. “Good. The job’s simple—feed the animals, clean stables, fix things. Think you can handle it?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” I said, sipping the bitter coffee.
“Let’s take a look around,” he said, standing up.
We walked outside, and he showed me the property. A few scrawny horses stood in a corral, and a barn loomed nearby, its red paint faded. The fields were overgrown, dotted with rusted equipment. “Needs work, but it’s got potential,” Jack said, his voice casual.
I nodded, trying to seem enthusiastic, though something felt off. The place looked neglected, not like a working ranch. Still, $300 a week was hard to pass up.
He led me to a small cabin at the edge of the property. Inside, it was dusty, with a sagging bed and a tiny kitchenette. “This is where you’d stay,” Jack said. “Not fancy, but it’s free.”
“It’ll do,” I said, forcing a smile.
As we walked back to the farmhouse, I noticed a young man by the barn, maybe in his late teens, staring at us. His face was blank, his eyes cold. “That’s my nephew,” Jack said, noticing my glance. “He helps out.”
I waved, but the nephew didn’t respond, just kept staring. A chill ran through me, but I brushed it off. I needed this job.
Back at the farmhouse, Jack said, “So, you in?”
I hesitated, my gut nagging at me, but I thought of my bills. “Yeah, I’m in. When can I start?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, grinning. “Let’s go over the details.”
We sat at the table, and he pulled out some papers. As I skimmed them, I heard a faint click behind me. I turned, and the nephew was standing there, holding a handgun, pointed at my chest.
My heart stopped. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Jack’s grin vanished. “Sit down,” he said, his tone hard. “We need to talk.”
I sat slowly, my eyes darting between Jack and the gun. “What is this?”
“We need money,” Jack said, leaning forward. “You’re going to help us get it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, my mouth dry.
“Your family, they got money, right? We call them, tell them to send cash, or you’re done.”
My stomach twisted. “I don’t have family with money. My parents are gone, no siblings, no kids. It’s just me.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying,” I said, my voice rising. “I’ve got nothing.”
The nephew spoke, his voice flat. “He’s useless then.”
Jack looked at him, then back at me. “Guess you’re not much help, are you?”
I knew what that meant. My mind raced, searching for a way out. The door was behind the nephew, and the windows were boarded. I was trapped.
“I’ve got some savings,” I blurted out. “Maybe $2,000. I can get it for you.”
Jack laughed, a cold sound. “That’s nothing. We need real money.”
The nephew stepped closer, the gun steady. “Let’s take him out back.”
My blood ran cold. I had to act. “Wait, I need to use the bathroom,” I said, hoping to buy time.
Jack stared at me, then nodded. “Make it quick.”
The nephew gestured with the gun toward a door. I walked to the bathroom, my legs trembling, and locked the door behind me. I pulled out my phone, hands shaking, and dialed 911. Before it could connect, Jack banged on the door. “Hurry up!”
I hung up, flushed the toilet, and ran the sink to cover my tracks. When I stepped out, Jack grabbed my arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”
The nephew kept the gun on me as we left the farmhouse and headed toward the woods. The trees closed in around us, the air thick with the smell of pine. My armpits were soaked with sweat, my heart pounding so loud I thought they’d hear it.
We walked deeper, the nephew behind me, the gun at my back. I knew what was coming. They were going to kill me out here, where no one would find me.
As we reached a dense patch of trees, I made my move. I bolted, zigzagging through the underbrush. A gunshot cracked, and pain exploded in my arm. I stumbled but kept running, blood soaking my sleeve. Behind me, Jack shouted, “Get him!”
I crashed through branches, my lungs burning, my arm throbbing. The woods were a blur, but I kept moving, driven by pure fear. I heard them chasing, their footsteps heavy, but I didn’t look back.
After what felt like hours, I saw a light through the trees—a house. I staggered toward it, pounding on the door. “Help! Please, call the police!”
An elderly man opened the door, his eyes wide. “What happened to you?”
“I was shot,” I gasped, clutching my arm. “Please, call 911.”
He let me in, and his wife called the police while he wrapped a towel around my arm. The pain was unbearable, but I was alive. The police arrived, and I told them everything—the ad, Jack, the nephew, the gun.
They caught the men later, and I learned their real names: Richard Beasley and Brogan Rafferty. They had lured three other men with the same ad and killed them. I was the lucky one.
The bullet had missed the bone, and after weeks in the hospital, I recovered. But the fear stayed with me. At Beasley’s sentencing, I stood in court, my voice steady. “I’ll be there when you go, smiling,” I said, staring him down. He deserved every bit of his punishment.
I don’t use Craigslist anymore. The memory of that day—those woods, that gun—still wakes me up at night. But I’m here, alive, and that’s what matters.
"Not for Sale":
I woke up to my phone buzzing like crazy. I grabbed it, still half-asleep, and saw 12 missed calls and eight voicemails, all from numbers I didn’t know. My heart skipped a beat. Was something wrong with my family? I called my parents, but they were fine. Confused, I started listening to the voicemails.
The first was from a woman, her voice bright and eager. “Hi, I’m calling about the house for sale on Craigslist. The pictures look amazing! Can you tell me more about the price and when I can come see it?”
House for sale? My house? I lived alone in a small, cozy place I’d bought a few years ago. It wasn’t for sale. I played the next voicemail. “Hello, this is Mark from Downtown Realty. I’m interested in listing your property. It looks like a fantastic opportunity. Please call me back.”
My stomach twisted. What was happening? Another voicemail played. “Hey, is the house still available? The ad says $25,000, which seems too good to be true. Is there a catch?”
$25,000? That was a fraction of what my house was worth. My hands shook as I opened my laptop and went to Craigslist. I typed in my city and searched for houses for sale. There it was—an ad for my house. The photos showed my living room with the new couch I’d just bought, my kitchen with last night’s dishes in the sink, and my bedroom, bed unmade. Worst of all, there was a picture of the pumpkin I’d carved last Halloween, still on my porch, and my car in the driveway. Someone had been here, taking these pictures, and recently.
I felt sick, like someone had ripped away my sense of safety. Who would do this? Why? I called the police, my voice trembling. “Someone listed my house for sale on Craigslist without my permission,” I explained. “They have pictures of the inside. Someone’s been in my home.”
The officer was kind but not reassuring. “If the person isn’t on your property now, there’s not much we can do,” he said. “Contact Craigslist to get the ad removed. Maybe change your locks and consider security cameras.”
I spent hours on the phone with Craigslist support, navigating their automated system until the ad was finally taken down. But my phone kept ringing with people asking about the house. One man was pushy, demanding to know why I wasn’t responding to his offer. “I’m ready to pay cash,” he snapped. “What’s the hold-up?”
“It’s not for sale,” I said, my voice sharp. “It’s a mistake.”
He huffed and hung up. I changed my number, but the unease lingered. That night, I checked every lock twice and kept the lights on. Every creak in the house made me jump. I kept picturing someone sneaking around, snapping those photos while I was at work.
The next morning, I went to grab the newspaper and froze. In the dew on the lawn, there were footprints leading from the street to my back door. They were too big to be mine, probably a man’s. My heart raced as I followed them. They stopped at the back door, which was locked, but the knob felt loose, like someone had tried to force it.
I called the police again. “There are footprints outside my house,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Someone was here last night.”
The officer sighed. “Could be kids messing around. Keep us posted if anything else happens.”
Kids? I didn’t buy it. I bought a baseball bat and kept it by my bed. I started closing the curtains during the day, feeling like eyes were on me. I posted about the incident on social media, hoping someone might know something. A friend messaged me. “I saw a guy near your house a few days ago,” she wrote. “He was in his 30s, wearing a baseball cap. I thought he was just passing through.”
That didn’t help much, but it confirmed my fears—someone was watching me. Then, a few days later, I came home from work and found a note taped to my front door. In block letters, it read: “I know you’re alone. I’ve been watching you. Leave the back door unlocked tonight, or you’ll regret it.”
My knees buckled. This wasn’t a prank; it was a threat. I called the police, my voice shaking. “There’s a note on my door,” I said. “Someone’s threatening me.”
“We’ll send a car to patrol the area,” the officer said. “Stay safe and call if anything happens.”
I barricaded the doors with chairs and set my phone to record any noises. I sat in the dark, clutching the baseball bat, listening for any sound. Around midnight, I heard it—a faint scratching at the back door, like someone was testing the lock.
I peeked through the window and saw a figure in dark clothes, fumbling with the door. My heart pounded as I dialed 911, whispering, “Someone’s trying to break in.”
“Stay calm,” the operator said. “Police are on their way.”
I watched as the figure moved to a window, trying to pry it open. Then, sirens wailed in the distance. The figure froze, then ran, disappearing into the night.
The police arrived minutes later but found no one. They took my statement and promised more patrols, but I was done. I couldn’t stay in that house. I packed a bag and went to a friend’s place. From there, I hired a private investigator.
A week later, he called. “I think I found your guy,” he said. “It’s your old neighbor, the one who moved out last year. He’s got a history of obsessive behavior and was seen near your house.”
I remembered him—quiet, always keeping to himself. We’d never had issues, but apparently, he’d fixated on me after doing some repair work at my house. The police arrested him, and I learned he’d been planning to “move in” with me, believing we were meant to be together.
I moved to a new city, changed my name, and started over. I installed security cameras and never left my doors unlocked. But the fear lingers. Every strange noise, every unfamiliar face, reminds me how easily someone can invade your life.