"The Vent":
I was 13 years old, living at Cedarwood Off-Grid School, tucked deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Our school was different—no electricity from the city, just solar panels and a noisy generator for emergencies. We grew our own food in greenhouses, and the nearest town was a bumpy two-hour drive away. It was quiet there, usually, like the world forgot us. But on July 15, 1976, everything changed.
It was a hot summer day, and we were buzzing with excitement. Mr. Ray, our teacher and bus driver, was taking us on a field trip to Crystal Lake, about 20 miles from school. Twenty-six of us kids, ages 5 to 14, piled into the old yellow bus, laughing and chattering. I sat near the front, joking with my friend about diving into the lake.
We were winding along the narrow mountain road when a van roared out of nowhere and blocked our path. Mr. Ray slammed the brakes, and we lurched forward, books and bags sliding to the floor. “Stay calm,” he said, his voice trembling as he raised his hands.
Three men jumped out of the van, their faces hidden behind nylon stockings, guns glinting in their hands. My stomach dropped. One of them climbed onto the bus, pointing his gun at Mr. Ray. “Drive to the clearing up ahead,” he growled, his voice muffled but sharp.
Mr. Ray didn’t argue. He drove slowly to a clearing where another van waited, hidden in the trees. The men shouted for us to get off the bus. “Move! Now!” one barked, waving his gun. We stumbled out, hearts pounding. They split us into two groups, pushing me, my little sister Jenny, Mr. Ray, and some younger kids into one van. The others went into the second van. The vans were dark, the windows painted black, and the air inside smelled like rust and fear.
“Stay quiet,” a man snapped as he slammed the door. We drove for what felt like forever, the only sounds the engine’s hum and Jenny’s soft whimpers. I held her hand, whispering, “It’s okay, Jenny. Just hold on.” But I was scared too.
When the vans stopped, it was nearly dark. They yanked us out into a quarry, surrounded by piles of dirt and rocks. A big hole gaped in the ground, covered by a metal sheet. My heart raced as they forced us down a ladder into the hole. At the bottom was a buried trailer, like a coffin in the earth. They shoved us inside, tossed in a few old mattresses and buckets, then climbed out. We heard the metal sheet scrape into place, followed by the heavy thud of dirt being shoveled on top.
It was pitch black. The air was thick, like breathing through a cloth. Jenny started crying. “I want Mommy,” she sobbed, clinging to me.
“I know,” I said, my voice shaking. “We’re going to be okay. We have to be brave.”
Mr. Ray tried to keep everyone calm. “Listen, kids,” he said, his voice steady but strained. “Someone will find us. We just need to stay together.”
But hours passed, and no one came. The air grew heavier, and the darkness felt like it was pressing against my skin. I could hear the dirt shifting above us, each thud making my chest tighten. Some kids were crying, others were silent, too scared to speak.
“I can’t breathe,” a younger boy whispered. “What if we’re stuck here forever?”
“Don’t say that,” Mr. Ray said firmly. “We’re going to get out. We just need to stay calm.”
But I couldn’t stay calm. The thought of being buried alive made my heart pound so hard I thought it would burst. “Mr. Ray,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “what if no one finds us?”
He looked at me, his face pale in the faint light from a tiny vent near the ceiling. “We can’t think like that,” he said. “But maybe we can find a way out ourselves.”
That’s when I noticed the vent. It was small, high up, but it was our only hope. “Look,” I said, pointing. “If we can reach that vent, maybe we can dig out.”
Mr. Ray nodded. “Good idea. Let’s try it.”
We dragged the mattresses into a pile, but even standing on them, I couldn’t reach the vent. “We need something else,” I said, my hands shaking.
Tom, a 14-year-old boy, spoke up. “There’s a bucket here. Maybe we can use it.”
We stacked the bucket on the mattresses, and I climbed up, wobbling as I reached for the vent cover. It was screwed tight, but I twisted until my fingers hurt, finally prying it off. A rush of fresh air hit my face, and I gasped, feeling a spark of hope.
“We need to dig,” I said. “But it’s going to be hard with just our hands.”
“We’ll take turns,” Mr. Ray said. “Keep going, and don’t give up.”
We started digging, scooping dirt with our hands. It was slow, and the dirt kept falling back in, dusting our faces and stinging our eyes. My hands were raw, nails torn, but we kept at it, passing the bucket to catch the loose dirt. Jenny helped too, her small hands trembling but determined.
Hours dragged on. The air in the trailer grew so thick it felt like we were drowning. My arms ached, and my throat was dry, but we couldn’t stop. Finally, I felt the dirt give way, and a faint glimmer of stars appeared through the hole.
“We did it!” I shouted, my voice hoarse. “We’re almost out!”
We dug faster, widening the hole until it was big enough to climb through. One by one, we scrambled out, the cool night air hitting our faces like a miracle. Jenny clung to me, sobbing with relief. But we weren’t safe yet. We were in the middle of nowhere, and the men could still be out there.
We stumbled through the dark, following a faint path. Some of the younger kids could barely walk, but we held each other up. After what felt like hours, we saw headlights. We waved our arms, shouting, and a truck screeched to a stop. The driver stared at us, shocked to see a group of dirty, terrified kids and their teacher.
“What happened to you?” he asked, his eyes wide.
“Please,” Mr. Ray said, his voice breaking. “We need help. Take us to the police.”
He drove us to the nearest town, where we called the police. They came quickly, wrapping us in blankets and asking questions we could barely answer. The kidnappers were caught later, but that didn’t erase the fear. We went back to Cedarwood, but the school didn’t feel like home anymore. The mountains, once peaceful, now felt like they were hiding something dark.
Years later, I still wake up some nights, feeling the weight of the earth above me, hearing the thud of dirt on that metal sheet. We survived, but the memory of being buried alive never leaves.
"Charm and Chains":
I arrived at Sarah Lawrence College in the fall of 2010, my heart buzzing with excitement for my new life. The campus was a picture of charm, with tree-lined paths winding through historic buildings. I was assigned to Slonim Woods 9, a dorm housing eight students, including Talia Ray. Her father, Larry Ray, had recently been released from prison and was staying with her. At first, he seemed like an overzealous parent, joining us for meals and spinning tales of his past as a CIA operative and war hero. His stories were wild—recovering missiles, working with high-profile figures—but his charisma drew us in, even if some of us raised an eyebrow.
As the weeks passed, Larry became a fixture in our dorm. He started holding "counseling sessions," pulling us aside one by one to talk about our lives. His voice was warm, his questions probing, and he made me feel like he truly understood my fears and dreams. For a freshman far from home, it was comforting. But that comfort didn’t last.
One evening, Larry gathered us in the common room. His tone was different—calm but heavy with intent. "I’ve developed a philosophy called Q4P—Quality for Price," he said, his eyes scanning each of us. "It’s about getting the most out of life, but it starts with honesty. Some of you have been dishonest, sabotaging me and each other." The room went silent. Sabotaging? I exchanged glances with my housemates, confusion knotting my stomach. He demanded we confess our "wrongs," and the air grew thick with unease.
The first time he targeted me, I felt the walls close in. It was late, and he called me into Talia’s room, where he’d set up a desk like some kind of interrogator. He shut the door, his bulk filling the space. "You’ve been lying to me," he said, leaning so close I could feel his breath. "I know everything." My heart pounded. I hadn’t lied, but his certainty made me question myself. "I—I don’t know what you mean," I stammered. His eyes narrowed. "Confess, or you’ll regret it." Terrified, I mumbled apologies for things I hadn’t done—petty slights, imagined betrayals—just to make him stop. He smiled, but it wasn’t kind.
That was only the beginning. By spring, Larry convinced us to leave the dorm and move into a one-bedroom condo on East 93rd Street in Manhattan, owned by his friend Lee Chen. He called it our "family home," but it was a cage. The apartment was tiny, with some of us sleeping on the floor or air mattresses. Privacy was gone. Larry installed cameras, claiming it was for our safety, but I felt his gaze even when he wasn’t there. We couldn’t leave without permission, and our phones were confiscated. Our world shrank to those four walls.
Larry’s control tightened like a noose. He held "meetings" at all hours, waking us at 3 a.m. to scream about our failures. If we didn’t stand perfectly still or answer his questions right, he’d make us stand for hours as punishment. One night, Santos came home late from an errand. Larry’s face turned red with rage. He grabbed Santos by the throat and slammed him against the wall. "Where were you?" he roared. Santos gasped, "I was getting groceries, like you asked!" Larry didn’t believe him. "You’re lying! You’re plotting with your parents!" He forced Santos to stand in the corner for hours, trembling. We watched, frozen, knowing any protest could turn his wrath on us.
The financial demands came next. Larry claimed we owed him for his "guidance" and the roof over our heads. He told Santos he owed nearly $50,000, and Santos’s parents, desperate to help, paid over $200,000. I didn’t have that kind of money, but Larry still found ways to squeeze me, demanding I hand over what little savings I had. Refusing wasn’t an option.
The worst was the abuse no one dared speak of. Larry coerced some of us into things that made my skin crawl, claiming it was for our "growth." He forced Claudia to work as an escort, pocketing every dollar she earned. One night, in the kitchen, she whispered to me, her voice breaking, "I can’t do this anymore. He says it’s for the family, but I hate it." Her eyes were red, her spirit crushed. I wanted to help, but fear silenced me. Later, I overheard Larry with her, his voice smooth but menacing. "You’re doing this for us," he said. "Without this money, we’re nothing." The threat beneath his words chilled me.
I tried to leave, but Larry always pulled me back. He’d convinced me I was nothing without him—a failure, a criminal. Once, I attempted suicide, swallowing pills in desperation, but I was hospitalized and returned to him. My mother came to visit once, worried after months of silence. Larry met her at the door, all charm. "Your son’s thriving," he said, smiling. But when she asked to see me alone, he blocked her. "We’re in a family meeting," he said. "Come back another time." I stood behind him, wanting to scream, but his threats against my family kept me silent. She left, and I felt my last lifeline slip away.
The condo was a pressure cooker. Every creak of the floor, every shadow on the wall, felt like Larry watching. The cameras recorded everything, and his unpredictable rages kept us on edge. One night, he gathered us in the living room, his voice low and dangerous. "Someone’s been stealing from me—my time, my energy, my love," he said. My heart raced. "Each of you will confess, or there’ll be consequences." One by one, he called us into the bedroom. When my turn came, I sat on the bed, trembling. "Tell me the truth," he said, his face inches from mine. "Have you been talking behind my back?" I shook my head, but he grabbed my arm, twisting it. "Don’t lie!" Tears streamed down my face as I invented sins to appease him.
A flicker of doubt saved me. While cleaning, I found a letter from someone named Chris Donnelly, confirming Larry had made some calls to Kosovo—nothing like the grand tales he’d spun. It was a small crack in his facade, but it gave me hope. In 2013, something snapped inside me. I was sitting on the floor, staring at the wall, when I realized I had to leave or I’d never escape. I grabbed a few belongings and headed for the door. Larry’s voice stopped me cold. "Where do you think you’re going?" I turned, my heart in my throat. "Just… a walk," I lied. He stepped closer, his eyes boring into mine. "You know you can’t leave without permission." But I found a strength I didn’t know I had. "I’m done, Larry," I said, my voice steady. He laughed, cold and hollow. "You’re nothing without me." I opened the door and walked out, expecting him to grab me. He didn’t.
I kept walking, found a payphone, and called my parents. Their voices, filled with relief, were a lifeline. They wired me money, and I took a bus home. The nightmares linger—flashes of Larry’s face, the sound of his voice. Trust is hard, relationships harder. But I’m free. Some of my friends weren’t so lucky, still trapped in his web, or so I’ve heard. I share this story hoping it warns others of the signs—charm that turns to control, promises that become chains. No one should endure what we did.
"The Program":
I remember the day I arrived at Carlbrook like it was yesterday. The car ride had been silent, my parents barely speaking, their faces set in grim determination. They had told me this place was for my own good, that I needed discipline, that I needed to learn how to be better. But as we pulled up to the gates, I felt a cold dread settle in my chest. The school was hidden deep in the Virginia countryside, surrounded by thick forests that seemed to swallow the light. The main building was an old mansion, its paint peeling and windows dark, like something out of a nightmare.
My parents didn’t stay long. They hugged me quickly, their embraces stiff and hurried, as if they couldn’t wait to leave. “Be good,” my father said, his voice low. “Listen to what they say.” Then they were gone, driving away without looking back. I stood there, clutching my suitcase, feeling more alone than I ever had before.
A tall woman in a navy uniform stepped out of the front door. Her face was sharp, her eyes cold and unfeeling. “You must be the new student,” she said, her voice clipped. “I’m Ms. Hargrove, head of student affairs. Follow me.”
I followed her inside, where the air was thick with the smell of old wood and dust. The hallways were narrow and dimly lit, with high ceilings that made everything feel oppressive. She led me to a small room with a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. “This is your room,” she said. “Unpack your things and meet me in the common room in ten minutes.”
I nodded, too scared to speak. As soon as she left, I sat on the bed, trying to hold back tears. What had I done to deserve this? I was only 15, and already I felt like my life was over.
But I didn’t have time to dwell. I quickly unpacked, putting my clothes in the wardrobe and my books on the desk. Then I made my way to the common room, where a group of other students was already gathered. They all looked as miserable as I felt, their faces pale and drawn. No one spoke; we just stood there, waiting.
Ms. Hargrove entered, followed by two other staff members, a man and a woman, both in the same uniform. “Welcome to Carlbrook,” she began. “You are here because your parents believe this is the best place for you to learn and grow. We take that responsibility very seriously.”
She paused, her eyes scanning the room. “However, you must understand that this is not a regular school. Here, we have strict rules and expectations. Obedience is key. Disobedience will not be tolerated.”
A knot formed in my stomach. I had heard stories about places like this, but I never thought I’d end up in one.
“First things first,” she continued. “You will all be searched to ensure you are not bringing in any contraband. Please follow me.”
We were led to another room, where we were told to strip down to our underwear. My face burned with shame as I removed my clothes in front of the staff. They inspected everything—my clothes, my shoes, even my backpack. When it was over, we were given our uniforms: gray skirts and white blouses for the girls, gray pants and white shirts for the boys. We were told to change immediately.
From that moment on, our lives were regimented. We woke up at 6 a.m. every day to the sound of a bell. We had to make our beds perfectly, with hospital corners, and if they weren’t up to standard, we had to do them again. Breakfast was at 7 a.m., a meager meal of oatmeal and toast. Then came classes, but they weren’t like regular classes. We learned about responsibility and accountability, but it was all laced with manipulation.
In one class, we were told to write down our deepest fears and share them with the group. If we didn’t, we were punished. I wrote that I was afraid of being alone, and when I shared it, the teacher told me I needed to learn to stand on my own, that relying on others was a weakness.
Another time, we had to stand up and admit our faults in front of everyone. If we didn’t confess enough, we were accused of lying and punished. The punishments varied—sometimes it was physical labor, like scrubbing floors; other times, it was isolation, being locked in a small, dark room for hours.
But the worst were the group therapy sessions. We were forced to sit in a circle and “share” our feelings, but it was really just an excuse for the staff to break us down. I remember one session where a girl named Jessica broke down crying. She said she missed her family and wanted to go home. The therapist told her she was being selfish, that her family didn’t want her back until she was “fixed.” Jessica sobbed harder, and the therapist made her stand up and apologize to the group for being weak. I felt sick, but I didn’t dare say anything.
As the days turned into weeks, I started to lose weight. The food was scarce, and we were often left hungry. I began to feel weak and dizzy, but when I complained, I was told I was just seeking attention. Sleep was another battle. We were allowed only six hours a night, and even then, we were often woken up for random checks. I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, too tired to sleep but too scared to close my eyes.
One night, I heard a commotion in the hallway. I peeked out of my room and saw two staff members dragging a boy down the hall. He was screaming, begging them to let him go, but they just kept pulling him along. I later found out he had tried to run away, and they were taking him to the isolation room. I shuddered and closed my door, trying to block out the sound of his cries.
The school had other ways of keeping us in line. There was something called “smooshing,” where we were forced to cuddle with each other for extended periods. It was supposed to teach us about intimacy and trust, but it just made me feel violated and uncomfortable. Then there was the lifeboat exercise. We were divided into groups and told there was only one spot left on a lifeboat after a shipwreck. We had to decide who would get the spot and why. It always ended in arguments and sometimes even fights. I hated it, but we had no choice but to participate.
I tried to call my parents, but the calls were strictly monitored. I had to write down what I was going to say beforehand, and if I deviated, the call was cut off. Once, I managed to whisper that I was scared and wanted to come home, but the staff heard me and took away my phone privileges for a month.
I felt completely cut off from the world. I didn’t know what was happening back home, and I had no way to reach out for help. As time went on, I started to change. I became quieter, more withdrawn. I stopped caring about my appearance, my grades, everything. I just wanted to survive each day.
But even survival had its limits. One day, during a group therapy session, I snapped. The therapist was berating me for not being grateful enough, for not appreciating what the school was doing for me. Something inside me broke, and I stood up and screamed, “This is abuse! You’re all monsters!”
The room went silent. The therapist’s face turned red with anger. “Take her away,” she said to the staff.
I was dragged out of the room and thrown into the isolation cell. It was a small, dark room with no windows, just a mattress on the floor. I was left there for three days, with only water and bread to eat.
When they finally let me out, I was a mess. My clothes were dirty, my hair matted, and I could barely stand. But they didn’t care. They just told me I had learned my lesson and to get back to class.
After that, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I did whatever they told me to do, no matter how degrading or humiliating. I just wanted to make it through until I could leave.
Finally, after two long years, my parents came to take me home. I had changed so much that they barely recognized me. I was thin, pale, and hollow-eyed. But they didn’t ask questions; they just took me home.
It took years for me to recover from what happened at Carlbrook. I developed an eating disorder, and I turned to drugs to numb the pain. It wasn’t until I started therapy that I began to piece my life back together.
Now, I’m writing this story to warn others. Places like Carlbrook still exist, preying on vulnerable children and their desperate parents. If you or someone you know is considering such a school, please do your research. Talk to former students, read reviews, and most importantly, listen to your gut.
Because for some of us, it was a living nightmare.