"Finding Mom":
I was in my late twenties when I first heard about the unaired episode of "Unsolved Mysteries" that featured my mother's case. My name is Autumn, and back in 2001, I was just a college student living at home with my parents in Dallas. My mother, Sharon, was a kind teacher who always put us first. My father, Ron, was different—he liked control, and their marriage had turned sour. She filed for divorce two days before she went missing. That day, June 13, she dropped me off at the bus depot for my summer class. "Be safe, honey," she said with a quick hug. "I'll see you tonight." But she never came home.
For years, I pushed the pain down, focused on my job as a librarian, helping people find lost books and records. But last year, a podcast episode about unsolved cases mentioned the lost segment. The producers had interviewed my brother Ronnie and me back then, right after it happened. They filmed us in our living room, asking about Mom's last days. I remembered the camera crew setting up, the bright lights making everything feel exposed. "Tell us about your father's reaction," the interviewer asked me softly. I hesitated, glancing at Ronnie. "He seemed calm," I said. "Too calm." The segment was set to air in 2002, but my father sent a letter, and it got pulled. No one has seen it since.
Curiosity gnawed at me. What if that tape held something—a detail we missed, a clue that could prove what happened to Mom? I started simple, emailing the show's old production company. No reply. Then I searched online forums, where true crime fans discussed it as "lost media." One user posted, "It's out there somewhere, but good luck finding it without stirring up trouble." That comment stuck with me. I decided to dig deeper.
First, I called my brother Ronnie. He lived in Austin now, working as an engineer. "Autumn, why bring this up?" he asked over the phone, his voice tired. "It's been over twenty years." I told him about the podcast. "What if the segment shows something about Dad? Like, his story doesn't add up." Ronnie paused. "Remember when I confronted him that September? He pulled a gun on me. The grand jury didn't indict, but I know he's capable." We talked for an hour, recalling how Dad claimed Mom ran off with money, calling her unstable. None of it matched the woman we knew. "If you find that tape," Ronnie said, "be careful. Dad still asks about you."
Next, I reached out to Cheryl Wattley, the lawyer Dad hired right after Mom vanished. She had testified against him in a lawsuit he filed for his retainer back. I found her number through an old news article. "Ms. Wattley," I said when she picked up, "I'm Sharon Davis's daughter. I'm looking for information on the 'Unsolved Mysteries' segment." She was quiet at first. "I remember your family," she replied. "Your father wanted me to paint your mother as mentally ill or involved in drugs. I refused. That's why he sued me." I asked if she knew about the tape. "The producers contacted me for an interview, but after Ron's letter, it all stopped. He was worried about investigations into his finances—tax issues, maybe more." Her words made my skin crawl. "More like what?" I pressed. "Money laundering suspicions," she whispered. "He feared the show would expose it." We ended the call, but her tone lingered—like she knew something dangerous.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat at my computer, scouring archives for any clip or script from the segment. I joined a lost media group online, posting anonymously: "Seeking unaired UM episode on Sharon Davis disappearance." Responses came in. One user messaged privately: "I heard a producer leaked parts to a collector. Check this address in LA." It seemed sketchy, but I booked a flight. Before leaving, I visited the old house. Dad still lived there, alone. I hadn't spoken to him in years, but I needed to see his reaction.
I knocked on the door. He opened it, looking older, his eyes sharp. "Autumn," he said, not smiling. "What brings you here?" I stepped inside, the place unchanged—Mom's photos gone. "I'm researching Mom's case," I told him. "About that TV segment." His face hardened. "That was a mistake. They twisted everything." We sat in the kitchen. "Why did you stop it from airing?" I asked. He leaned forward. "Because it was lies. Your mother left us. She took cash and ran." I shook my head. "The van was wiped clean, Dad. No prints." He stood up abruptly. "You sound like your brother. Accusing me." His voice rose. "If you keep digging, you'll regret it." I left quickly, his words echoing.
In LA, I met the contact—a man named Paul, a retired archivist who collected old TV tapes. We met in a dim storage unit filled with boxes. "I have a partial script," he said, handing me papers. "No video, but notes from the shoot." I read it eagerly. It described interviews with neighbors who heard arguments, Dad's alibi of an early breakfast meeting that no one confirmed. One line chilled me: "Ron Davis expressed concern over financial scrutiny." Paul watched me. "This stuff can be dangerous," he warned. "People hide media for a reason." As I left, I felt eyes on me.
Back home, strange things started. My phone rang at odd hours, no one speaking. Once, a voice whispered, "Stop looking." I told Ronnie. "It's Dad," he said. "He's trying to scare you." I pushed on, contacting a former "Unsolved Mysteries" producer via LinkedIn. "The segment is archived," she emailed. "But sealed due to legal threats. I can send a transcript if you sign a waiver." It arrived days later. Reading it alone in my apartment, I saw details I never knew—witnesses saying Dad moved the van the night before Mom vanished. My hands shook.
Then, the knocking started. Late one evening, someone pounded on my door. I peeked through the peephole—no one. I opened it slightly, finding a note: "The tape stays lost. Or you join your mother." Panic rose. I called the police, but without proof, they couldn't help. I drove to Dad's house that night, furious. He answered, calm. "What now?" he asked. "Did you send that note?" I demanded. He smirked. "You're imagining things, like your mother." I stepped closer. "The transcript mentions your finances. What did you do?" His eyes darkened. "Get out," he growled. As I turned, he grabbed my arm. "If that segment ever surfaces, it'll destroy everything. Including you."
I pulled away and ran to my car. Driving home, headlights followed me too closely. I sped up, turning corners, but they stayed. Finally, I lost them at a light. Shaken, I hid the transcript. Days later, Ronnie came to stay. "We need to go public," he said. We contacted a journalist, sharing what we had. But the fear never left. Every shadow, every call made me jump. What if Dad had help? What if the full tape showed the truth—a plan, a cover-up?
Months passed. The case got attention again, but the segment remains lost. I still search, but now I lock my doors tight. Sometimes, I hear footsteps outside. And I wonder if finding that media would free me—or end me.
"The Card on Fairbanks":
I work as a clerk at a small store in Anchorage, and my shifts often end late. One night, after locking up, I decided to walk the few blocks to my apartment instead of waiting for the bus. The street was quiet, with only a few cars passing by. As I crossed near Fairbanks Street, something caught my eye on the ground—a tiny black rectangle, half-hidden under a leaf. I bent down and picked it up. It was an SD card, the kind used in cameras. I figured someone had dropped it from a phone or something, maybe vacation photos. I slipped it into my pocket and kept walking.
When I got home, I made a cup of tea and sat at my kitchen table. My laptop was open, so I popped the card into the slot out of curiosity. The folder popped up with a label: "Homicide at midtown Marriott." My first thought was that it was a joke, like a movie file or a prank. I clicked it open anyway. Inside were dozens of files—photos and videos, numbered in order.
I started with the first photo. It showed a hotel room, messy with clothes on the floor and a bed in the background. Nothing odd yet. The next few were similar, but then one showed a woman lying on the carpet. She looked hurt, with bruises on her arms. I leaned closer, feeling uneasy. Who would take pictures like this? I opened a video file next. It was shaky at first, then steadied on the same woman. She was Alaska Native, like many folks around here, with long dark hair. She seemed asleep or unconscious on the bed.
A man's voice came through the speakers, deep with a strange accent—not American, maybe from somewhere else. "Wake up," he said. The woman stirred, mumbling something I couldn't make out. He laughed, a low chuckle that made my skin prickle. "You're not going anywhere," he told her. The camera moved closer, showing him poking her with his foot. She groaned and tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down. "Stay still," he ordered.
I paused the video, my hands trembling a little. This didn't feel like acting. The woman's eyes looked real—scared, confused. I called my friend Lisa, who lives a few doors down. She's a nurse and always level-headed. "Hey, Lisa, you busy? I found this SD card on the street, and there's weird stuff on it."
"What's weird about it?" she asked, her voice casual over the phone.
"Like, videos of a guy harassing a woman in a hotel. It says 'homicide' on the folder. Might be fake, but it's creeping me out."
She laughed at first. "Probably some dumb horror short. People make those all the time. Play it and tell me."
I hit play again while she listened on speaker. The man in the video kept talking, describing what he planned to do. "I'm going to make this fun," he said. The woman begged him to stop, her voice weak. "Please, let me go. I won't tell anyone." He ignored her, stepping harder on her leg. She cried out.
Lisa went quiet. "That sounds too real. Turn it off. Maybe it's from a movie set or something."
"But look at the details," I said, switching to another photo. It showed close-ups of her face, twisted in pain. "No way this is staged. The bruises look fresh."
"Scroll through more," Lisa suggested. "See if there's a credits or anything."
I opened the next video. This one was longer. The man had her on the floor now. He stood over her, his foot on her neck. "Breathe," he mocked, pressing down. She gasped, her hands clawing at his shoe. "Stop... please..." she whispered. He lifted his foot, then stomped hard. The sound was awful—a crunch that echoed. She went still for a moment, then coughed, struggling.
My breath caught. I felt sick. "Lisa, this is bad. He's hurting her for real."
"Don't watch anymore," she said, her tone serious now. "Take it to the police. Right now."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see. But I couldn't stop yet. I needed to know how it ended. The next files were worse. Photos of her body, limp and marked up. One video showed him wrapping her in a sheet, dragging her across the room. "Time to clean up," he muttered to himself. His voice was calm, like he was talking about laundry. At the end, he looked right at the camera and smiled. "Everyone dies eventually."
I yanked the card out of my laptop. My apartment felt too small, the walls closing in. I grabbed my coat and headed out, calling the police non-emergency line on the way. "I found an SD card with videos of a possible murder," I told the dispatcher. She asked for details, and I described the accent, the hotel, the woman's pleas.
"Stay where you are," she said. "An officer will meet you."
I waited at a nearby coffee shop, the card burning a hole in my pocket. Officer Ramirez arrived, a tall man with a stern face. "You the one who called?" he asked.
"Yes. Here it is." I handed it over. "The folder says 'homicide.' There's a man with a foreign accent killing a woman."
He took it carefully, gloving up. "We'll look into it. Can you describe what you saw?"
I recounted the videos, the stomping, the woman's last words. "She begged him. He just laughed."
Ramirez nodded. "Sounds serious. We'll need your statement at the station."
At the station, they had me sit in a room while techs reviewed the card. A detective named Harlan joined us. "The videos match a missing person case," he said. "The woman is Kathleen Jo Henry. Reported missing a few weeks ago."
My mouth went dry. "So it's real?"
"Very real," Harlan replied. "The man in the footage—we think we know him. Brian Steven Smith. South African guy, works as a trucker here. His accent gave him away. We've got eyes on him now."
I shivered. "What if he knows someone found the card? What if he comes looking?"
Harlan shook his head. "Unlikely. But we'll keep you safe. Just stay alert."
That night, back home, I couldn't sleep. Every creak in the building made me jump. I kept hearing that man's voice in my head, his casual cruelty. "Everyone dies." What kind of person records that? And labels it like a trophy?
The next day, Lisa came over. "You okay?" she asked, hugging me.
"Not really. They arrested him. Smith. He confessed to another killing too—Veronica Abouchuk. Shot her in the head."
Lisa's eyes widened. "How did he get away with it for so long?"
"He preyed on vulnerable people," I said, repeating what the detective told me. "Alaska Natives, homeless folks. No one noticed at first."
We sat in silence for a bit. Then Lisa said, "What if there are more cards out there? More videos?"
The thought hit me hard. Smith had taken photos of another woman, possibly a third victim. The police released sketches later, hoping to identify her. But what if he had hidden more evidence? What if someone else found one and didn't report it?
Weeks passed, and the trial started. I had to testify about finding the card. In court, they played snippets of the audio—no video, thank goodness. Hearing Kathleen's voice again, her desperate pleas, made my eyes fill up. "Please, don't," she said in one clip. Smith sat there, expressionless, like it meant nothing.
The judge sentenced him to 226 years. No parole. Justice, they called it. But I still dream about those files. The way he documented every step, turning horror into media. It's like he wanted it found, wanted someone to see his work.
Now, I check the ground less, avoid dark streets. But sometimes, I wonder if there are other lost pieces out there—cards, tapes, waiting to be picked up. And what stories they hold. The real ones are always the scariest.
"Final Broadcast":
I got my first break in broadcasting right out of college, landing a spot as a production assistant at a small TV station in Florida. It was 1973, and the place was called WXLT-TV, channel 40 out of Sarasota. The newsroom was tiny, just a handful of us scrambling to put together local stories for the morning show. Christine was already there when I started—she handled the community affairs segment, always pushing for deeper reports on local issues. She had this intense focus, like she carried the weight of every story personally. I remember her dark hair, sharp features, and how she rarely smiled unless she was on camera.
At first, things seemed normal. I helped with scripts, ran errands, and sometimes sat in on meetings. Christine and I crossed paths often because my desk was near hers. She would ask me to fetch research materials or double-check facts. "Make sure this is accurate, Tom," she'd say, her voice steady but urgent. Tom—that's me. I nodded and did what she asked, eager to learn. But over the months, I noticed little changes in her. She started arriving later, looking more tired. Once, I overheard her arguing with the news director about the station's policy on sensational stories. "We need more blood and guts to get ratings," the director said, half-joking. Christine's face tightened. "That's not journalism," she replied sharply. "That's exploitation."
By early 1974, the tension grew. Christine pitched a series on suicide prevention, which got approved, but she seemed obsessed with it. She spent hours in the archives, pulling old clips of accidents and crimes. I helped her one afternoon, sorting through reels of film. "Why this topic?" I asked, trying to make conversation. She paused, staring at a blank tape label. "Because people need to understand the pain," she said quietly. "It's real, Tom. More real than anything we broadcast." Her words stuck with me, but I brushed it off as dedication.
As summer approached, Christine's behavior shifted again. She requested to anchor the news one day, which was unusual—she wasn't the regular host. The director agreed, thinking it might boost morale. On July 15, I was in the control room, monitoring the feed. The show was "Suncoast Digest," starting at 9:30 a.m. Christine sat at the desk, papers in hand, looking composed. The camera rolled, and she began with the usual headlines: a local shooting, a plane crash, some policy updates. Her voice was clear, professional.
Then, something felt off. She fumbled a transition, and the teleprompter glitched briefly. I leaned forward in my chair, watching the monitor. Christine glanced at the camera, her expression blank. "In keeping with Channel 40's policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts, and in living color," she said, her tone flat, "you are going to see another first—attempted suicide." My mind raced. What did she mean? Before I could react, she reached under the desk, pulled out a revolver, and pressed it behind her right ear. The bang echoed through the speakers. She slumped forward, blood spreading across the papers.
The control room erupted. The director yelled, "Cut to black! Cut now!" I froze, staring at the screen as the image faded. Someone grabbed the phone to call emergency services. I stumbled out, my hands shaking. In the studio, chaos reigned—people rushing to her side, but it was too late. Christine was gone. Police arrived quickly, securing the area. I gave a statement, numb, repeating what I saw. That night, I couldn't sleep, replaying her words in my head.
The tape became the center of everything after that. The station had recorded the broadcast, as always. The director locked it in his office safe, saying it was evidence. Police reviewed it, then returned it with strict orders: no copies, no airings. But rumors spread fast. Reporters from bigger networks called, asking if we'd seen "the tape." I hadn't, not the full thing—only the live moment. One evening, a week later, the director pulled me aside. "Tom, help me with something," he whispered. We went to his office after hours. He opened the safe and took out the reel. "We need to dub a copy for the lawyers," he explained, but his eyes darted nervously.
We set up the equipment in a back room. As the tape played, I watched in silence. It started normal: Christine's intro, the stories. Then her statement, the gun, the shot. But seeing it again, slowed down, revealed details I missed live. Her hand trembled slightly as she spoke. The blood pooled in a pattern that looked almost deliberate. After the slump, the camera held for seconds before cutting—enough to hear faint gasps from the crew off-screen. The director paused it. "This can't get out," he said. "It would destroy us." I nodded, but a chill settled in me. What if someone wanted it out?
Days turned to weeks, and the tape vanished from conversation. The station owner, Bob, took possession, saying he'd handle it. But strange things started happening. Anonymous calls came in at night, asking for "Christine's final broadcast." I answered one: a low voice said, "I know you have it. Send it to me." I hung up, heart racing. Then, letters arrived—envelopes with no return address, demanding the footage. One included a photo of the studio desk, stained red, taken from an angle only insiders would know.
I confided in a coworker, Jean, the evening anchor. "This is getting weird," I told her over coffee in the break room. "Who would want that tape?" Jean frowned. "People are sick, Tom. True crime fans, maybe. Or worse—someone who knew her." She mentioned Christine had struggled with depression, had seen doctors, but kept it private. "She planned this," Jean added. "That gun—she bought it days before."
One night, I stayed late to finish edits. The building was empty, lights dim. I heard footsteps in the hall, slow and deliberate. I peeked out—nothing. Back at my desk, I found a note: "The tape reveals more. Watch closely." My pulse quickened. Who left it? I checked the safe—it was locked, but I wondered if copies existed. The director had mentioned dubbing; maybe he made extras.
Curiosity gnawed at me. I asked Bob about the tape during a staff meeting. "It's secure," he snapped. "Drop it." But his wife, Mollie, overheard later. She pulled me aside in the parking lot. "Bob keeps it at home now," she whispered. "He watches it sometimes. Says it's to remember what happened." Her eyes widened. "But last night, he muttered something about hearing whispers in the audio."
I decided to see for myself. Late one evening, I convinced the director to let me review old footage for a memorial segment— a lie, but he bought it. We played the tape again. This time, I listened carefully. After the shot, amid the chaos, a faint sound emerged—like a sigh, or a word. I rewound. "Help," it seemed to say, but distorted. Was it Christine's last breath? Or imagination? The director paled. "Turn it off," he ordered.
The harassment escalated. My car was broken into, nothing taken but papers rifled through. Jean got a call: "Give us the tape, or we'll make our own." We reported it to police, but they dismissed it as pranks. Then, Bob announced the tape would go to the family—Christine's brother, I think. "It's over," he said. But it wasn't. Years later, after I left the station, I heard whispers in industry circles: bootlegs circulating underground, shown at private viewings. One contact claimed he saw a copy—grainy, but with extra frames showing Christine's eyes flickering post-shot.
I tried to move on, took a job in another city. But last year, an email arrived from an unknown sender: a link to a dark web site. "Christine's legacy," the subject read. I clicked, foolishly. A video loaded—her broadcast, but edited with close-ups, slowed motion on the gun. Comments below: "Real death, better than fiction." "I have the original—DM for trade." I closed it, deleted the email, but sleep evaded me. What if the tape wasn't just a recording? What if it captured something irreversible, a moment that draws the wrong people?
Now, I avoid old colleagues. Jean called recently: "Tom, Bob passed away. Mollie has the tape now. She says she'll never release it." But I wonder—how long until it leaks? Every time I see a news anchor falter on TV, I flinch. Christine's act wasn't just suicide; it was a statement that lingers, pulling in those who seek the dark. And the tape? It's out there, hidden, waiting to surface and remind us how thin the line is between reporting the horror and becoming it.