It is officially December! The countdown to the holidays is on motherfuckers! I am feeling the crunch just a little bit, I can’t lie. Last weekend we busted our butts in freezing rain to get lights on the house and a tree up. But now all I have left to do is shopping.
And around here at HTFT, I carved out some time to make a new holiday-themed banner for my blog. I didn’t work on it for very long, but it is another task checked off the to-do list, and I actually kind of love it.
So, since my “raining in the basement” fiasco, I have been behind in both reading and writing, not just my holiday responsibilities. I’m also less $1k out of my holiday budget so things are tighter than I’d like them to be.
But, I’m not going to let the money or the rush or my reading backlog damper my holiday spirit.
And I hope others can find that same merry & bright attitude, even if you’re feeling like you don’t have it in you this year.
Yesterday, my sister was a “depression ball” because of a recent breakup and lack of funds for the holidays, and my mother was “bumming hard” because she had to spend her Christmas money to replace an unexpectedly broken oven and can’t get the gifts for people she wants to.
And I totally get it! Those things suck. Helloooo, part of my walls are missing in my house! But at the same time, the holidays aren’t about money spent and gifts given. This time is about family. And no one wants to be on their deathbed, wishing they had been more engaged in making memories instead of being upset about relationships they no longer think about, or ovens that are now in, hopefully, some futuristic advanced recycling system.
So, I told them both they have 22 days to buck-the-fuck-up or there will be Krampus hell to pay.
Back when it was originally airing, I watched Dexter religiously. If you didn’t love that show I question your taste on literally everything.
Now, a depressing number of years later, I’m re-watching the series, introducing it to my husband who had never heard of it. He was so very sheltered before me, you guys. I can’t even explain it without things getting weird. Keywords: Christian & cult.
Anyhooters…on one of the last episodes we watched Doakes is trying to make a break from the cabin where Dexter has him held captive – (it’s been literally five years since the series finale, you don’t get spoiler warnings anymore!) – and when he breaks free, he’s lost in the Florida Everglades where he stumbles upon a hungry alligator.
It got me thinking, what better way to get rid of a body in that area than feeding it to an alligator? That’s got to have been done before right?!
In doing some research for this weekend TCT post, I stumbled upon this fucked up story about a spring break gone terribly wrong, and an alligator pit.
For the record, these things are actual fucking dinosaurs, and that’s scary as hell.
I wasn’t old enough in the early 90s to full enjoy it. The big bangs and long hair and neon spandex. Saved by the Bell, 90210 and Nirvana and Chris Farley SNL days. I was aware, but I wasn’t. I remember being in my cousin Bill’s room one day after school – he’s 10 years old than me – and he had the Nirvana smiley face on everything. I asked him “what’s this?” and he said, “it’s a thing for a band.” That might have been the first time I took in the concept of a band.
I was a teenager in the early 2000s. Things like Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake in full jean outfits, Blink-182 and “flared” jeans, trucker hats and unnecessary scarves were really what was going on when I fully came online as a person, for better or for worse. Early 2000s fashion is truly some of the very, very worst.
There are things about being a little girl in the 90s that have stuck with me and shaped me as a person, though. Clueless is still one of my favourite movies. I always wanted to grow up and own a white Jeep. Maybe some day still. Scream inspired my love of horror. And Silence of the Lambs inspired my love of crime fiction.
My love of true crime didn’t start until later when I turned on an episode of Dateline for the first time. Oh, you mean this is like the murder-mysteries I read except for real life?! Count me in!
Maybe that’s why I find myself drawn towards 90s true crime. It was happening, and I didn’t know it. My access to information was so much more limited. But now I can learn all about these things that were going on in the world while I was growing up. Plus the fashion, the pop culture – I feel connected to it.
So, for this week’s True Crime Tuesday, we’re going to go back to 1991. To a yogourt shop in Austin, Texas, where four girls died in a fire.
It feels like it’s been a minute since I’ve done a True Crime post. Maybe because I feel like I’ve been really busy, but also the days are just absolutely dragging at work. I wasn’t even totally sure I was going to do one this week until a creepy story broke on Monday night from New York…but we’ll get to that in a minute.
I want to start with something a little bit different that I know is not technically “true crime”, but I created this regular post to talk about crazy/interesting crimes talking place across the globe so we can be aware, but also to talk about the deaths of people who were victims, taken from this world before it seemed fair or just, before they had a chance to experience whatever they went for in life.
And so, with that in mind, the Humboldt Broncos fit that sentiment.
This is literally one of my favourite true crime stories ever.
And it’s not even a very robust one. There’s no blood or guts or dead bodies or serial killers or murder or a known villain. But it is seriously the creepiest shit out there right now and I love it.
Since it all started it has become somewhat of an Urban Legend and landed the location on Thrillist’s list of creepiest urban legends in every state. But is it an urban legend? A media hoax? A way to drive down real estate prices? Or some very real, very creepy shit? Honestly, no one knows. But as you’ll read, it has real-world implications for two families.
At this point in our earth’s history, are you even really living if you aren’t on the verge of a full-on panic attack? So let me and the Water help you live your best life by scaring the shit out of you.
Around 5 p.m. on December 6th, 2014, Jessica told her mother, Lisa, that she was going to the gas station down the road. Dressed in camouflage sweatpants, her hair in a bun, she promised she’d clean her room when she got back. She wouldn’t be very long.
She hopped into her 2005 Kia Rio and drove off.
Three hours later, Jessica’s stepmother was frantically pounding of Lisa’s door. Her husband Ben, Jessica’s father, was a mechanic at the Sheriff’s department so the police had contacted him first.
Jessica was on fire.
“I just don’t believe it,” Lisa has said. “Jessica and I had just gotten off the phone. How could she be on fire?”
Hopefully, in the next couple of days, I’ll have my review posted for Two Girls Down by Louisa Luna. The story is that of two girls who go missing, and the P.I. tasked to find them.
It got me thinking of a more recent true crime story that’s captivated my attention. The murders of Abigail Williams (13) and Liberty German (14), known as Abby and Libby to family and friends, their seemingly random, and still unsolved deaths, have been dubbed the “Snapchat Murders” in the press.
School was closed on February 13th, 2017, and the two best friends, attached at the hip, asked Libby’s grandmother and primary caregiver, Becky, if they could go to Monon Bridge, a popular location for teens in the small town of Delphi, Indiana (pop: 3000.) The girls were granted permission with the caveat that they secure a ride there and back. Libby’s older sister Kelsi agreed to take the girls, and Libby’s father, Derrick, agree to pick them up. Kelsi dropped the girls off at Monon Bridge at approximately 1:45pm. Derrick warned the girls he was only giving them two hours before he’d be picking them up.
The worst mass murder in Michigan’s history is about to take place in the quiet lakeside community of Good Hart.
The Robisons, Richard and Shirley, were planning on spending their entire summer with their four children at their seasonal home. The simple log cabin sat on the shore of Lake Michigan in the north woods. Secluded among tall pines and dense woods, the cabin was nearly impossible to see from the road.
At 42 years old, Richard Robison was a successful man. He was an advertising executive who owned a magazine called ‘Impesario’. His wife, 40-year-old Shirley Robison, was a housewife. Their children, 19-year-old Richie, 16-year-old Gary, 12-year-old Randall and 7-year-old Susan had enjoyed a stable and fortunate upbringing.