FULL PROFILE OF “SISCELIA NOMORE”

A non‑fiction reconstruction based on behavior, geography, psychology, and known facts.

GEOGRAPHIC PROFILE

Most likely origin regions

Based on her race, age, aliases, behavior, and the migration patterns of Black Americans born 1945–1955, she most likely came from:

Tier 1 (highest probability)

Ohio

Tennessee

North Carolina

Virginia

Kentucky (another region)

Tier 2 (possible)

Georgia

South Carolina

Michigan

Illinois

Why these regions?

Her aliases (Aisha, Zamika, Denise, Grace) are common in Black communities in these states.

Her speech (as reported) did not indicate a strong New York, Creole, Caribbean, or West African accent.

Her comfort in rural/semi‑rural life suggests a Southern or Midwestern upbringing.

Her age group (born 1945–1955) aligns with the Great Migration’s later waves, which heavily involved these states.

Conclusion

She was almost certainly U.S.-born, African American, and from the South or Midwest, not from the coasts or outside the country.

🎚️ DEMOGRAPHIC PROFILE

1. Likely Age & Birth Range

Locals estimated she was in her 60s or early 70s when she died in 2018.

This places her birth year between:

➡️ 1945–1955

This aligns with:

her physical appearance

her ability to walk long distances

her ability to survive outdoors for nearly a decade

2. Likely Racial/Ethnic Background

Based on photos and eyewitness descriptions:

➡️ African American woman

This is supported by:

her facial features

her chosen aliases (Aisha, Zamika, Denise, Grace — all common in Black communities)

demographic patterns among long-term unidentified homeless women

3. Clothing Analysis

She always wore:

black beanie

black jacket

black pants

black shoes

This is not cultural or religious attire.

It is consistent with:

owning very few items

choosing dark colors for privacy

hiding dirt/wear

emotional withdrawal

grief

wanting to avoid attention

Conclusion

Her all-black clothing was a survival choice and emotional armor, not a cultural signal.

🧠 PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

This is the core of understanding who she was.

1. Personality Traits

She was consistently described as:

polite

proud

private

soft-spoken

distant

self-reliant

predictable

These traits indicate:

intact social skills

no severe psychosis

no cognitive collapse

a deliberate choice to remain private

2. Identity Avoidance

She used multiple first names:

Siscelia

Aisha

Denise

Grace

Zamika

This is extremely significant.

People who cycle through first names typically:

are escaping someone

are estranged from family

have trauma-related identity fragmentation

have no ID

fear being found

distrust institutions

have been harmed by someone close

Her 2010 arrest for giving a false name confirms intentional identity concealment.

3. Help Refusal

She consistently refused:

food

shelter

charity

deeper connection

This is classic in trauma survivors who learned:

“Help comes with control, expectations, or danger.”

Her refusal was not stubbornness — it was self-protection.

4. Environmental Behavior

She lived:

under the same bridge

in the same small town

walking the same route

for nearly a decade

This indicates:

she felt safe

she valued routine

she was not fleeing anymore

she had chosen Morehead as her final refuge

People with severe mental illness drift.

People with trauma anchor once they find safety.

She anchored.

💔 DEEPER TRAUMA PROFILE

This is where her behavior speaks the loudest.

1. Core Wound: Betrayal or Violence

Her patterns strongly suggest she experienced:

domestic violence

family betrayal

institutional harm

the loss of a child or partner

severe conflict

long-term emotional trauma

Something happened that made her sever ties with her entire past.

2. Control as Survival

Her life was built around control:

control of her name

control of her story

control of her possessions

control of her routine

control of her distance from others

This is common in survivors of:

abusive relationships

controlling families

traumatic institutions

3. Autonomy Over Comfort

She consistently chose:

discomfort over dependence

hunger over obligation

exposure over shelter

solitude over vulnerability

This is not irrational — it is trauma logic.

4. Black Clothing as Emotional Armor

Black can mean:

invisibility

seriousness

mourning

protection

self-erasure

emotional distance

Her clothing was a psychological shield.

🕰️ TIMELINE RECONSTRUCTION

Before 2009

Born 1945–1955

African American

Likely from the South or Midwest

Had a “previous life” — family, relationships, identity

Something traumatic occurs

She leaves, disappears, or becomes estranged

Begins using aliases

Loses or abandons ID

2009–2010: Arrival in Morehead

First seen walking US 60

Already wearing all black

Already using aliases

Already living outdoors

Chooses Triplett Creek Bridge as home

2010: Arrest

Arrested for giving false name/address

Confirms intentional identity concealment

Released and returns to the bridge

2010–2018: The Bridge Lady

Becomes a known local figure

Polite but distant

Refuses help

Walks daily

Lives under the bridge

Uses multiple names

Community grows protective of her

She remains emotionally closed

December 15, 2018: Death

Found deceased under the bridge

Natural causes

Community holds a funeral

She remains unidentified

🖤 MOST LIKELY REAL-WORLD PROFILE (FINAL SYNTHESIS)

She was almost certainly:

A Black woman born between 1945–1955, likely from the South or Midwest, who experienced significant trauma or estrangement, abandoned her legal identity, adopted multiple aliases, and chose to live a life of controlled solitude in Morehead, Kentucky for nearly a decade until her natural death in 2018.

Her all-black clothing was:

practical

protective

emotionally symbolic

Her secrecy was:

intentional

lifelong

a shield

Her presence in Morehead was:

quiet

dignified

memorable

She lived small, but she lived free.

The Night Marchers: When the Island Holds Its Breath

There are stories in Hawai‘i that are not told to scare, but to warn. Stories that move like shadows across the land — quiet, steady, ancient. Among them, none is more haunting, more revered, or more deeply rooted in the islands’ history than the legend of the Night Marchers, the huaka‘i pō.

These are not restless ghosts.

They are warriors.

They are guardians.

They are the past refusing to stay silent.

And when they walk, the island knows.

When the Night Changes

Witnesses say the world gives you a warning before the marchers arrive — a subtle shift, almost easy to ignore, until it isn’t.

It begins with the wind.

It stops.

Then the animals fall silent.

Dogs whine and hide under houses.

Birds vanish from the trees.

The air thickens, heavy enough to taste.

A pressure settles over the land, like the moment before a storm breaks.

And then — faint at first — a drumbeat.

Slow.

Measured.

Ancient.

It echoes through valleys and across ridges, growing louder, closer, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your own chest.

By the time the torches appear — flickering embers floating in the darkness — you already know you are not alone.

The Procession

The Night Marchers are said to appear in long, disciplined lines, moving with the precision of warriors who have never forgotten their duty. Their torches cast gold light across feathered cloaks, helmets, and spears. Their chants rise and fall like waves, rhythmic and mournful.

Some describe the ground trembling beneath their feet.

Others say the air hums, charged with something electric and ancient.

But almost every account shares one truth:

You do not look at them.

Not out of fear — but out of respect.

The Rules That Must Never Be Broken

Hawaiian tradition teaches that if you ever encounter the Night Marchers, you must:

Drop to the ground.

Face downward.

Stay silent.

Do not look.

Do not breathe loudly.

Do not move until the last torch fades.

It is said that the marchers do not harm those who honor them.

But disrespect — even accidental — can be dangerous.

Some families believe their ancestors march among the procession.

In those rare cases, the spirits may pause, shielding their descendants from harm.

This is not a legend of terror.

It is a legend of reverence — and consequence.

Where They Walk

The Night Marchers follow the ancient trails of the ali‘i — sacred paths that once connected battlefields, heiau (temples), and royal lands. Many of these routes now cut through modern neighborhoods, hotels, and hiking trails.

Some of the most well‑known locations include:

Nuuanu Pali Lookout — where winds howl through a valley once soaked in battle

Ka‘a‘awa Valley — a place so steeped in history it feels alive

Waipi‘o Valley — lush, quiet, and heavy with ancestral presence

Hanapēpē — where locals still speak softly after dark

‘Īao Valley — a place of beauty and bloodshed

These are not “haunted” places.

They are sacred.

And the marchers walk them still.

Are the Night Marchers Real?

Ask a local, and you won’t get a simple yes or no.

You’ll get a story.

A memory.

A warning.

The Night Marchers are not a Western ghost story.

They are cultural memory — a living reminder that the past is not gone, only waiting.

Whether someone believes in spirits or not, the message remains:

Respect the land.

Respect the ancestors.

Respect the history beneath your feet.

Because in Hawai‘i, history walks.

Why This Legend Endures

After covering heavy true‑crime cases, the Night Marchers offer a different kind of mystery — one that breathes, one that watches, one that teaches.

This is a story about reverence, not fear.

About ancestry, not horror.

About the thin line between the living and the dead, and the belief that some spirits still walk the paths they once protected.

And on certain nights, when the wind stops and the world goes quiet, you might feel it — that ancient drumbeat rising from the dark, reminding you that some histories refuse to fade.

Missing: Lashaya Stine

Sixteen‑year‑old Lashaya Stine was born on February 8, 2000, to her mother, Sabrina Jones, who remembers her daughter as responsible, mature beyond her years, and deeply rooted in her family. She was the kind of teenager who cooked dinner for her younger siblings, who kept her grades high without being asked, who talked about her future with a quiet, steady confidence.

She was an honor student at George Washington High School, preparing for her senior year. She had dreams of working in the medical field — dreams she was already turning into reality. She’d earned an internship at the University of Colorado Hospital and had a job interview scheduled for July 16, 2016. Her clothes for the interview were already laid out.

But she never made it to that interview.

The Last Night at Home

In the early hours of July 15, 2016, the house was still. The kind of stillness that only exists at 2 A.M., when the world is dark and the air feels suspended. At some point during that hour, Lashaya quietly slipped out the front door.

She didn’t take her phone.

She didn’t take her charger.

She didn’t take her wallet, which still held money.

She didn’t take any clothes.

Everything she would have needed for a planned departure remained neatly in her room. It looked as though she intended to return — as though she expected the night to be brief.

Her mother believes she left to meet someone she trusted.

The Last Known Footage

Surveillance cameras later captured her walking near East Montview Boulevard and North Peoria Street — a corridor of flickering streetlights, aging motels, and late‑night foot traffic. The footage shows her moving with purpose, not wandering. She glances over her shoulder once, as if expecting someone.

She was wearing a white tank top and gray sweatpants, her long black hair pulled into the bun she wore almost every day. Her walk is steady. Her posture is calm.

These are the last confirmed images of her.

A Mother’s Desperation

When morning came and her daughter’s bed was still empty, Sabrina’s fear ignited instantly. She reported her missing within hours. She and family members canvassed the neighborhood, knocking on doors, handing out flyers, begging businesses to review their surveillance footage.

“It has been pure devastation,” Sabrina said. “The fact that I haven’t seen her face, or heard her voice for months is the most horrible thing.”

She keeps her daughter’s room the same.

She still wakes at night thinking she hears footsteps in the hallway.

Sightings on East Colfax

In the weeks and months that followed, multiple witnesses reported seeing a girl who looked like Lashaya along East Colfax — a desolate stretch lined with cheap motels, neon vacancy signs, and the constant churn of drugs and exploitation. Some said she appeared disoriented, as if drugged. Others said she was being watched or controlled.

These sightings were consistent with patterns seen in trafficking cases:

movement between motels,

being accompanied by older adults,

appearing dazed or monitored.

When Sabrina shared these reports with police, she was told her daughter may have been moved to Kansas City, Kansas. But no new tips have surfaced from that area.

Leads That Fade Into Silence

One of the most haunting aspects of the case is the silence from people who may know more.

Sabrina once received a message on Facebook from a young woman whose sister’s boyfriend allegedly had information about what happened to Lashaya. But he refused to speak with detectives.

“People in the Denver area who know about my daughter are afraid to come forward,” Sabrina said.

Rumors.

Half‑truths.

Whispers that never become statements.

The fog around the case thickens with every year that passes.

The Search That Never Stops

Despite the time, the family has never stopped searching. They’ve held vigils, organized community walks, worked with nonprofits, and kept her story alive. They believe someone, somewhere, knows something — and that even the smallest detail could bring her home.

You can read my original article on Lashaya’s disappearance here:  

Darkmatter: Missing Lashaya Stine

There is a $15,000 reward for information leading to her whereabouts.

If you have any information, please contact:

911

Aurora Police Sgt. Chris Poppe: 303‑739‑6130

Aurora Police: 303‑627‑3100

Crime Stoppers: 720‑913‑7867

Bring Our Missing Home Tip Line: 810‑294‑4858

A Message to Lashaya

If she is still out there, her mother wants her to hear this:

“I wish there was some way I could talk to her and let her know that it’s not too late. Don’t give up on your life. She needs to hear my voice.”

Description at the Time of Disappearance

Age: 16

Height: 5'6"

Weight: Approximately 150 lbs

Hair: Long black hair, usually worn in a bun

Eyes: Brown

Build: Slender, athletic

Identifying Mark: Quarter‑sized round scar on her chest

Other: Pierced ears, often wore simple stud earrings

Into the Half‑Light: A Behavioral Profile of the Offender Behind a Disappearance Like Madeleine McCann’s

Some crimes do not erupt into the world — they seep into it. They arrive quietly, like a change in the weather, and by the time anyone notices, the damage is already done. A child vanishes from a holiday apartment, and the world is left staring into a void that seems to swallow logic whole.

But voids have shapes.

And shadows have patterns.

In cases like Madeleine McCann’s disappearance, criminal profilers don’t look for a face — they look for a type. A psychological silhouette. A man who moves through the world differently, quietly, invisibly.

This is the profile of that man.

The Watcher Who Blends In

Before he ever crossed the threshold, he watched.

Not dramatically — not the cinematic villain lurking behind hedges — but with the subtle, predatory patience of someone who has spent years studying the soft spots in other people’s lives. He notices the things most people never think to guard:

the door that doesn’t fully click

the window that never quite locks

the parents who trust routine

the children who sleep deeply

He memorizes patterns the way others memorize prayers.

He is the kind of man who can stand in a crowd and leave no imprint at all, except perhaps a faint, inexplicable unease.

A Life Spent Crossing Boundaries

Forensic psychology has a name for men like this: organized opportunistic predators.

They don’t begin with abduction. They begin with smaller trespasses:

slipping into places they shouldn’t be

watching people who don’t know they’re being watched

testing doors, windows, limits

learning how to move without being seen

These are not accidents.

They are rehearsals.

Inside his mind is a locked room where:

deviant fantasies grow unchecked

power feels attainable only in the dark

control becomes a substitute for identity

empathy has long since withered

He is not impulsive.

He is not frenzied.

He is cold.

His crime is not an explosion — it is an eclipse.

The Night the World Shifted

He chooses the night with care. He has watched long enough to understand the rhythm of the parents’ movements, the timing of their check-ins, the way the resort exhales after dusk.

When he moves, he moves with the confidence of someone who has crossed many thresholds before this one.

He enters the apartment quietly, almost reverently.

He lifts the child with the ease of someone who has rehearsed the moment in his mind.

He leaves without disturbing the air.

To the world, it looks impossible — a vanishing.

To him, it is simply the execution of a plan he has carried like a secret pulse beneath his skin.

The Man Who Walks Away

After the crime, he becomes two men.

The outer man

calm

polite

unremarkable

the kind of man who blends into the scenery of a resort or a town

The inner man

vibrating with the aftershock of the act

compulsively watching the news

replaying the night in obsessive loops

waiting for a knock on the door that never comes

He may leave the area abruptly — not out of panic, but because the place has become too charged with the memory of what he did. He may clean obsessively. He may drink more. He may sleep less. He may feel, for the first time in his life, that he has crossed a line he cannot uncross.

And he is right.

The Composite Shadow

When all the threads are woven together, the offender in a case like this resembles a silhouette more than a man:

male, 25–55

familiar with the resort’s geography

practiced in moving unnoticed

patient, observant, quietly predatory

capable of planning without appearing to plan

a man who has lived his life in the half-light, where doors are suggestions and silence is a language

He is the kind of figure who could pass you on a staircase and leave no impression at all — except a chill that lingers long after he’s gone.

Author’s Note

Cases like this haunt us because they expose a truth we rarely want to face: evil does not always announce itself. Sometimes it wears the most ordinary face in the room. Sometimes it walks beside us unnoticed. And sometimes, it slips through a door we didn’t realize we’d left open.

Understanding the psychology behind these offenders doesn’t solve the mystery — but it illuminates the shape of the darkness we’re staring into.

And sometimes, that’s where the search begins.

CHAPTER FOUR — The Storm That Found Her

Evening did not fall over Springfield so much as descend — a slow, deliberate shroud settling over rooftops and chimneys, dimming the world to a palette of bruised violets and coal‑smoke gray. Lamps flickered to life behind wavering curtains, their glow fragile against the encroaching dark, like small defiances in a city that did not yet know it was standing on the edge of history.

Mary paused in the doorway of her sister Elizabeth’s parlor, her hand resting lightly on the carved frame. Elizabeth glanced up from her embroidery, offering a small, knowing smile — the kind that said she saw more than she ever commented on. Elizabeth had always been steady, composed, the quiet center of any room. Mary loved her for it, even when that steadiness felt like a mirror reflecting Mary’s own restlessness.

“Try not to startle him tonight,” Elizabeth murmured, half‑teasing.

Mary lifted her chin. “I don’t startle him. I wake him.”

Elizabeth’s smile deepened, but she said nothing more. She rarely did when Mary’s fire showed. She simply let it burn.

The room was warm, but the warmth felt borrowed, temporary — a thin veneer over the cold that seeped in from the unsettled nation beyond the windows. Mary could feel the tension in the air, the way one feels the pressure before a storm breaks.

And she knew, without being told, that he would come tonight.

Not because he had promised.

But because something in the world — some current she could not name — seemed to pull them toward each other with the inevitability of tides.

When Abraham Lincoln stepped inside, he looked as though he had walked through weather no one else could see. His coat was dusted with road grit, his hair wind‑tossed, his expression shadowed by thoughts that clung to him like damp wool. He paused, blinking as though adjusting to the lamplight, or perhaps to the fact of her presence.

Mary felt the shift immediately.

He carried storms inside him.

“Miss Todd,” he said, bowing his head with that awkward gravity that made her pulse tighten.

“Mr. Lincoln.”

Their names felt like the beginning of something dangerous.

He did not sit. He hovered near the hearth, long fingers brushing the mantel as though grounding himself. The firelight carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, deepening the melancholy that lived in his eyes.

“You appear troubled,” Mary said softly.

“I am always troubled,” he replied. “The question is only by what.”

She stepped closer. “Then let us begin with ambition. Is it a virtue or a flaw?”

He looked at her sharply — not offended, but awakened.

“That depends,” he said, “on whether ambition serves the world… or devours it.”

“And if it does both?”

“Then it becomes a burden.”

Mary tilted her head. “Or a destiny.”

Something flickered in his expression — a recognition, a warning, a spark.

Elizabeth watched them from across the room, her needle paused mid‑air. Mary caught her sister’s gaze — a mixture of concern and curiosity — before Elizabeth looked away, as though giving them privacy she knew they needed.

Around them, the parlor murmured with polite conversation, but the air between the two of them felt charged, intimate, almost perilous. She could feel the pull of him — not romantic softness, but something darker, deeper, more consuming. A meeting of minds that felt like the beginning of a fire.

He lowered his voice. “You speak as though you expect to shape the world.”

“I expect to shape my life,” she said. “And perhaps the life of the man who dares to stand beside me.”

The fire cracked sharply, as if startled.

Lincoln’s breath caught — barely, but she saw it.

He was a man who feared his own depths.

She was a woman unafraid of them.

And somewhere beyond the walls, the nation trembled — a country splitting along fault lines that neither of them could yet name, but both could feel.

The World Tilts

Springfield was a city of arguments.

Men shouted in taverns, in law offices, in the muddy streets where horses stamped and wagons rattled. Newspapers printed accusations in ink so dark it smudged the fingers of anyone who dared to read them. The country was fracturing — not cleanly, but like a bone splintering under pressure.

Mary walked through it all with her chin lifted, her mind sharp as a blade.

Elizabeth often accompanied her to debates, though she preferred to sit quietly in the back. Mary, however, leaned forward, absorbing every word.

One evening, a man scoffed at a speaker’s condemnation of slavery.

“Sentiment,” he muttered. “Women’s talk.”

Mary turned her head. “Then perhaps women should be running the country. We seem to be the only ones who recognize cruelty when we see it.”

Elizabeth’s hand tightened around Mary’s wrist — a silent plea for restraint — but Mary did not look away from the man.

He blinked, startled.

He had not expected to be challenged.

Certainly not by a woman.

Mary did not correct him.

She simply won.

Lincoln spoke rarely in these gatherings, but when he did, the room shifted. His voice was not loud, but it carried — steady, resonant, threaded with a sorrow that made even his opponents pause.

Mary watched him.

She watched the way he leaned forward when injustice was mentioned.

She watched the way his hands tightened when cruelty was excused.

She watched the way he seemed to absorb the world’s pain as though it were his own.

And she felt something inside her align with him — not in softness, but in purpose.

One evening, after a particularly heated debate, they walked together beneath a sky heavy with unfallen snow.

“You argue as though the nation is a single man,” Mary said.

“Perhaps it is,” he murmured. “A man torn between what he wants and what he fears.”

“And what do you fear, Mr. Lincoln?”

He hesitated.

“Failure,” he said finally. “And the cost of trying.”

Mary stopped walking. “Greatness always costs.”

He looked at her then — really looked — as though seeing the shape of his future reflected in her eyes.

And perhaps he did.

The Engagement

The engagement came quietly.

No grand gesture.

No dramatic declaration.

Just two people standing in a parlor, the air between them trembling with unspoken certainty.

He asked.

She said yes.

Elizabeth embraced her, whispering, “Be gentle with him. He is not like other men.”

Mary nodded, though she did not yet understand the depth of her sister’s warning.

For a moment — a brief, fragile moment — the world felt steady.

But Lincoln was a man built of contradictions.

He loved deeply but feared the weight of being loved.

He longed for connection but recoiled from expectation.

He wanted a future but doubted he deserved one.

The Break

The break came like a winter wind — sudden, sharp, merciless.

He withdrew.

He avoided her.

He vanished into his thoughts, into his melancholy, into the shadows that had always lived inside him.

Elizabeth found Mary sitting alone one afternoon, staring at the cold hearth.

“He is frightened,” Elizabeth said gently.

“So am I,” Mary whispered. “But I do not run.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow.

“I cannot,” he said. “I am not… enough.”

Mary felt the words like a blade sliding between her ribs.

“Not enough for whom?” she whispered.

“For you,” he said. “For myself. For the life you deserve.”

She reached for him, but he stepped back.

And the distance between them — that small, terrible distance — felt like the width of a grave.

He left her standing in the parlor, the fire dying behind her, the shadows lengthening like hands reaching for her ankles.

For days, she moved through the house like a ghost.

Elizabeth tried to coax her into conversation, but Mary only shook her head.

Her sister finally said, “You are stronger than this.”

Mary looked up, eyes hollow. “Strength does not stop a storm.”

Elizabeth touched her cheek. “No. But it teaches you how to stand in it.”

The Aftermath

Lincoln returned weeks later, pale and shaken, as though he had been wandering through some private wilderness.

He apologized.

He explained.

He faltered.

Mary listened.

She did not forgive him easily.

But she recognized something in him — a man who feared his own destiny, yet could not escape it.

And she, who had never feared the dark, stepped toward him once more.

Not because she was weak.

But because she understood storms.

She had been raised in one.

She had become one.

And she knew — with a certainty that felt like prophecy — that their lives were already entwined, their fates already written in the shadows gathering across the nation.

Silence as Evidence

One of the hardest things to accept in a case like Nancy Guthrie’s is that sometimes the loudest clue isn’t a message, a sighting, or a breakthrough — it’s the silence.

People imagine kidnappers as constant communicators, sending updates, demands, threats. But in real investigations, that’s not how it works. When a ransom note is followed by nothing… that absence becomes its own kind of data. It tells you something about control, about access, about what the perpetrators can or can’t do anymore.

In genuine hostage situations, communication doesn’t just stop. There are follow‑ups. There are instructions. There are proofs of life. There’s movement. But here, we have a void — and voids aren’t neutral. They point somewhere.

Silence can mean the plan fell apart.

Silence can mean the offender lost access to the victim.

Silence can mean the notes were never meant to lead to an exchange.

And sometimes, silence means the truth is darker than anyone wants to say out loud.

This isn’t speculation. It’s pattern recognition. It’s what investigators look for when everything else has gone still.

Nancy deserved a voice in her own story. And when that voice was taken from her, the responsibility shifted to the rest of us — to read the gaps, to question the quiet, and to refuse to let silence be the final word.

Friday the 13th: Fear, Folklore, and the Stories That Gave a Date Its Power

“When thirteen sit down to dine, the first to rise is the first to die.”

It’s a warning that has echoed through centuries—whispered at dinner tables, repeated in superstition, and embedded in cultural memory. Friday the 13th is more than just a date on a calendar. For many, it carries a quiet dread that feels older than logic itself.

But where did that fear come from? And why has it endured?

The Fear Has a Name

The fear of Friday the 13th isn’t imaginary—it’s recognized in psychology.

Triskaidekaphobia: the fear of the number 13

Paraskevidekatriaphobia: the fear of Friday the 13th specifically

These fears aren’t about the date itself. They’re about pattern-making—the human tendency to connect coincidence with meaning, especially when fear is involved.

Thirteen at the Table

One of the earliest Western associations between the number 13 and death comes from Christian symbolism.

At the Last Supper, there were thirteen people seated at the table. One of them—Judas Iscariot—would betray Jesus, setting into motion events that led to crucifixion the following day, Good Friday. Over time, the image of thirteen dining together became linked with betrayal and death.

This wasn’t originally a superstition—it became one after the story was repeatedly retold, reinforcing fear through generations.

The Thirteen Club: Tempting Fate on Purpose

In the late 1800s, a group of skeptics decided to challenge superstition head-on.

The Thirteen Club met on the 13th day of each month. Members sat at thirteen tables, with thirteen place settings. To reach the dining room, they walked under ladders, spilled salt, broke mirrors, crossed knives, and surrounded themselves with black cats.

Their goal was to prove superstition harmless—but even among skeptics, unease lingered.

Ironically, several members later became U.S. presidents. The club survived. The fear did not disappear.

Thirteen, the Moon, and “Unclean” Numbers

In many cultures, the number thirteen is tied to the moon.

There are roughly thirteen lunar cycles in a year, mirroring the menstrual cycle. In patriarchal religious traditions, anything associated with cyclical time, the moon, or feminine power was often treated with suspicion—or outright condemnation.

Over time, thirteen shifted from a symbol of natural rhythm to something labeled “unclean,” unsettling, or forbidden.

The Legend of the HMS Friday

One of the most persistent Friday the 13th stories comes from naval lore.

According to legend, the British Royal Navy attempted to disprove superstition by commissioning a ship named HMS Friday. Her keel was laid on a Friday. She was launched on a Friday. She set sail on Friday the 13th—under a captain named Friday.

The ship was allegedly never seen again.

There is no historical record confirming the ship existed—but the story endures. Not because it’s proven, but because it feels right to a fearful mind.

Friday, October 13th, 1307

One event tied to Friday the 13th is indisputably real.

On Friday, October 13th, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered the mass arrest of the Knights Templar. Hundreds were tortured into false confessions of heresy. Many were executed. The order was dismantled almost overnight.

Power, betrayal, and death converged on that date—and history remembered it.

Why the Fear Persists

Friday the 13th isn’t dangerous because of fate or curses.

It’s dangerous because humans remember patterns—especially when tragedy reinforces them. When fear is repeated often enough, it becomes tradition. When tradition is passed down, it becomes truth.

And so, the date lingers, heavy with meaning.

Not because it must…

…but because we taught it how.

🕯️ This post explores cultural superstition and historical associations. It is not a claim of supernatural causation.

Podcast form MyCrimanyPod

The Red Thread of Fate: When Love Is Promised, but Loss Comes First

There is an old legend that says we are not as alone as we think.

That somewhere beyond sight, an invisible red thread is tied around us at birth—looped gently around a finger or ankle—and bound to another person somewhere in the world.

The thread stretches.

It tangles.

It pulls tight, then slack again.

But it never breaks.

This is known as the Red Thread of Fate, an ancient legend passed through generations in East Asia. It promises that two people destined for each other will meet—no matter how far apart they are, no matter how long it takes.

But legends are quiet about something important.

They never say when.

When Fate Is Patient—and Cruel

In softer retellings, the red thread leads to love fulfilled. Two people meet. Destiny is rewarded. The story ends.

But older versions are not so kind.

In some tellings, the thread stretches across lifetimes.

In others, it binds people who circle each other endlessly, always just missing their moment.

And in the darkest versions, one end of the thread goes still—while the other keeps pulling.

Because fate does not promise timing.

It only promises connection.

Loving Someone You Were Meant to Meet

What happens when the red thread leads you to someone…

but not for long?

What happens when you feel the pull—deep, undeniable—only to lose them to death, disappearance, or circumstance before the story can unfold?

The legend never answers that.

But people living with loss do.

They describe it as recognition without resolution.

As knowing someone was meant to matter—without knowing why they were taken so soon.

Love, in these moments, feels unfinished.

And yet it remains.

The Thread After Loss

Those who love someone who is gone often speak of an invisible tether.

They feel it in ordinary moments:

When a song still feels like it belongs to someone else

When a choice feels guided by a voice that no longer speaks

When love continues, even without a place to land

The red thread does not vanish when a person does.

It simply stops moving.

Still connected.

Still present.

Still pulling softly in the background of a life that has learned to go on anyway.

Valentine’s Day and the Love That Endures

Valentine’s Day celebrates beginnings.

But for some, it is a day of remembering what never had the chance to finish.

A love interrupted.

A future imagined but never lived.

A person who felt inevitable—and then was gone.

The Red Thread of Fate offers a different way to understand that pain.

Not as failure.

Not as something broken.

But as proof that some connections are not meant to be measured by time.

If the Thread Never Breaks…

Then perhaps love is not something we lose.

Perhaps it is something we carry.

Perhaps the thread does not lead us only to people—but through them. Into the lives we live afterward. Into the choices we make. Into the quiet ways we continue loving even when no one sees it.

The legend does not say the thread guarantees happiness.

Only meaning.

And sometimes, meaning is enough.