Disturbing True Horror Stories That Police Refuse to Investigate

What if the most terrifying cases aren’t just unsolved… but ignored? 

In this chilling episode of Blighty Nightmares, we dive into three disturbing true horror stories so strange, so dark, that even law enforcement wouldn’t—or couldn’t—touch them. Each case involves real people who vanished or died under mysterious circumstances, with lingering supernatural undertones. 

🕯️ In this episode:
• They Found Her Body Surrounded by Stones – Jeannette DePalma’s 1972 death sparked whispers of the occult
• She Walked Into Central Park… and Vanished – In 1910, heiress Dorothy Arnold disappeared forever
• She Walked Away From a Crash… Then Vanished – Patricia Meehan’s eerie final moment defies explanation 

Told in immersive, first-person horror style, these aren’t just cold cases. These are stories where the evidence fades, the system fails, and something else seems to be watching. 

🎧 Follow Blighty Nightmares for more real horror, unsolved mysteries, missing persons, and cases too dark to be explained. 

Transcript

They said we weren't supposed to go up there. They said the ground was cursed. But when they found Janette's body on Devil's Teeth, someone had to identify her, and I was the one they called. It was September the 19th, 1972, Springfield, New Jersey. I was 17. Janette was 16. She'd been missing for 6 weeks. Everyone thought she'd run away. She'd done it before, just disappeared for a day or two, but then came back. But this time, it just felt different. The town was on edge. Rumors flew. Witchcraft, satanic cults, animal sacrifices. Kids said they saw shadows in the trees above the quarry. Heard drumming at night. And then the dog found the arm. It was a local family's retriever dug up something in the woods. A human forearm half decomposed, fingers still curled. The police swept the area. Found a body on top of a steep cliff they called Devil's Teeth. They asked my dad to come ID her. He was a retired cop. He knew the family. But he was just too shaken. So I went instead. The path up there was steep, overgrown. Branches were clawing at my arms. The air got thicker the higher I climbed. And then I stepped into the clearing. It was silent, completely still. No wind, no birds, just her. Janette's body was laid out on her back, arms outstretched. around her. Circles, rocks, twigs, broken crosses made out of sticks, like someone had arranged them deliberately. Above her head was a crude symbol scratched into the dirt. It looked like an eye with three slashes through it. The detectives said they'd never seen anything like it. Her body was too decomposed for a cause of death. No stab wounds, no gunshot, no broken bones. But her face, oh, her face was locked in a scream. They zipped her up in a black bag. I stayed behind for a minute. I just stared at the pattern on the ground. I don't know why, but I felt like I wasn't alone, like something was still there watching. Back in town, the whispers exploded. Some said she'd gotten involved with local devil worshippers. Others said she had been marked. A few believed it was the work of a drifter, you know, a serial killer. And no one could explain the symbols or the arrangement of the rocks. The p the local papers ran the headline. Teen found in a teen found in occult ritual site. But then everything went quiet. The local paper that printed those photos, it burned down. The police refused to release the autopsy. And Janette's case, officially unsolved, just filed away. Her parents begged for answers, but the authorities just said, "We don't investigate folklore." I had so many questions. And years later, I went back. I don't know why. I just needed to see it again. The trees were taller, the path more faded, but the clearing was still there. And in the dirt, half buried under leaves, was a circle, a new one, freshly laid, rocks, bones, sticks, and in the middle, a crude wooden cross snapped in half. You see, I don't go up there anymore, but I've talked to others who have, and they all say the same thing. You hear whispers in the wind. You see movement just outside your vision and you feel like something's been there long before Janette. And the crazy thing is I don't think it's done yet. It all started with a letter typed no return address postmarked from New York City. It said, "If you want to find out what really happened to Dorothy Arnold, walk the path she did, but don't go alone." I thought it was a joke until I looked her up and I found out she really did disappear in broad daylight in New York City without a trace. Dorothy Harriet Camila Arnold. She was 25 years old when she vanished. Daughter of a millionaire perfume magnet. Educated, elegant, sharp. On the morning of December the 12th, 1910, she left her family's townhouse on East 79th Street told her mother she was buying a dress for a party, but she never came home. What creeped me out wasn't that she vanished. It was how she was spotted twice by friends that day at a bookstore on Fifth Avenue, then again walking towards Central Park. She smiled, chatted, said she'd be home later, then gone. No one saw her enter the park. No cab picked her up. No body ever found. Theories range from suicide to secret pregnancy to alopement. But the weirdest part in months after her parents received letters postmarked from city she's never been to written in her voice, her phrasing, her tone. Don't look for me. I'm happy now. Except the handwriting wasn't hers. It was typed like mine. I didn't believe in ghosts, but I had to know. So last December, exactly 113 years to the day, I went to Central Park. I followed the exact route Dorothy had taken from her home on 79th down Fifth Avenue into the park at the Southeast Gate just before 59th Street. And that's when things started feeling wrong. It was cold, late afternoon, not many people out. The park was quiet, too quiet. My phone started glitching, signal cutting in and out. Then I heard footsteps behind me. I turned. No one. I kept walking. Then I heard a voice, clear female, right behind me. You found me. I spun around. Still no one. I kept walking deeper into the park, past trees stripped bare by the winter, past benches coated in frost. Everything looked frozen still. And then I saw it, a figure wearing a dark blue dress and a long 1900s style coat. She stood under an old lampost, head tilted, not moving. I thought it was a reenactor at first, but when I blinked, she was gone. I reached the ramble, one of the oldest, most overgrown parts of the park. That's when I saw a bench with a brass plaque. It said, "In memory of Dorothy Arnold, the city she loved never found her. I swear the air got colder. My breath fogged in front of me and behind me I heard typing. Not on a phone, not on a keyboard. Old-fashioned typewriting keys. Clack clack clack. Fast angry. I turned. No one except on the bench. A single envelope yellowed unmarked. I opened it. typed. She walked into the trees. She didn't walk out. Some things stay here forever. I ran. I didn't look back. Didn't stop until I hit the street. When I got home, I checked online again. There's a theory that Dorothy did enter Central Park and fell, hit her head, died, and the family covered it up. But others say she disappeared on purpose, that she found something or someone waiting for her. Something that's still there waiting. I don't go near Central Park anymore, but sometimes when I walk past on the edge of 59th, I swear I see her. A woman in a long coat watching, waiting for someone else to take her path. [Music] The weirdest part wasn't the crash. It was her face lit up by my headlights. Blank like she wasn't really there. Just standing in the road, staring at me, not blinking. And then she turned and walked into the darkness. This happened in 1989 on Highway 200 near Circle Montana. I was driving home from a late shift, middle of nowhere, clear sky, full moon. There was no other cars, just me and her. She came out of nowhere like she stepped out of the night. Her car swerved into my lane. I had maybe two seconds to react. We clipped each other hard. My mirror smashed. Her bumper ripped half off. I skidded into the ditch. I stumbled out, dazed, and there she was, standing in the middle of the road like nothing had happened. I called out, "Are you okay?" She didn't respond. She just stared, eyes wide, pale, like she didn't even recognize what just happened. Then slowly she turned and walked into the field. No flashlight, no phone, no shoes. Just stepped over the fence and disappeared into the grass. Gone. I called 911. Cops showed up. Cops showed up. Searched the area. Nothing. No footprints, no torn fabric, no drag marks. Her car was still in the road, door hanging open, her still inside, engine idling, but she was gone. The police ran her plates, came back. Patricia Miham, 37 years old, originally from Pennsylvania, worked odd jobs, lived alone. Neighbors said she'd been acting strange lately, withdrawing herself, talking to herself, saying she felt watched. One of them said she's been obsessed with something called the mirror self. Like she believed there were two of her, one in this world and one watching from the other side. In the weeks after sightings came in, first from towns nearby, people swore they saw her on foot, walking along highways, through truck stops, near train tracks, always alone, always silent. Then the sightings moved outwards, Billings, Spain, even as far as Seattle. One couple swore she was sitting in their backyard just watching their house. When they turned on the porch light, she vanished. The weirdest sighting was from a woman in Idaho. She said she passed Patricia on a dirt road, pulled over to ask if she needed help. Patricia leaned in, looked her dead into the eyes, and said, "Have you seen the other me?" and just walked away. The police chased every lead, set up hotlines, put her on America's most wanted. Nothing stuck. No confirmed encounters, no credit card used, no phone calls, just a trail of people seeing her one moment and then gone the next. Then there was the waitress. This is what chilled me the most. She worked at a diner near Boseman. said, "A woman came in one late night, ordered coffee, sat by the window, didn't say a word, just stared out." When the waitress tried to talk to her, she turned and said, "I'm not supposed to be here. She is." And pointed at her own reflection in the window. When the waitress came back with her bill, the booth was empty. No footprints, no cup, no payment, just a perfect fingerprint pressed onto the glass. And when they dusted it, the print didn't match Patricia's. It didn't match anyone. They eventually declared her missing. Said she likely succumbed to the elements that night. But if that's true, why do people still see her? The same face, same eyes, just staring from gas station windows, from behind highway trees, and always, always alone. You see, sometimes I just wonder, did Patricia just split? Did the trauma unlock something in her or was she already half gone and the crash just basically finished her off? If you ever find yourself on Highway 200 at night and you see a woman standing by the side of the road, don't stop because she might look like she needs help, but when she turns to face you, she might not be entirely human anymore.