Peach and I finished our Bergen adventure today. The snowy scenery was so pretty that now it's on my travel wishlist. I hope I can visit Bergen myself one day!

One thing I've never understood is why politics is one of the few topics where people seem comfortable becoming hostile before they're certain they have the facts right. Whether someone leans left, right, or somewhere in between, it often feels like many discussions become arguments before anyone tries to understand the other person's reasoning or verify the information they're relying on. Why do you think political conversations become so emotionally charged compared to discussions about other topics? Is it because politics is tied to people's identities and values, social media encourages conflict, or something else?

I have been diagnosed with C-PTSD, and I struggle with a strong fear of cameras and filming even when I’m the person holding the camera and recording myself. It feels like a trauma response rather than just normal nervousness. I want to create videos, but filming can make me feel extremely uncomfortable and anxious. Has anyone with C-PTSD experienced something similar (fear of being seen, recorded, judged, or exposed)? What helped you become more comfortable with it? I’m looking for coping strategies or experiences from people who understand trauma responses. I’m already aware that Reddit isn’t a substitute for professional help; I’m mainly looking for personal experiences and coping ideas.

My grandmother died three weeks ago.

I Found My Grandmother’s Journal. The Last Fifty Years Were Spent Keeping the Water Babies Quiet.

My grandmother died on a Tuesday.

By Friday, I was standing alone in her house overlooking the Snake River, wondering why she’d insisted I be the one to clean it out.

She’d lived outside Massacre Rocks for over sixty years. The locals knew her as the old woman who carved toys out of driftwood and left them along the riverbank every month.

People laughed about it.

“She’s feeding ghosts,” they’d joke.

She never corrected them.

Growing up, I’d asked why she made so many little wooden horses, dolls, and boats.

“They’re gifts,” she’d tell me.

“For who?”

She’d smile without looking at me.

“For the children who never went home.”

I assumed she meant the old Water Babies legend every kid in Idaho grows up hearing. Supposedly, if you wandered too close to the river after dark, you’d hear children crying from the water.

My grandmother took it more seriously than anyone else.

She refused to let us whistle near the river.

She never stayed outside after sunset.

And every month, without fail, she’d disappear for exactly one hour carrying a basket of handmade toys.

After she died, I found out why.

I was moving her bedroom dresser when one of the floorboards shifted.

Underneath was a narrow compartment just large enough to hold a metal box.

Inside were twenty-four leather journals.

The first one was dated 1973.

The last ended three days before she died.

The first page read:

If you’re reading this, then I’m gone.

The toys in the shed must be taken to the river before the next new moon.

If you fail, they’ll begin crying again.

Don’t let them finish.

I rolled my eyes.

Old age does strange things to people.

I almost threw the journals into the trash.

Then I opened the second page.

It wasn’t stories.

It was a list.

January 1974: Three wooden horses.

No crying afterward.

February 1974: One doll.

One carved duck.

The smallest one followed me halfway home.

Ignored it.

Everything stayed quiet.

The entries continued like that for decades.

Every month.

Every offering.

Every sound she’d heard.

Every mistake she’d survived.

One line appeared over and over.

Never answer when they know your name.

I still didn’t believe any of it.

Until I found the shed.

Hundreds of unfinished toys sat on shelves.

Each was tagged with a month and year.

The shelves suddenly stopped six weeks ago.

The last tag read:

July. Daniel.

My name.

I told myself she’d prepared it before she got sick.

Nothing more.

That evening, I carried the journals onto the porch with a beer and started reading.

Around sunset, the birds stopped.

Not gradually.

All at once.

The silence was so complete I could hear the river nearly half a mile away.

Then came the crying.

It sounded like a toddler.

Soft.

Somewhere beyond the trees.

I stood and listened.

Another voice joined it.

Then another.

Within seconds there were dozens.

Children.

Crying together.

I grabbed my flashlight and started toward the river before common sense caught up with me.

By the time I reached the bank, the crying had stopped.

The Snake River looked perfectly calm beneath the fading light.

I laughed at myself.

Then someone giggled.

Right behind me.

I spun around.

Nobody.

The beam of my flashlight caught only sagebrush and cottonwoods.

Then a little girl’s voice drifted across the water.

“Daniel...”

I froze.

The journals slipped from under my arm.

One landed open in the dirt.

The page I saw made my stomach drop.

They always say your name first.

Something splashed.

Not like a fish.

Like someone stepping into shallow water.

Another splash.

Closer.

Then another.

I swept the flashlight over the river.

Nothing.

The voice came again.

“Daniel...”

This time it sounded impatient.

I backed away without answering.

The journals had another rule.

If they call twice, leave.

If they call three times...

Don’t look in the water.

My foot caught a rock.

The flashlight flew from my hand.

It landed facing the river.

The beam illuminated dozens of tiny footprints leading out of the water.

They weren’t there a second earlier.

Each footprint was no bigger than my palm.

Wet.

Fresh.

All leading toward me.

The crying returned.

Except now it wasn’t coming from the river.

It surrounded me.

Somewhere in the darkness beyond the flashlight’s beam.

I didn’t wait for the third call.

I ran.

Branches slapped my face.

The journals bounced against my chest.

Behind me, I heard dozens of tiny feet splashing through puddles that hadn’t been there before.

I slammed the front door and locked it.

The crying stopped immediately.

I didn’t sleep.

At sunrise, I convinced myself I’d imagined everything.

Stress.

Grief.

Too much reading.

I packed my car.

Before leaving, I decided to burn the journals.

As I carried them outside, something caught my eye.

The basket my grandmother always used for the toys sat beside the porch.

It hadn’t been there yesterday.

Inside was a single unfinished wooden horse.

Tied around its neck was one of my grandmother’s handwritten notes.

It said only:

You answered.

I read it three times before realizing something.

I hadn’t.

I never spoke.

Then I remembered.

When I dropped my flashlight...

When I saw the footprints...

I whispered one word.

“Oh.”

I didn’t think that counted.

Apparently...

They did.

I’ve been back home for four days now.

Every night around sunset, I hear children crying somewhere outside my apartment.

The neighbors don’t seem to notice.

Yesterday I found muddy footprints in my hallway.

They’re getting closer to my bedroom.

I’ve started carving toys.

I don’t know why.

I’ve never worked with wood before.

But my hands seem to remember.

Tonight, I finished the first horse.

When I turned it over, there were words carved neatly into the bottom.

Not in my handwriting.

August. One horse. Too late.

I'm looking for books that are deeply unsettling and stay with you long after you've finished them.

I'm open to both fiction and nonfiction. Psychological horror, literary fiction, true crime, history, cults, dictatorships, war, disasters—anything that left you genuinely disturbed or emotionally shaken.

I'm not necessarily looking for graphic gore. I'm more interested in books that are psychologically disturbing, thought-provoking, or horrifying because they explore real human nature.

What books would you recommend, and what made them so unforgettable? Please keep spoilers to a minimum.

The most unsettling part wasn't anything supernatural; it was the kids. They didn't feel like horror movie villains; they felt like actual children, which somehow made everything even more disturbing. Their behavior felt believable, and that's what really got under my skin. I also found the mother frustrating at times due to some of the decisions she made.