This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Clear-Gold6570 on 2024-12-27 05:13:28+00:00.

I’ll never forget March 3, 2017. To most people, it’s just a random day, but for me, it’s a wound that won’t stop bleeding. That’s the day seventeen people lost their lives in Oklatogey, Oklahoma, thanks to James Rekson, the shooter. He didn’t leave anyone alive. After taking so many innocent lives, he ended it all by turning the gun on himself. I still see his face sometimes, in my nightmares, completely blank, like he had already accepted what he was about to do, like it was just part of his plan.

But the thing that haunts me the most isn’t just the shooting itself it’s everything that happened after. Or rather, what didn’t.

James Rekson filmed the whole thing. Hundreds of us saw it, either live or on the internet hours later. His manifesto, a twisted, rambling 37 page document, was spread around. He explained, in disturbing detail, what led him to that point. But then, just like that, it was gone. Every trace of it. The stream, the manifesto, everything. Vanished without a trace. No clips. No screenshots. Not even a whisper on the dark web.

At first, I thought it was just the world trying to forget. People didn’t want to remember. But now I know better.

For years, I searched. I dug through every corner of the internet, contacted people who said they saw the video or read the manifesto. Most never responded. The ones who did, though, told me to stop. They warned me that it wasn’t worth the risk.

Then, one night, I got an email.

The subject was simple: “You’re not alone.”

It was a throwaway account. No name, no profile picture. Just a short message:

“I have what you’re looking for. The manifesto and the stream. But we need to talk first. No promises it’s safe.”

Attached was a blurry, black-and-white scan of the first page of the manifesto. The title? “The Final Lesson.” My heart raced as I stared at it. I didn’t know whether to feel relief or terror.

I replied, and within minutes, I got a new message. It had an address—about two hours outside of Oklatogey. No phone number. No instructions. Just an address.

When I arrived, I found an old farmhouse, paint peeling, windows boarded up, like it had been abandoned for years. But as I got closer, I noticed a faint light shining through the cracks. The door creaked open before I even had the chance to knock.

A man stood in the doorway, face hidden in shadows. He looked older than I expected—his eyes sunken, but there was something about him that made me hesitate.

“You came,” he said, motioning for me to enter.

Inside, the smell of mildew hit me. The man sat down at a cluttered desk and gestured to an old laptop.

“I have it,” he said. “But you won’t be able to keep it. Every time someone tries, it’s erased. It’s like it knows.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, but he opened two files on the laptop, one labeled Manifesto.pdf, the other Livestream.mp4.

“Watch this,” he said, double clicking the video.

The screen flickered, and there it was. The cafeteria. The screams. The chaos. James Rekson walked through the halls, narrating his actions in a cold, detached voice. It was worse than I remembered.

After a few minutes, the man paused the video.

“Record what you can. It’s the only way to hold onto it.”

I pulled out my phone, hands trembling, and started recording. The video continued, James entering a classroom, raising his gun as students begged for their lives. I could hardly keep the camera steady as the horror unfolded before me.

And then, it happened.

The laptop flickered again. The video disappeared. My phone shut off mid recording. When I turned it back on, the video was gone.

The man slammed his fist on the desk, cursing under his breath. “They’re onto us. You need to leave. Now.”

I barely made it out of that farmhouse when I heard tires crunching on gravel. A black SUV pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the dark. Two men in suits stepped out, their movements calm and deliberate.

I didn’t stop running until I was deep in the trees, my heart racing. I never saw the man again.

Now, I’m back to square one. The truth is still out there, but it’s buried deeper than ever. It’s not just erased it’s hunted. Someone, something, is doing everything they can to keep it hidden.

The manifesto, the livestream, the pieces of that day—they’re still out there. But every time someone tries to remember, tries to hold onto it, it disappears again.

If you ever find anything, anything at all that connects to what happened that day, be careful. They’re watching, and they’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the truth never sees the light of day.