In the summer of 1984, four Minnesota teenagers hit the road, full of excitement and youth, bound for a Prince concert that promised to be the highlight of their year. Among them was 16-year-old John Bulwar, riding shotgun, his laughter blending with the music on the radio as they sped down a quiet rural highway. But somewhere along that winding stretch, joy turned to tragedy — the driver lost control, and the car slammed into a tree at full speed.

John was killed instantly, his neck broken by the impact. The others survived with only minor injuries. To the police, it seemed like a tragic accident — sudden, senseless, and heartbreakingly ordinary. Until the film came back.

When investigators developed the photographs from the crash scene, one image stopped them cold. Hovering above the wreckage, faint but undeniable, was the face of a young man — mouth open in a silent scream, eyes wide in anguish. The face matched John’s. Same curls. Same jawline. Same expression his mother had described when she last saw him — surprised, half-smiling.

Dubbed “The Screaming Spirit,” the photograph spread through local newspapers and then across the country. Experts tried to debunk it — citing possible double exposure, film damage, or light refraction — but no technical explanation held up. The negative was clean. The other photos from the same roll were normal.

For believers, it became proof of something unearthly: a soul caught between worlds, frozen in the moment of its own violent departure. Some claimed to see faint outlines beside the face — a small dog, perhaps, or a halo of light — as though something had come to guide him.

To this day, the photo remains locked in archives and whispered about in paranormal circles. Whether a trick of the lens or a glimpse beyond the veil, the image of John Bulwar’s “Screaming Spirit” endures — a haunting echo of youth, death, and the thin line between what we can explain… and what we can’t.

 

 

This is Jodi Huisentruit, a 27-year-old TV news anchor who vanished on her way to work one summer morning in Iowa.

On June 27, 1995, Jodi called her producer at 4 a.m. to say she had overslept but was on her way in. She never made it. Hours later, police found her car still in the apartment parking lot. The key was bent in the lock. Her high heel, hairspray, earrings, and a hairdryer were scattered on the ground, signs of a sudden struggle. Drag marks near the car suggested she was taken quickly, without a chance to scream.

Jodi had told friends she felt like someone was watching her in the weeks before she disappeared. A white truck was spotted near her place, and she’d started taking self-defense classes. But whoever grabbed her that morning left almost nothing behind.

No trace of Jodi has ever been found. She was declared legally dead in 2001, but the case remains open, haunted by suspects, theories, and dead ends. Thirty years later, her disappearance is still one of Iowa’s darkest mysteries, a story frozen in time at the edge of a parking lot.

 

Opinion of a local resident.

 

Jake Whitehurst:

I’m from here and there never seemed to be an effort into the investigation. Especially back then in the summer of ‘95. There are some things to consider this. If I’m not mistaken, at or around that time period, there was some investigation or something going on with the MCPD and corruption. I can remember reading about it in the paper. A local civil rights activist was involved with it. This individual was going after the police for being crooked and corrupt. In what manner, I’m not sure. I’m pretty sure all those officers who were involved with the investigation are still on duty. There was a story I read not too long ago about how they all pretty much went to the top with promotions and what not since this happened. Also at the time of this, the post read that they had confidential information that lived in the same apartment complex as Jodi. Not sure if it was the same building or not, but it for sure was the same property that would have shared parking lots. Evidently, the department paid for the apartment and let their snitch do his thing. Parties and I’m sure a lot of people coming and going all day and at odd hours after dark. Has anyone ever questioned the police officers who were around in that day who would have had contact with the snitch?

 

Mojo wasn’t supposed to survive.

When animal control brought him into the shelter, he didn’t even look like a puppy. His skin was raw, cracked, and bleeding. He had no fur. He was covered in mange so severe that his entire little body was one giant scab. He could barely lift his head.

Most people looked away.

But one guy didn’t.

Joey Wagner, who runs a small rescue in Nova Scotia, saw Mojo and instantly knew this dog had been fighting for his life. He looked into Joey’s eyes, and Joey said it felt like the dog was silently begging: “Please don’t leave me.”

Joey didn’t.

He scooped Mojo up and drove him straight to the vet himself. No paperwork, no waiting. He wasn’t just “another dog.” He was his responsibility now.

Mojo was put into intensive care. IVs, meds, baths, pain treatment. Slowly… he started to heal. His tail even wagged a little. The staff fell in love with him. Everyone was rooting for him.

After a week, he was stable.

After two weeks, he was playful.

After a month, he was ready for adoption.

The shelter set up a meeting with the adopter.

Mojo waited on the table, nervous, curious…

Then the door opened.

It was Joey.

Mojo FROZE. Then absolutely LOST IT.

He launched into Joey’s arms, crying, tail whipping like crazy, licking his whole face. He knew. He REMEMBERED who saved him.

And Joey? He didn’t say a word. He just held him.

Because there was no “adoption” that day.

There was only going home.

Today, Mojo lives with Joey. Happy. Healthy. Covered in fur. Sleeping in bed. Loved like crazy.

And every time Joey sits down… Mojo still crawls into his lap.

Not all heroes wear capes.

Some just show up when everyone else walks away.

|#dogs | #doglover | #pawsome | #adoptdontshop | #rescuedogs |

 

Dogs instincts never lie.

 

Science has now confirmed it… dogs can truly sense bad people. They smell stress and fear through hormones like cortisol, and they notice the smallest changes in voice, movement, or scent.

Even if someone smiles, a dog can feel hidden anger or bad intentions. That’s why they growl at some strangers but instantly trust others. Their instincts never lie… they know who’s good and who’s not.

 

 

Today, we visited Ahavai Sholom Cemetery in Portland, Oregon—on a quiet summer morning near the anniversary of her passing—to honor Rebecca Schaeffer, a bright young talent whose life was cut short not by accident, but by the terrifying reality of obsession. Though she died on July 18, 1989, at just 21 years old, her story remains a heartbreaking reminder of the vulnerability that can accompany fame—and the urgent need to protect those who bring us joy on screen.

Born on November 6, 1967, in Eugene, Oregon, Rebecca began her career as a teen model before finding her true calling in acting. With her warm smile, natural charm, and grounded presence, she quickly made a name for herself in Hollywood. In 1986, she landed the role of Patty Russell on the CBS sitcom My Sister Sam, starring alongside Pam Dawber. The show, though short-lived, showcased her comedic timing and emotional sincerity—qualities that promised a long and meaningful career.

After the series ended, she transitioned to film, earning praise for her performance in Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills (1989), a dark comedy that revealed her range and willingness to take creative risks. She was on the cusp of something greater—auditioning for new roles, building a life in Los Angeles, and dreaming like so many do in that city of stars.

But her light was extinguished in the most senseless way. Robert John Bardo, a disturbed fan who had fixated on her through her TV persona, became enraged by her role in Class Struggle, interpreting it as a betrayal of the “pure” image he had constructed in his mind. Using a private investigator and publicly accessible DMV records, he tracked her down to her Los Angeles apartment. On the morning of July 18, he arrived at her door. She, ever kind, spoke with him and even returned an autograph he’d brought. When she asked him not to return, he left—only to come back an hour later with a gun hidden in a paper bag. He shot her in the chest at point-blank range.

She was rushed to the hospital but died within 30 minutes. Bardo fled but was arrested days later in Tucson and confessed. His crime sent shockwaves through Hollywood—not just for its brutality, but for how easily it could have been prevented.

Rebecca’s murder became a catalyst for change. Outraged by the ease with which stalkers could access personal information, California passed the Driver’s Privacy Protection Act, and the federal government followed with similar legislation. Her death helped rewrite the rules of celebrity safety—a legacy born of tragedy, but one that has saved lives.

At Ahavai Sholom Cemetery, her grave is peaceful and modest, nestled among the pines of her home state. There are no headlines here, only the quiet sorrow of a future unfulfilled—and the enduring love of a family, friends, and fans who remember her not as a victim, but as a vibrant young woman with a future full of promise.

Rest in peace, Rebecca Schaeffer.

Thank you for your light—and for the protections your loss inspired. May your story never be forgotten, and may your name always be spoken with love, not fear.

Suggested Hashtags:

#RebeccaSchaeffer #MySisterSam #AhavaiSholomCemetery #PortlandOR #July18 #RIP1989 #StalkingAwareness #Actress #TragicLoss #fblifestyle

 

Halloween pumpkin carver, 1902 Artist Joseph Bail Fines