Chapter 2: Welcome to the Midwest’s Dark Side

I’ll try to tell this story as calmly as I can.

My hands still shake a little as I type, but I’m determined to get it right. I want this account to last—to be more than just another forgotten warning floating around Reddit or Facebook.

And to make sure this account lasts, I’ll use less sensitive words for certain places—like ‘park’ for the scam compound, or ‘scam park’ for the operation itself—so don’t worry, it won’t affect your reading.

I won’t name every street or building, but the truth will come through loud and clear. If you’ve ever spent time in the Midwest—places like Ohio, Indiana, or Illinois—some of these details will sound familiar, maybe even eerily so.

Before I get into my own experience, let me first explain what kind of people end up in Silver Hollow.

I can say with confidence: eighty percent of them aren’t worth pitying.

Eighty percent—think about how scary that ratio is. These folks know exactly what they’re getting into before they go. They know their targets are mostly fellow Americans, and they’re hustlers, drifters, opportunists looking for a quick buck.

They use all sorts of tricks to sneak themselves in, dreaming of easy money, but once they arrive, they’re treated like dirt—like criminals, not people.

Some parks target overseas victims with foreign platforms, but that’s rare. Ninety percent—maybe even all—of the parks focus on scamming Americans, luring them with promises that never come true.

The place I was tricked into going was Silver Hollow, way out in the far Midwest—think somewhere lost between cornfields and old rail yards.

It’s a chaotic place, with fighting still going on—rumors of turf wars and street brawls.

Especially now—many of the ferry crossings have closed for good, I hear, and the law’s always on edge.

So, there’s no way to go through official channels; everyone gets in by sneaking over, cutting corners, or trusting the wrong people.

And the smuggling is practically out in the open—like something out of a local news exposé.

You hear stories about folks bribing border agents or hitching rides with sketchy truckers. It’s the kind of thing that makes small-town sheriffs nervous and neighbors gossip over the fence about who’s coming and going.

The other twenty percent really were tricked—they had no idea what was happening, some didn’t even know they were going to Silver Hollow at all. They’re the ones you hear about in missing persons reports, the ones who just vanish.

I’m one of that twenty percent.

Among us, the escape rate is the highest—maybe because we’re desperate, always watching for a chance.

Back then, every morning when I opened my eyes, I’d think about how to get away; every night, I’d dream about escaping, replaying plans and failed attempts.

But among us, the death rate is also the highest. Some didn’t make it out. Some never even tried. The odds were stacked against us from the start, and survivor’s guilt sticks with you—it’s a chip on your shoulder you can’t shake.