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Please do not suffer in silence. It was a Saturday afternoon in Brazil.

August 20th, 1966.

On the outskirts of Nittroy, a city just across the bay from Rio de Janeiro, the sky was

mostly clear, the air still heavy with the remnants of a recent rain.

On Vintame Hill, where the overgrowth spills across the rocky slopes and

kids often came to fly kites, a teenager was doing just that, guiding a paper kite through

the breeze, watching it tug at the sky. He wasn't looking for anything unusual, but still,

he found it. Part way up the hill, half hidden in the grass and brush, something stopped

him in his tracks. What he saw looked at first like mannequins, two figures lying side by side

in the brush, almost too still to seem real. When he got closer, he realized they weren't

mannequins at all. They were men, dead men. Both of them were dressed strangely for the setting. Both were

wearing formal suits, waterproof coats buttoned over top, and most bizarrely, metallic-looking

mask over their eyes. The kind of masks that did not belong to any recognizable uniform, crude,

hand cut from thick sheet lead, shaped to fit the face like

sunglasses without arms, but without openings. They were just there, still quiet,

side by side, faces to the sky. The boy ran. He told his mother, who told the police. When

authorities arrived later that evening, they found exactly what he had described.

...