Hello, campers. Grab your marshmallows and gather around the true crime campfire.

We're your camp counselors. I'm Katie and I'm Whitney.

And we're here to tell you a true story that is way stranger than fiction.

We're roasting murderers and marshmallows around the

true crime campfire.

Fantasy is part of being human.

Sometimes we all need to tell ourselves stories, escape from the ordinary every day.

We spend luxurious amounts of time and money on this, in daydreams, in books, movies, games, music.

It's something both quintessentially human and tantalizingly magical to give ourselves over to fantasy.

And most of us have no trouble knowing where to stop. For those of us who haven't figured that out though, things can get sticky.

Our real lives, real responsibilities, real relationships, can begin to recede into the background.

The things that once mattered most can start to pale in comparison to the fairy tale we've woven.

The people who love us can start to seem like people in a story, people in a dream.

And as Shakespeare once put it, that way lies madness.

We're about to tell you a story about a group of people who fell into this trap, and some of them never got out again.

This is when nerds attack three, Prince of Dorkness, Rod Farrell. So, campers, were in Eustace Florida, November 25, 1996. 17-year-old Jennifer Windorf was late for curfew

and she pulled into the driveway of her house.

Like teenagers everywhere, she was hoping she could slip past her folks and not get busted.

She had a moment of huh, when she noticed her parents Ford Explorer wasn't in the driveway where it belonged, but she didn't think much of it.

When she got inside, she immediately noticed that the cord for the phone in the living room had been pulled out.

She thought it must be some kind of drama about her younger sister Heather's phone bill.

15-year-old Heather had been racking up bills lately talking long distance to a guy friend of hers who'd moved to

...