South L.A.'s Ghosts: The Horrific Crimes of Chester Turner and His Forgotten Victims

The Monster of South Los Angeles

There’s a ghost that roams the streets of South Los Angeles, but this one isn't from your grandmother's bedtime stories. It isn’t some wispy thing rattling chains or wailing in the dead of night. No, this ghost is flesh and bone—big hands and dead eyes, lurking in the shadowy corners of alleys and beneath overpasses. This ghost is Chester Dewayne Turner, and his story is a slow, creeping nightmare that crawls up your spine and makes your skin prickle with fear.

They say every place has its own monster. Some come with fangs, some with claws. Some look just like the man next door. Chester was that kind of monster—the worst kind, the one that walks among us, unnoticed, blending in like a shadow under the midday sun. His killing spree began in 1987 and stretched over a decade, a reign of terror that left a trail of bodies across South L.A., each one telling a tale of horror and neglect. Fifteen women, maybe more, all claimed by a man who stalked them like a wolf in the night. And here, my dear reader, is how it all went down.

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Chapter 1: A City in Shadows

The city had a sickness. The newspapers called it "the Southside Slayer," a ghost that struck with cold precision, stealing the lives of women who lived in the shadows of society. Chester Turner wasn't the only boogeyman lurking around Los Angeles back then; there were others—men like Richard Ramirez and the Grim Sleeper—but Chester had his own way of doing things. His hunger wasn’t like theirs. It wasn't a flash of bloodlust or a sudden burst of rage. It was methodical, a dark ritual in the night. He’d wait, patient as a spider, spinning his web and pulling them in.

He didn’t look like much—just another face in a crowd. He was a tall, gangly man with a slouch that made him seem almost harmless. Almost. But Chester's eyes were dead. If you looked into them long enough, you’d see something hollow, like a tunnel leading into a deep, black nowhere. A place where screams echo and die.

His first known victim was Diane Johnson, a young woman barely out of her teens. She was found in an alley behind some run-down houses, her body twisted like a broken doll, her eyes wide open, staring up at a sky that hadn’t seen the sun in days. Her throat was bruised, her lips blue. The way they found her, you’d think she’d been terrified right out of her skin. But back in those days, the cops didn’t look too hard when a woman like Diane went missing. She was a drug addict, a streetwalker—a ghost already. And that’s what made her perfect for Chester.

They didn’t catch him then. No, they chalked it up to the "Southside Slayer" and moved on, leaving Chester to prowl the streets, always looking, always hungry.

Chapter 2: Feeding the Darkness

It wasn’t long before he struck again. Annette Ernest, just 26, was next. They found her in the middle of a road, like something out of a nightmare, left there for everyone to see. She wasn’t hidden away, no. She was a message. To whom, nobody knew. The cops scratched their heads and shrugged. Another dead girl in South Central, another dead-end lead.

Then came Anita Fishman in 1989. She was 31, a mother, clinging to the last shreds of her life as addiction chewed at her bones.

Chester found her easy prey. He did what he did best—choked the life right out of her. Left her there, discarded in a parking lot like yesterday’s trash. The city went on. Nobody noticed the pattern yet, not the way Chester did.

Regina Washington came next, a young woman with a secret swelling in her belly—a child not yet born. Regina was six months pregnant when Chester wrapped his hands around her throat. She gasped and kicked, but Chester didn’t stop. He never did.

Two lives gone in a single breath. She was found like the rest, discarded, forgotten. The newspapers didn’t make much fuss over her. Just another headline on page five, right below the ad for used cars.

Chapter 3: The Devil's Playground

By now, Chester was comfortable. He knew these streets better than anyone. Every dark alley, every abandoned building, every place where screams would go unheard.

Debra Williams was next, then Mary Edwards. He hunted them like a wolf stalking the sick and weak from the herd. He found them, lured them, took them to places where the shadows had teeth.

And Chester liked to strangle them. There was something intimate about it, something personal. You see, with a gun or a knife, you get some distance.

You can kill without feeling it. But with your hands? You have to feel every breath leave their body. You have to look them in the eyes as they realize it’s over, as they beg for a mercy that never comes.

Andrea Triplett met her fate in 1993, followed by Desarae Jones. One by one, they fell. Natalie Price, Mildred Beasley, Paula Vance—all of them found with the same signature. Chester didn’t just kill; he devoured.

Chapter 4: The Reckoning

The city tried to forget about these women, but their ghosts wouldn’t stay quiet.

Their families mourned, sure, but there was something more—a sense that the dead were restless.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, people claimed they could hear whispers coming from those dark alleys, voices crying out from under bridges, and abandoned lots.

They said it was the wind, but those who knew better could feel it. The women were crying out, their cold hands reaching from the grave for justice.

Chester, though, wasn’t worried. He moved like smoke through the city, invisible, invincible.

Until 2002, that is. That’s when he slipped up. He assaulted another woman, but this one, she survived. She fought back, clawing at his face, drawing blood. And that blood would be his undoing. The cops took a sample, tossed it into a database, and forgot about it.

But the dead don’t forget.

In 2004, that DNA found a match. Chester’s reign was over. They linked him to the murders, and suddenly, the phantom of South Los Angeles had a name, a face. And it wasn’t some boogeyman with fangs or horns. It was just Chester, a tall, thin man with a slouch, looking like he could disappear into the shadows at any moment. But this time, there was nowhere left to hide.

Chapter 5: Judgment Day

The trial was a spectacle. They brought out all the evidence, the DNA, the testimonies, the whole ugly mess laid bare for everyone to see.

The jury took one look at Chester and knew—they could see the darkness in him, the emptiness.

When he was convicted of ten murders in 2007 and then four more in 2014, he just stood there, eyes as dead as ever.

They gave him the death penalty, twice over. But it didn’t bring those women back, and it didn’t stop their whispers in the night.

Chester Turner sits on death row now, waiting for the needle or the noose, whatever the state decides to do with him.

But the women he took—they’re still out there, their ghosts wandering the streets of South Los Angeles, searching for the light that was stolen from them.

And sometimes, when the wind howls just right, you can still hear them calling.

Not for vengeance, no, but for remembrance. They want you to know they were here, that they mattered, that they were loved once and they are still loved now.

But Chester, oh, he’ll never hear those voices. He’s in a different kind of hell, one that’s cold and quiet, where the only sound is his own breath echoing in the dark.

He always liked the quiet, after all.

"From Birmingham’s Streets to Tamworth’s Dungeons: A Tale of Terror and Ghostly Vengeance"

I. The Night They Came

There’s a darkness that settles over Birmingham when the last of the office workers have packed up, leaving the streets to the hum of streetlights and the distant wail of sirens. It’s a city that wears its history like a second skin—a history heavy with the weight of secrets buried beneath its cobblestones, and shadows that seem to linger just a little too long.

Ghost Hunter Tours had seen their share of these shadows, having investigated some of the most haunted places in the UK. But nothing had quite prepared them for the call they received one rainy Tuesday afternoon. The team had been lounging in their small Birmingham office—a converted flat above a fish-and-chip shop—when the phone rang.

Gary Taylor answered on the second ring, his voice gruff. “Ghost Hunter Tours, Gary speaking.”

The voice on the other end was breathy, tinged with a fear that made the hairs on the back of Gary’s neck stand up. “You’ve got to come to Tamworth Castle,” the man said. “Something… something terrible has happened. It’s in the papers—people are saying it’s a ghost, but it’s more than that. I’ve seen it.”

Gary was used to these kinds of calls—people frightened out of their minds by creaks in the floorboards or cold drafts in old houses. But there was something in this man’s voice that set his nerves on edge. “We’ll be there tonight,” Gary said, jotting down the details.

He hung up the phone and turned to the others. “We’ve got a job. Tamworth Castle.”

Andrew Ayres, tall and lanky with a shock of dark hair, raised an eyebrow. “Tamworth? That place has been haunted for centuries. What’s new?”

Gary shrugged, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Apparently, it’s bad. The locals are scared, and if they’re calling us, it means they’re desperate.”

Amy Slaney, the lead investigator, leaned forward, her face lit with the kind of excitement that only comes when you’re chasing down something truly dangerous. “I’ve heard stories about that place—things that make you question whether the dead are really at peace.”

Cathy, a newer member of the team from their Midland branch, shivered despite the warmth of the room. “I’ve always felt something off about Tamworth. Like it’s holding onto something… angry.”

Gary nodded. “Then we’re all agreed. We head out at dusk.”

II. Birmingham’s Dark Core

Before heading to Tamworth, the team decided to check out a series of strange occurrences reported in Birmingham’s city center—events that had caught their attention just days before the call from Tamworth. Shop owners had been complaining of objects moving on their own, whispers in the dark corners of their stores, and the unsettling feeling of being watched.

They split up, each taking a different section of the center. Gary and Cathy took the Bullring, the city’s bustling shopping area now eerily deserted in the early evening hours. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of rain, and the glow from the storefronts did little to chase away the growing sense of unease.

“It’s quiet,” Cathy remarked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Too quiet.”

Gary nodded, his eyes scanning the empty walkways. “It’s the kind of quiet that feels wrong. Like the city’s holding its breath.”

As they moved deeper into the center, they began to notice it—the subtle shifting of shadows just out of the corner of their eyes, the faintest echo of footsteps behind them, and a coldness that seemed to radiate from the very ground beneath their feet. Cathy’s hand tightened around the EMF meter she carried, the device crackling with static.

“Do you see that?” she asked, pointing to a darkened alley between two buildings.

Gary followed her gaze, his stomach twisting with a sudden, inexplicable dread. In the gloom of the alley, a figure stood motionless—a tall, thin man dressed in old-fashioned clothing, his face obscured by shadow. The figure’s head tilted slightly as if acknowledging their presence, and then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

“What the hell…” Gary muttered, taking a step forward, but Cathy grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice trembling. “I have a feeling whatever that was, it’s connected to Tamworth.”

Gary nodded slowly, pulling out his phone to call the others. It was time to leave Birmingham’s shadows behind and head for the castle.

III. The Haunting of Tamworth Castle

The road to Tamworth was shrouded in mist, the headlights of their van cutting through the dense

fog like a knife. The castle loomed ahead, its ancient walls bathed in the pale glow of the moon. As they parked and unloaded their equipment, a sense of foreboding settled over the team.

Tamworth Castle was a place steeped in history, its stones soaked with the blood and tears of centuries past. It had witnessed wars, betrayals, and deaths, and its halls were said to be haunted by the spirits of those who had met untimely ends within its walls.

Amy led the team through the castle’s entrance, the heavy door creaking ominously as it swung open. The interior was cold and dark, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and decay. Their footsteps echoed in the silence, a reminder that they were alone—except for whatever waited for them in the shadows.

They set up their equipment in the Great Hall, a vast, cavernous space dominated by a massive fireplace that had long since gone cold. The flickering lights from their torches cast eerie shadows on the walls, and every creak and groan of the ancient building seemed amplified in the oppressive silence.

Andrew busied himself with the thermal camera, scanning the room for any signs of activity. “Nothing so far,” he reported, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

Gary, holding the EVP recorder, sat down on a wooden bench and cleared his throat. “If there’s anyone here with us, please make yourself known,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the hall.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, from somewhere deep within the castle, came a low, rumbling growl—a sound that sent a shiver of primal fear through every member of the team.

Amy turned to the others, her face pale. “Did anyone else hear that?”

Cathy nodded, her eyes wide with fear. “It sounded… angry.”

Gary stood up, his heart pounding in his chest. “Let’s move. We need to find out where that came from.”

They made their way through the castle’s winding corridors, the air growing colder with each step. The growling sound continued, growing louder, more distinct, until it was clear that it was coming from beneath them—from the castle’s dungeons.

The entrance to the dungeons was a narrow, stone staircase leading down into darkness. As they descended, the temperature dropped further, their breath visible in the frigid air. The growling had stopped, replaced by a heavy silence that pressed in on them from all sides.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, their torches revealing a series of damp, crumbling cells. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and something far worse—something old and rotten, like decaying flesh.

In the furthest cell, they saw it—a shadowy figure crouched in the corner, its back to them. It was the same figure Gary and Cathy had seen in Birmingham, but now, in the close confines of the dungeon, it seemed far more menacing.

The figure turned slowly, revealing a gaunt, hollow-eyed face twisted in a rictus of rage. Its eyes locked onto the team, and it let out a scream—a sound so filled with pain and hatred that it reverberated through the very stone of the castle.

Amy raised her voice above the din. “We need to cleanse this place! Now!”

They scrambled to pull out their tools—sage, holy water, and amulets. But the figure surged forward, its form becoming more solid, more real, as it approached. The temperature plummeted further, and the lights from their torches flickered wildly.

“Gary!” Andrew shouted, tossing him the vial of holy water. “Use it!”

With a desperate cry, Gary uncorked the vial and splashed the water at the figure. The reaction was immediate and violent—the figure recoiled, its form dissolving into a thick, black mist that filled the cell. The mist swirled around them, buffeting them with an icy wind before it was sucked into the cracks and crevices of the walls, vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared.

The team stood in the silence that followed, their breaths ragged, their hearts racing. The oppressive atmosphere had lifted, replaced by an eerie calm.

Andrew was the first to speak, his voice hoarse. “What the hell was that?”

Gary shook his head, still trying to process what had just happened. “I don’t know. But whatever it was, I think it’s gone.”

Amy looked around, her eyes narrowing. “For now. But we need to report this. Something about Tamworth—and maybe even Birmingham—has changed.

This isn’t over.”

Cathy nodded, still visibly shaken. “We need to be ready. Because if it comes back…”

Gary finished her thought, his voice grim. “We’ll be waiting.”

Bullseye Killer: The Double Life of a Serial Murderer

John William Cooper, a name synonymous with terror in the Welsh town of Pembrokeshire, was born on September 3, 1944. His life was a stark contrast of two seemingly incompatible personas.

On one hand, he was a seemingly ordinary man, a family man with a job and a reputation for being friendly and helpful.

On the other, he was a cold-blooded killer who committed some of the most horrific crimes in the region's history.

The truth about Cooper's double life began to unravel in the mid-1980s.

In 1985, two young siblings, Richard and Helen Thomas, were found brutally murdered in their home. The police were baffled, the killer leaving no trace of his identity.

Five years later, the specter of violence returned to Pembrokeshire. Another set of siblings, Peter and Gwenda Dixon, were discovered dead in their cottage, victims of a savage attack that mirrored the earlier murders.

As the investigation into these crimes, dubbed the "Pembrokeshire Murders" or the "Coastal Murders," progressed, the police were met with a wall of silence.

The killer seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving behind only a trail of blood and shattered lives.

However, there was a twist in the tale.

In the mid-1980s, Cooper appeared on the popular British game show "Bullseye." This seemingly mundane detail would later prove to be a crucial piece of evidence in the case.

In 1996, Cooper's dark secret was finally exposed. He was arrested and subsequently convicted of the double murders of the Thomas and Dixon families.

The evidence against him was overwhelming, including DNA evidence linking him to the crime scenes and the testimony of witnesses who recognized him from his appearance on "Bullseye."

Cooper was sentenced to a whole life order, meaning he would spend the rest of his days behind bars.

His crimes had shattered the lives of countless people, and his conviction brought a sense of closure to a long and painful ordeal.

The story of John William Cooper serves as a chilling reminder that appearances can be deceiving. Beneath the facade of a seemingly ordinary man, a monster lurked, capable of unspeakable acts of violence.