If you see a man with one painted fingernail, here’s what it means

When Elliot Costello and a group of other people visited Cambodia, he had an encounter with a young girl named Thea.

Little did Elliot know that this encounter would have an impact so profound on him that it would help start a movement whose goal is to end sexual abuse against children.

Namely, Thea always had nail polish on her tiny nails. One day, as she and Elliot chatted, she asked to paint one of his nails. He agreed and was happy to speak to the chatty girl, but he then learned that she was once a victim of sexual abuse.

“As she painted one of my nails, I assured her I would always keep it that way to remember her, and by extension, her suffering,” Elliot said.

This motivated Elliot to try and make positive change among men so that less and less children fall victims of sexual abuse.

That is when he came up with the movement called #PolishedMan where men put nail polish on one of their nails. That one nail represents the one in five children who will be victims of sexual violence.

Polished Man works towards ending sexual violence against children. According to the organization, “being a Polished Man means challenging violent behavior and language, both locally and globally.”

Elliot believes that since men are responsible for 96% of this type of violence against children globally, they should be catalyst for change if we are ever to see an end to the abuse of innocent children.

The goal with the painted nail isn’t just to remind people of the number of children who are abused every single day, but to serve as a conversation starter about this reality, leading to new ideas about prevention. He also hopes that people will start donating to “support educational programs and resources for child survivors of abuse,” as per APlus.

We hope that more men, including celebrities would be willing to join this movement.

I Opened a Mysterious Door in My Cellar—Now I Regret Everything

I never believed in hidden doors or secret rooms; those were things from mystery stories. But when Florence and I decided to renovate our cellar, we found more than just a door behind the old wallpaper. It was something we were never meant to discover, and now, I wish I had never opened it.

You never truly understand a house until you’ve lived in it for some time. That’s what I always believed. Florence and I bought this old Victorian house five years ago. We called it our dream home. It had history, charm, and unique details, the kind of house with a past you could feel in every room.

When we started the renovation project, we thought we knew what we were getting into. The cellar was dark, damp, and unused. Peeling wallpaper and cracked tiles told us it hadn’t been touched in years. But we were excited about turning it into a useful space, maybe a wine cellar or storage room. That’s when we noticed something odd—a section of the wall that didn’t match the rest.

In the back corner, we found something even stranger: an old wooden chest, covered in dust and cobwebs. It was locked, but the lock seemed weak, like it could easily break. Florence begged me to leave it alone, but I was too curious. I forced it open, and what I saw made my heart race.

Inside were old documents, letters written in a language I didn’t understand, and something wrapped in a faded cloth. When I unwrapped it, I froze. It was a small, strange object that didn’t belong in this world. Florence screamed and ran out of the cellar, terrified.

I should have followed her, but I was too deep into it. I put everything back in the chest and closed the door, but the feeling that something had changed wouldn’t leave me. Since that day, things have been different. Strange noises, cold drafts, and shadows moving where they shouldn’t.

Now, I regret opening that door. Florence refuses to go back into the cellar, and I can’t sleep at night. I don’t know what we uncovered, but I fear we’ve let something into our home that we can’t control. Every day, I wish I had just left the door hidden behind the wallpaper, where it belonged.

Now, the cellar remains locked. I’ve sealed the door with heavy boards, hoping that will keep whatever we disturbed at bay. Florence refuses to go near it, and our once happy home feels suffocating with the tension between us. It’s like the house itself has changed, like it’s watching us.

At night, I hear whispers coming from the floor below. I try to convince myself it’s just the wind or my imagination, but deep down, I know something’s wrong. The object I found in the chest haunts my thoughts—I’ve hidden it away, but it’s like it calls to me. Florence says I need to get rid of it, but I’m too afraid to touch it again.

I tried contacting the previous owners, but they didn’t know anything about the hidden room. They had lived here briefly before selling the house. No one in the neighborhood seems to know its history, and records of the house are vague. It’s like this part of the house was meant to stay forgotten.

I keep telling myself everything will be fine if I just leave it alone, but the strange occurrences are getting worse. Lights flicker, doors creak open on their own, and sometimes, I catch glimpses of something moving in the dark corners. It feels like the house is alive—angry that we disturbed its secret.

Florence is talking about moving, and maybe she’s right. But part of me knows that whatever we let out, whatever we disturbed, might not stay behind. And now, I wonder if sealing that door was just the beginning of something far more terrifying.