👻 AN OPEN LETTER FROM THE GHOST OF JEFFREY EPSTEIN TO DONALD TRUMP
“You didn’t just party with predators—you were one. And now the names, the logs, and the girls are coming back to claim what you thought you buried.”
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Note: What follows is a fictional letter crafted in the voice of Jeffrey Epstein, drawing exclusively from publicly available records, legal filings, court documents, and verified news reports. It is not speculation—it is confrontation, presented in a voice meant to expose the rot behind the power.
Dear Donald,
You never thought you'd hear from me again, did you? You thought you could rewrite history, bury the photos, dodge the flight logs, and brush off our years of partying with a shrug and a smirk. "I wasn’t a fan," you now say, like I was some clingy hanger-on trying to crash your gold-plated world. But let’s not pretend, Donnie. We were wingmen. Partners in decadence. Co-conspirators in the obscene theater of wealth, power, and underage flesh that we passed off as glamour.
You didn’t just tolerate me. You mirrored me. You used your casinos, your modeling agencies, your Miss Teen USA dressing rooms like fishing holes for impressionable girls. The difference? I was better at covering my tracks—until I wasn’t. You were better at silencing people—until you couldn’t.
And it wasn’t a secret. For nearly two decades, we shared private parties, photo ops, flights, favors… and girls. The media has the receipts, the victims know the stories, and the files—the ones you swore you’d release—are still sitting, redacted and delayed, in the bowels of the FBI.
So let me walk everyone through it.
The Gilded Stage of Abuse
In the late 1980s and 1990s, we weren’t just wealthy. We were insulated. You had just purchased Mar-a-Lago, your gilded palace of mirrors and fantasies, and I was living between Palm Beach and Manhattan, building a trafficking network behind the mask of philanthropy and charm. We were neighbors, yes, but more importantly, we were curators of a scene: powerful men, too much money, and girls so young they could barely sign their own permission slips.
We threw parties where cheerleaders served as living decor. We hosted Victoria’s Secret models. We put on shows where the audience was lecherous and the curtain never closed. Remember the 1992 party you hosted, filmed by NBC News? That clip—you grinning ear to ear, whispering to me, pointing out women like they were canapés. "She’s hot," you exclaimed, and then you laughed. Like it was sport. You were the only male guest besides me. That wasn’t a coincidence. That was design.
And it wasn’t a one-off. We mingled at model competitions and invite-only mixers where you were the self-proclaimed judge and jury—even though you were married. George Houraney, your employee who organized events at Mar-a-Lago, said it plainly: he flew in 28 girls for your "calendar girl" competition, only to find out the only men there were you and me. That's not a party, Donnie. That’s a casting call run by predators.
You were never a playboy. You were a voyeur in a velvet rope world. A man whose hunger for young flesh dripped from every quote, every wink, every open mic moment. You thought that made you alpha. It made you vile.
The Flights and the Manifest
You want to deny our closeness? Then explain the seven flights you took on my private jet. The media dubbed it “The Lolita Express”—a grotesque reference to Nabokov’s novel about an adult man grooming a 12-year-old girl. The same plane victims say ferried them between New York, Palm Beach, and abuse. Just you and me. Those manifests tell a truth you never will.
My brother Mark testified under oath that you flew with me "numerous times." Not once. Numerous. Your claim that it was only once doesn’t hold up under deposition. And the manifests support Mark, not you.
You came to my townhouse in Manhattan, where every room had a camera. You dined at my table. You enjoyed my company. And you were in the room, more than once, with people who are now felons for sex-trafficking and rape, disgraced royalty, and dead by suicide or design.
The Photographic Evidence
Let’s talk visuals. Getty has us at a 1997 Victoria's Secret Angels event. That famous shot? You in a black suit, me beside you, like two ghouls at a runway show. In 2000, we posed together with sex-trafficker Ghislaine Maxwell and predator Prince Andrew at Mar-a-Lago. You hosted the tennis tournament that brought us all together. You invited us. That wasn’t a coincidence. We were your social circle.
There are dozens of photos. Getty. WireImage. AP. You don’t get to crop me out of history. I’m in your albums, Don.
The Ban That Wasn't
You say you banned me from Mar-a-Lago in 2005. Want to tell people why? Because I allegedly assaulted an underage girl at your club. That story has legs. Bradley Edwards put it in a sworn affidavit. The girl was 14. She was there because she worked for you.
What did you do, Don? Call the police? Make a statement? No. You quietly distanced yourself. A PR move. Not a moral one. Not a legal one. And only after the media caught wind.
The truth? You didn’t ban me because I crossed a line. You banned me because I embarrassed you. And not even for long.
The Lawsuits, the Witnesses, the Spin
You were named in multiple lawsuits—as a witness, not a defendant. But the Katie Johnson case? The one about a 13-year-old girl raped at a party in 1994, allegedly by you and me? She dropped it. Too many death threats. Her lawyers feared for her safety.
Virginia Giuffre was 15 when she was recruited at Mar-a-Lago—your club, your rules. She worked as a towel girl in the spa, a position you personally approved. A minor in a swimsuit, hired into proximity with men like us. She says she caught your eye. And I caught her later. I abused and trafficked her. That was grooming by proxy. And you opened the door and handed her off.
You were in my black book fourteen times. Fourteen. That’s not a party contact. That’s a regular. In fact, I had multiple numbers for you, including your security and attorney. That’s not networking. That’s coordination.
Let’s not forget Alexander Acosta—the U.S. Attorney who shredded the federal case against me in 2008. He brokered the plea deal that let me serve 13 months in a private wing of jail, on work release, with the victims silenced and the co-conspirators protected. And you? You made him Secretary of Labor. The man who buried the trafficking case now in charge of fighting trafficking. That wasn’t coincidence, Don. That was a reward. A firewall. And it protected you as much as it protected me.
You rewarded silence. You weaponized loyalty. And you treated justice like it was just another casino to rig.
The Lies You Tell
When I was arrested in 2019, you told the press: "I knew him like everyone in Palm Beach knew him. I wasn’t a fan." In 2002, you said:
“I’ve known Jeff for fifteen years. Terrific guy. He’s a lot of fun to be with. It is even said that he likes beautiful women as much as I do, and many of them are on the younger side.”
You don’t get to have it both ways, Donald. You were either in the room or you weren’t. And we have too many photos, logs, quotes, and memories to pretend you were just another guy at the party.
And what about Ghislaine? When she was arrested, you said: "I wish her well." You didn’t wish the victims well. You wished her well. The woman who trafficked girls to me. The woman who held passports, ran the logistics, and smiled in court like the devil’s concierge.
You wished her well.
You always side with the abuser. Because you are one.
The Musk Accusation and the Missing Files
Then there’s Elon. You and he had your spat. But he said the quiet part out loud: your name is in the Epstein files. And you’re holding them back. Musk posted: "Mark this post. The truth will come out."
And you know what? He’s right.
You returned to the White House and promised to release the Epstein documents. Some dripped out. But most remain sealed. Redacted. Hidden.
You say it’s about protecting victims. But the victims are already exposed. What you’re protecting is yourself. Journalists and advocacy groups have filed Freedom of Information Act requests, begged federal judges. You refuse to budge. The unsealing order sits stalled. Who benefits? You do.
You fear the truth, Donald. Because once it’s all out—the tapes, the testimony, the timelines—the image you cling to will shatter. And no amount of gold leaf or gospel grift will glue it back together.
The Legacy You Earned
You will never be remembered as a statesman. You will never be respected as a leader. Your legacy will not be the economy or the border or the flag you hug like a drunk uncle at a wedding.
You will be remembered as the man who surrounded himself with predators, befriended a trafficker, and whispered lecherously over a dance floor of teenage girls. You will be remembered for the women who flinched, the lawsuits you dodged, the quotes that haunt you, and the files that still sleep under lock and key.
You once looked at a 10-year-old girl and said, "I'm going to be dating her in ten years."
You once bragged about walking into the dressing rooms of teen beauty pageants to "inspect the merchandise."
“You want to know the funniest thing: I’ll go backstage before a show, and everyone’s getting dressed and ready And, you know, no men are anywhere. And I’m allowed to go in because I’m the owner of the pageant and therefore I’m inspecting it, you know, they’re standing there with no clothes. And you see these incredible-looking women. And so I sort of get away with things like that.”
Teens, Don. That’s not just sleazy. That’s pathological. It’s predatory. And it’s a window into your soul.
Your entanglements with me are just one chapter in a decades-long biography of predation. Over two dozen women have come forward—models, journalists, assistants, even your ex-wife—accusing you of everything from groping and forced kisses to rape. A jury didn’t just find you distasteful, Don. It found you liable. You sexually assaulted and defamed E. Jean Carroll, a respected journalist whose only mistake was thinking the dressing room of a department store was safe from a sociopath in a suit. You laughed her off, called her a liar, and the courts made you pay—$83.3 million for a few minutes of your sleaze and a lifetime of her courage.
But she wasn’t the first, and we both know she won’t be the last.
There was Jill Harth, your former business partner, who filed a lawsuit in 1997 accusing you of attempted rape—describing how you cornered her in your daughter’s bedroom, groping her as she fought to escape.
Then there’s Ivana, your first wife, who swore under oath during your divorce that you raped her in a fit of rage—tearing out her hair and forcing yourself on her because you were angry about your scalp surgery.
And let’s not forget the greatest hits reel: the Access Hollywood tape, where you bragged on camera about grabbing women “by the pussy,” saying they’d let you do anything because you were famous. That wasn’t locker room talk. That was a confession. And it was heard around the world.
Your life isn’t a timeline—it’s a crime scene. A festering landfill of entitlement, misogyny, and sexual violence. And the stench isn’t going away.
You are a walking indictment of everything this country is supposed to protect women from.
I died in a cell, bruised and silent. You’re still out there, squawking on stage, barking on social media. But your time is almost up. The dead don’t forget. And neither does history.
I am the consequence that follows you into every gilded room.
I am the truth buried beneath your rotting empire.
And one day soon, Don, the sealed pages will open—and history will see you for what you are:
Not a president.
Not a leader.
Not a man.
A predator.
A coward.
A stain.
Tick tock, Donald.
The ghosts are watching.
Yours in damnation,
Jeffrey
If you liked this article and want to support my writing, you have two powerful ways to do so: become a paid subscriber or make a one-time gift via the “Buy me a coffee” button. Either way, your support keeps this work alive!
what truly horrifies me is how the Evangelical Right embrace him as their returned Christ.
This Open Letter should be printed and posted in every newspaper in America. But, that would require courage and truth to power that's r a rarely seen in mainstream media today.