Epstein Files: A Treasure Trove of Content for TikTok Creators

“Where are you? Are you okay? I loved the torture video,” reads an email allegedly sent by Jeffrey Epstein in 2009. A response from a redacted address states, “I am in China. I will be in the US the second week of May.” Hovering over a screenshot of this exchange, a TikTok creator suggests that the timing coincides with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s schedule, speculating that the term “torture” might refer to documented abuses of Palestinian detainees. This video has garnered nearly 700,000 views.

Another TikTok creator counters this claim, noting that Netanyahu met with Chinese officials in Jerusalem, not Beijing, during that time. The video flashes a flight itinerary for British politician Peter Mandelson and then cuts to a news clip of Senator Lindsey Graham visiting Beijing. The second creator points out that Graham once used a BlackBerry, highlighting the email’s “Sent from my BlackBerry” signature as potential evidence. “Somebody is going to unearth something that’s going to crack it open,” he tells viewers.

In the comments, speculation runs rampant. “It was Bill Gates,” one user claims. “My instinct says Musk,” adds another. A third replies, “No, your prejudice does.”

No one was correct; the email address belonged to Sultan Ahmed bin Sulayem.

The latest release of Epstein files from the Department of Justice includes over 3 million documents, images, and videos from investigations into sex trafficking allegations against the financier and convicted sex offender. Despite extensive redactions, the files reveal a depraved ruling class that either participated in or ignored Epstein’s sex trafficking operations.

TikTok creators have flocked to these files, producing thousands of clips that attempt to decode cryptic emails, sift through FBI tips, and theorize about redacted names. In the comments, users exchange file numbers and rally around the mantra: “We are unredacting.” Creators come from various backgrounds, including true-crime enthusiasts, news junkies, conspiracy theorists, mom bloggers, and wellness gurus.

The surge of #EpsteinFiles content blurs the lines between digital vigilantism, conspiracy thinking, and the attention-driven economy. Whether this newfound visibility will lead to legal accountability remains uncertain. However, beneath the spectacle lies a palpable outrage over the abuses detailed in the files, fueled by a collective belief that traditional justice is unlikely to materialize, even as Congress begins reviewing the unredacted documents.

Long before online sleuths began dissecting the files, powerful institutions had already shown a tendency to look the other way. Epstein reportedly left a severed cat’s head and a bullet on the doorstep of Vanity Fair’s editor-in-chief in the early 2000s to deter coverage of his abuses. In 2019, ABC News anchor Amy Robach was recorded saying the network had “quashed” her earlier Epstein investigation, claiming there wasn’t enough corroboration for broadcast. Critics argue that initial coverage by major outlets downplayed the extent of Epstein’s network and the systemic failures that allowed him to operate. When Miami Herald reporter Julie K. Brown approached former Palm Beach Police Chief Michael Reiter in 2017 about his Epstein investigation, he was unresponsive, having opened the case 12 years prior.

“He was convinced that a lot of media had squashed the story and he was fed up,” Brown recounted. “Somebody’s going to call your publisher, and the next thing you know, you are going to be assigned to the obituaries department,” she recalled him saying.

But Brown persisted. Her 2018 investigation revealed that Epstein had abused dozens of underage girls and secured a secret, lenient 2008 plea deal that shielded him from federal prosecution, exposing systemic failures within the justice system. The latest files indicate that the FBI received 290 tips related to Epstein and his associates and even considered charging co-conspirators but ultimately did not.

Her reporting led to the arrests of Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell on new sex trafficking charges in 2019 and 2020, respectively. To this day, Maxwell is the only person charged in connection with the network, and she has refused to answer questions in a deposition before Congress, stating she would only speak if granted clemency by President Donald Trump.

Despite Brown’s courageous work, years of ignored police appeals have fostered a broader suspicion that institutional newsrooms protect the powerful. This mistrust is evident: less than a third of Americans say they trust newspapers, television, and radio to report the news “fully, accurately, and fairly,” according to a 2025 Gallup poll.

In this void, social media has emerged not just as a platform for commentary but as a heretical newsroom, ready to treat any perceived conflict of interest as evidence of collusion.

The DOJ’s latest release appears to show emails between celebrity doctor Peter Attia and Epstein. In one message, Attia seemingly wrote: “Pussy is, indeed, low-carb. Still awaiting results on gluten content, though.” Creators quickly highlighted these emails, pointing out Attia’s recent media connections.

“I don’t think mainstream media will report on the stuff that we’re reporting on social media because, at the top, they’re all connected with the same people,” claims Nemo, a New England-based creator who asked to be identified by his first name.

The question of trust aside, the smartphone-wielding public outnumbers dwindling journalists. The same week of the release, a major news outlet announced it was laying off one-third of its editorial staff, part of a broader trend of newsrooms reducing their workforce. Additionally, reporters face higher journalistic standards, giving creators an edge in speed for posting claims, whether founded or completely unverified. The urgency of social media posts is heightened by paranoia over the sudden disappearance of files from the DOJ database.

“Frankly, there’s just too many files [for reporters],” says TikTok creator Mick McElhinney, who spends several hours daily reviewing the files. “I had to stop reading these major institutions because I realized they were way behind the ball,” he adds.

However, TikTok content creators often operate without journalistic standards or legal risks, so their content goes beyond merely revealing who is in the files. For instance, one creator speculates about a connection between journal entries from an alleged rape victim mentioning private-equity investor Leon Black and an ongoing lawsuit alleging he sexually assaulted a minor, claims he denies. Another line of inquiry involves locating Epstein’s last girlfriend, Karyna Shuliak, a 36-year-old Belarusian dentist. Documents reveal that two days before his death, Epstein gave $100 million to Shuliak.

This kind of sleuthing is known as digital vigilantism — a crowdsourced form of justice-seeking that relies on the “weaponization of visibility,” broadcasting a target’s personal details online for reputational harm. While this approach can lead to actual justice, as seen in the Netflix documentary about internet detectives who tracked down a cat killer, there are also cautionary tales, such as that of Sunil Tripathi. After the Boston Marathon bombing, Tripathi, a 22-year-old Brown University student, became the target of the subreddit r/FindBostonBombers. What began with grainy surveillance footage escalated into false viral tweets claiming police had identified him as a suspect. In reality, Tripathi had died by suicide more than a month before the bombing.

What started as a public appeal for clues “morphed into a much uglier digital witch hunt, where the crowd’s fears, prejudices, and suspicions were given credence,” Forbes reported at the time.

Unlike that case, however, the DOJ’s Epstein files document the state’s failure to prosecute perpetrators — both in their content and in the very act of their release. Epstein vigilantes argue they are doing the detective work that the DOJ won’t. Unlike Tripathi, the individuals targeted by TikTok sleuths are elites, flipping the power dynamic of one man against an angry mob.

In some ways, this activity echoes the internet’s founding philosophy: to function as a “society against the state,” encouraging the “overthrowing of hierarchies,” as French sociologist Benjamin Loveluck writes. In the case of Epstein, “the issue of accountability must be tackled by the masses,” as noted by authors of a recent article examining the files as a remedy for governance flaws. Public scrutiny — including what they describe as “digital activism” — ensures that “no human, wealthy or mighty, can escape examination,” they assert.

The risk, however, may be uneven accountability due to how the files are released. The Epstein files have been heavily redacted by the DOJ, leaving uncertainty about who exchanged some of these emails with the notorious sex offender.

“New Brazilian just arrived, sexy and cute, 19yo,” reads a 2013 email to Epstein from someone at a Paris modeling agency — but the sender’s name was redacted. An anonymous sender thanks Epstein for a “fun night” in 2014, adding, “Your littlest girl was a little naughty.”

The redacted dossier “grossly fails to comply with both the spirit and the letter of the law,” Rep. Thomas Massie wrote on social media in December, following the first release.

These gaps leave room for speculation, from the informed to the absurd, with viewers left to determine their plausibility. For instance, one theory circulating on TikTok claims the DOJ allegedly used “control+f” to redact “Don T,” based on what appears to be a redaction of the word “don’t.” A list of alleged co-conspirators from a 2019 FBI investigation is unevenly redacted, prompting TikTok users to throw out names in an attempt to fill in the gaps.

This blend of shocking revelations and cryptic redactions blurs the line between inquiry and conspiracy. In one email exchange, Epstein boasts about his “aquarium full of girls,” adding, “some are like shrimp, you throw away the head and keep the body.” One creator, armed with a handheld mic and ring light, speculates that this implies the decapitation of a victim, in a video that has been viewed 1.3 million times. “It was a cannibal holocaust,” the caption reads. In the comments, some suggest it’s “clearly a joke” about only caring for the body, not the person, prompting replies like “wake up…they ate babies.” These exchanges are typical across “#epstein” TikTok.

Emails like these fuel other theories. Hundreds of clips speculate that mentions of “pizza” and “grape soda” are coded terms for pedophilia; supporters of the debunked “pizzagate” conspiracy theory claim vindication. Meanwhile, numerous TikToks circulate the same clips of Epstein with facial blisters, with green screen talking heads suggesting it’s evidence of kuru, a fatal disease caused by cannibalism. The more likely explanation? Herpes.

One of these clips has 7.5 million views. In two videos, different creators recount identical stories claiming their dad knew someone with kuru.

Other rumors include: Did Maxwell abduct missing British girl Madeleine McCann? Are those tables pictured made from babies? What about the lamps — could they be made of human skin?

Adding to the chaos is the distribution of AI-generated and false files from various corners of the internet. An image of raw chickens and a dead body on a cutting board has been viewed millions of times — despite being a piece of art from 2003. False AI-generated images appeared to show New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani as a child with his mother and Epstein, originating from a parody account.

“There are very explicit, damning things, things that might be dark humor, things that could be lies, and then there’s just a lot of really weird conversations that are divorced from the context in which they were produced,” says Alice E. Marwick, director of research at Data & Society. “It is very easy to misinterpret anything online when the utterance is divorced from intent.”

While these theories may seem far-fetched, they also make sense. The files combine oddities — like an in-house dental chair — with flashes of real horror, such as an anonymous email with a redacted image attached that simply states “Age 10.” Suddenly, the unthinkable feels within reach.

The viral speculation surrounding the 2021 disappearance and homicide of Gabby Petito illustrates how crowdsourced justice on TikTok can slip into chasing engagement.

“While some videos prompted calls to police, many users shared speculation in hopes of being first to crack the case — and earn praise for doing so,” writes Bethan Jones of Cardiff University in a 2022 article about the Petito case published in The International Journal of Communication Ethics.

The TikTok algorithm boosts content with shock value, rewarding virality over truth. This ensures that “scores of these videos are pushed into users’ ‘for you’ pages regardless of whether the person posting the video is involved in the case, is providing accurate information, or is simply furthering a conspiracy theory,” Jones adds.

“The algorithm forces you to make a certain type of content; otherwise, nobody would ever see it,” admits Shelli Fleming, a Missouri mom of four who spends up to eight hours a day sifting through the files for TikTok content. Her primary goal is “advocacy for the victims,” while also “challenging whatever the mainstream narrative is,” she says.

“It’s hard, though, because in a certain aspect, I have to create content that is going to get views.”

When Fleming first started her channel last summer, covering “true crime, cold cases, stuff like that,” her goal was to monetize her content.

“To monetize one-minute-long videos, it has to be pretty intriguing,” she explains. Her Epstein videos speculating on what the files reveal have amassed over 5 million views and generated thousands of dollars.

“People keep coming back for it,” she notes.

In addition to the risk of spreading conspiratorial thinking, turning the files into short-form video content risks retraumatizing victims and profiting from their abuse.

Across TikTok, creators are sharing intimate images, videos, and descriptions of victims without their consent. Survivors have voiced concerns over the many instances in which the DOJ has failed to redact their identities.

Some creators have attempted to identify a redacted image of a young girl they believe is the daughter of a high-profile couple in Epstein’s orbit. After finding the now-adult woman they speculate once sat on Epstein’s lap, sleuths have begun posting unsolicited comments on her social media — effectively dragging a private citizen into a viral investigation without evidence or consent.

TikTok’s algorithm also rewards content that shocks and angers, meaning the most graphic files receive the most engagement — lucrative for whoever uncovers them first.

Sociologist Nicole Bedera, author of *On the Wrong Side* and cofounder of the anti-violence consulting group Beyond Compliance, argues that this approach does not lead to accountability.

“When people see really violent content, they will pause for a moment before they move off of it, even if they don’t want to consume it, as sort of a trauma response to what they’re seeing. Those types of videos are not going to be the ones that lead to any kind of reckoning,” she says. Bedera recommends consuming Epstein content only from creators with a track record covering sexual violence.

Yet woven through the mass circulation of diary entries, body parts, and police reports is a genuine desire from many creators to use visibility as a form of retroactive justice — a collective wish to excavate truth from systemic corruption. For participants, this work feels meaningful: a decentralized investigation driven by outrage and a dream of accountability.

“But for this type of vigilantism to work, it can’t just be throwing a name out there and hoping that the right thing will happen,” says Bedera. Instead, she argues, a coordinated online movement must focus on removing high-profile perpetrators from positions of power, not just exposing them.

The concern is that the online whirlwind of rage won’t be channeled in ways that translate into justice offline. Much of the content reflects a tone of deep institutional mistrust and disenfranchisement.

Creator McElhinney, from Syracuse, says watching the surge of federal immigration enforcement in Minnesota — including the shooting of a Minneapolis man by federal agents that has driven nationwide protests — motivated him to create Epstein-related content. To him, these are not isolated incidents but symptoms of the same political corruption and elite impunity.

“The bad actors are the ones that are in control of the prosecutors,” he states. “The people of this country are not treating this information as prosecutorial evidence — they’re treating it as intel in a low-grade war, where things are already boiling over.”

Marwick, who studies how conspiracy theories spread online, notes that the current political climate — shaped by high-profile incidents of federal force and ongoing public protests — may widen the gap between online outrage and legal accountability.

“When they’re shooting random American citizens on the street, it’s very hard to believe that there are checks and balances. We live in a time where the rule of law is tenuous, which is scary for those of us who always assumed that was immovable,” she says.

However, there are signs that some content may already be helping to deliver a reckoning offline. In one TikTok shared recently, amassing over 50,000 likes, the creator describes sending a list of file numbers to members of Congress reviewing the unsealed documents.

On Tuesday, a congressman posted callouts across social media asking which files he should view unredacted. His Reddit post, since deleted, received almost 3,000 replies. But among the PDF numbers was skepticism about what comes next.

“Are you going to tell the public any of what you see in the files, or is this not going to actually help expose things?” wrote one user. “Please come back after you’ve viewed the files,” urged another.

With lawmakers unveiling redacted names, the question remains whether this moment will become another binge-and-forget true-crime hype that fades away — or the start of the long, bureaucratic grind required for accountability.

“This is a trial-by-media case. I do not believe that people are going to be judicially prosecuted,” Fleming states. “But as long as the public and viewers are still interested in the content, I think it’s worth talking about.”

McElhinney pledges to make broadcasting these crimes “a lifelong task,” considering it “the worst conspiracy in human history.”