Horror Stories - 5 CREEPY STORIES TOLD BY POLICE OFFICERS 🚔 | True Disturbing Tales

Episode Date: November 8, 2025

5 CREEPY STORIES TOLD BY POLICE OFFICERS 🚔 | Real Disturbing Tales from the Line of Duty When the call comes in, most officers expect danger — but not this kind of danger. These are true stories told by real police officers, encounters so disturbing and unexplained that they still haunt them to this day. From eerie calls in abandoned buildings to encounters with something not entirely human, these experiences reveal the terrifying side of law enforcement that the public never hears about. 🔥 In this video, you’ll hear: True creepy stories from police officers. Real-life encounters that defy explanation. Disturbing events that still haunt those who serve. Put on your headphones, turn down the lights, and prepare for the unknown — because even protectors aren’t safe from fear. 🕯️ “You can prepare for danger… but not for what you can’t explain.” #TrueScaryStories #CreepyStories #PoliceHorror #RealHorror #DisturbingStories #TrueHorrorStories #CreepyEncounters #ParanormalStories #HorrorNarration #ScaryStories 5 creepy stories told by police officers, police horror stories, true scary stories, creepy cop stories, real horror stories, police paranormal stories, real disturbing tales, true horror compilation, true scary police stories, officers horror stories, creepy real stories, true stories from police, scary experiences on duty, law enforcement horror, real encounters police, true crime horror stories, creepy paranormal stories, haunting police calls, disturbing true events, creepy experiences from cops, unexplained police encounters, scary police patrol stories, real life horror, creepy stories compilation, true horror stories 2025, scary law enforcement stories, chilling true tales, haunted police experiences, creepy duty calls, true eerie police tales, paranormal police stories, creepy night shift stories, true officer encounters, supernatural police stories, horror storytelling Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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No surprises. That's Verizon. Best Network based on Route Metrics, Best Overall Mobile Network Performance, U.S. Second Half 2025, all rights reserved. It must provide a recent consumer mobile bill in the name of the person, redeeming me the deal, additional terms, conditions, and restrictions apply. Hello, everyone, and welcome back. to horror stories. I know many of you use these episodes to fall asleep, so before you drift off,

I'd love it if you could leave a comment letting me know where you're listening from around the world. Also, don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. Story 1. I've answered more calls than I can remember over the years. Domestic disputes, ongoing robberies, overdoses, missing persons, you name it. Some stay with you because of how tragic they are. Others, simply because they're so strange. But there's a third type, the ones that stick with you because you can't explain them, no matter how many reports you write or how many times you go over the footage. This happened in 2011 when I was a patrol sergeant on the night shift in a small Midwestern town. It was late September, cold enough to see your breath in the air,

but it wasn't yet snowing. I remember it well because it was a quiet week. No full moon no major case is just the usual routine. It was a few minutes after two in the morning when the dispatch radioed in. Unit 214, noise complaint, possible welfare check. The caller claims to hear a baby crying inside an abandoned house at Sprucun 8. I responded immediately. 214 received, en route. I was close, just about two minutes away. I requested backup as a precaution, not because I expected danger, but because it's never a good idea to enter a structure without securing it first, whenever you can avoid it. Officer Parker, still young and under my training supervision, but with good instincts, responded to the call. That building on spruce had been vacant for years.

I knew it well. It had been foreclosed during the housing crisis and had never been lived in again. Sometimes local kids would sneak inside. Once we found a group of teenagers spray painting in the back room, but that was more than a year ago. When we arrived, we parked on the side of the street with the low beams on. There were no other cars around, no lights on inside. The house was completely dark, dilapidated, with boarded-up windows and a sunken front porch. We approached on foot, flashlights in hand, the standard streamlight stingers. Our Glock 22s holstered and our vests on as per protocol.

We checked our radios. everything was in order. Parker was the first to step onto the porch. He paused for a moment, looked at me and said, Do you hear it, Sergeant? And yes, I did hear it. Very faint, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. The cry of a baby. It sounded muffled as if it were coming from behind a closed door or from another room. It wasn't loud enough to be heard from the outside. It was inside the house. I signaled to Parker. Let's clear the place. We move toward the side entrance, which offered better access. The door was closed, but the frame was already rotting and half-broken. I radioed in again. Unit 214 to dispatch, requesting forced entry. Permission granted.

Dispatch confirmed the authorization, a standard procedure for urgent situations, especially when a child might be in danger. We announced loudly, police. If anyone is inside, identify yourself. There was no response. I pressed my shoulder against the door and shoved it with controlled force, just enough to break the weak and latch. The air inside was cold and stale.

It smelled of dust and moisture. We didn't draw our weapons. This wasn't a criminal entry, just a welfare check. Flashlights on, we move forward slowly, step by step, clearing each room. The crying was still audible at times, sometimes a short, sharp whimper, other times more prolonged, like a newborn, hungry or frightened. What was most unsettling was that it seemed to move with us, as if the sound was shifting locations as we advanced. Yet every room we checked was completely empty. There was only trash on the floor, a broken chair here or there,

but nothing else. No crib, no clothes, no signs of recent occupants. I raised. I raised, idiot again. Unit 214 to dispatch. We're still clearing. Sound confirmed, no visual. Parker went up to the second floor while I remained on the ground floor. We kept constant communication through our shoulder mics. At one point I heard him whisper over the channel, Sergeant, I swear the sound is right behind this wall. That's when I knew that room, according to the old blueprints, used to be the baby's room. A small room in the northeast corner, with wallpaper. that was still half-peeling, decorated with the little yellow ducklings. We met up again and did a second sweep of the entire house, the attic, the basement.

We even lifted some of the floorboards in the living room that seemed to have been recently disturbed. We found nothing. No footprints in the dust. No signs that anyone had been there. No baby, no animals, no ventilation ducks that could have carried the sound from the outside. And yet the crying was recorded. The Olympus audio recorder, the one I kept attached to my regulation vest, captured it clearly. Distorted but real. A baby's cry. In the patrol car, Parker and I listened to the recording. No one said anything for a long while. We just looked at each other, each trying to find an explanation that never came. We followed the protocol, wrote up the report, filed it as unsubstantiated no individuals located.

nothing more to be done. It wasn't the first time I'd encountered something out of the ordinary, and surely it wouldn't be the last. But a few days later, off-duty, I decided to go back. I don't know why. Maybe I needed to see it in the daylight, walk through it without the flashlight and the tension of the night shift. I took with me the city's property records.

I looked up the last owner, a single mother with a baby. Both had died in a fire a year before I joined the force. The house had been partially remodeled but never fully repaired. The electrical wiring had never been replaced. The room upstairs, the one where Parker swore he heard the sound, had once been the child's room. There was no indication of arson. The cause was a faulty heater.

The mother died trying to protect the baby, according to the fire department's report. I never told Parker that detail. it didn't make sense to. The file had already been handed over to the housing control department, but I never forgot the way Parker said, it's right behind this wall. Sometimes I wonder if we'd arrive ten years earlier.

Would we have found them? Hello, friends, thanks for joining us once again. A special thanks to all our subscribers. You are the ones who keep these chilling stories alive. But here's something curious. Only 30% of those who watch our content are subscribed. If you enjoy what we do, subscribing helps more than you can imagine. It only takes a second, but it makes a huge difference. And since you're here, don't forget to leave a like and share the

video so more people can feel the same chill. Thank you truly. You make all of this possible. We'll see you in the next story, if you dare. Story 2. The call came in around 3.42 a.m. I was in the last stretch of a quiet night shift, sitting in my patrol car near the police station parking lot, finishing a report about a vehicle burglary. Then dispatch transmitted a priority, a welfare check. Elderly woman living alone. The 911 call had been incomplete. All the operator managed to catch was what sounded like labored uneven breathing, and according to the log notes, a few unintelligible whispers. She tried to confirm the address, called back several times, without success.

The standard protocol for an open call of that nature is to treat it as high priority, especially if it originates from a landline registered to an elderly adult. I responded immediately. Unit 12 on route, estimated time, four minutes. My partner that night was Officer Rivera, and he joined in for a two-unit response. It's always better to have backup, even if you're not. it seems like a medical call. You never know what you might encounter,

especially when the information is unclear. We arrived at the residence, a small single-story house on Claymont Drive. The front porch light was on, curtains closed, no signs of forced entry or movement inside, no sounds either. The front door was locked

and there was no response when we knocked and identified ourselves. Police Department. Ma'am, are you all right? We're here to check on your well-being. Silence. Rivera and I checked the perimeter. The back door was also secured, windows intact, no footprints or tracks in the backyard, and the lawn looked untouched for days. From the outside, the house appeared completely still. I radioed for fire department and emergency

medical support for a forced entry. Possible medical emergency. No response from inside. The firefighters arrived six minutes later. We entered. through the front door under the authority of Article 403 of the local Penal Code, which allows warrantless entry under urgent circumstances, specifically when it's believed someone inside might be injured or dead. As soon as we crossed the door, we knew the place hadn't been disturbed in a long time. It was clean, but with that still dense air that betrays the absence of life. The television was off, the lights out, except for a small nightlight in the hallway.

Rivera took the left. I went down the central hallway. I found her in the bedroom sitting in a recliner near the window. The corded landline phone still rested on her lap. Her fingers still held it loosely around the receiver. There were no signs of trauma, no defensive wounds, no signs of forced ingestion, and no traces of overdose. Her eyes were closed. Her expression was peaceful. Too peaceful, except for one detail. She was cold. I have basic medical training, 25 years on the force, plus having been an EMT before joining the academy. I checked carotid and radial pulse points. Nothing. No response. Cold, waxy skin. Liver mortis had already begun to settle in the dependent areas, and rigor mortis was weak but present. I estimated she had been dead for at least a couple of hours.

The coroner later confirmed the time of death shortly before 1.30 a.m. And yet dispatch recorded her 911 call at 3.39 a.m., which means the call was made after her death. The dispatch recording confirmed the operator's statement, 38 seconds of an open line. First, heavy, trembling, irregular breathing, like someone short of breath or frightened. Then a faint whisper. No words could be distinguished, only the tone of someone murmuring. very close to the microphone. It didn't sound like she was speaking to the operator, rather to someone else in the room, and then silence. Click. We secured the residence. No signs of forced entry, no struggle, no missing medication, no physical trauma. Everything was in order. Her last known

contact had been a grocery delivery driver two days earlier. Rivera was quiet on the drive back to the station. At one point, he murmured, Sergeant, how did the phone come off the hook if she'd been dead that long? I had no answer. We reviewed the call log from her landline. The last outgoing call was to 911. No callbacks, no manipulation. The phone was old, rotary dial, connected through a copper line. It would be impossible to falsify a call like that, and yet the call was real. The trace placed it inside the residence. Forensics found no foreign DNA on the receiver, only hers. The coroner's final report was clear.

Natural causes cardiac arrest. No signs of violence, no overdose, no history of hallucinations or mental disorders. She lived alone independently and kept to herself. We closed the case, but the call remained unexplained. The body had been lifeless, longed. before dispatch received the 911 call. And yet the call was made, it was logged. I myself listened to the recording three times

before signing my final report. I still keep a copy in my personal file, not because I believe in ghosts or movie nonsense. I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I believe in facts in the chain of evidence, in logic. But every now and then something doesn't fit. And this case still doesn't. Sometimes I wonder if maybe she thought she was calling for help long before she died.

Or maybe whatever made her pass away left something behind, just enough to finish what she had started. I no longer try to explain it. I only know what I saw, what I heard, and what the official reports confirmed. She died holding that phone. But someone, or something, called us afterward. Story 3. The first complaints all arrived on the same day. It was Tuesday.

Nothing unusual on the surface. Delapidated apartment complexes, especially in the older parts of the city, usually generate a steady flow of minor incidents, noises, disputes, calls related to drugs. But this case was different. Dispatch classified it as a possible housing code violation. Several residents reported a strong odor coming from inside the walls of Unit 1B. Some said it smelled like mold or decomposition. Others claimed that at night they could hear soft.

Knocks, irregular, not very loud, but disturbing enough to call the police. The building was a three-story block without an elevator, built after the war in the mid-1950s, concrete, drywall partitions, and little ventilation. I was the field supervisor that day, overseeing patrols, and decided to go personally with Officer Tran. The property had a history, previous evictions, drug problems, some calls for domestic violence. We arrived mid-morning in full uniform. Following protocol, we turned on our body cameras, checked our radios. Standard equipment. Glock 17 on the belt, taser on the left, level three retention

holster, gloves, flashlight, and trauma shears. We knocked on the door and were greeted by the building manager, a man in his 60s, visibly uncomfortable. He told us he no longer wanted to enter alone. He explained that tenants from units 1A and 1C had been complaining for over a week about a nauseating smell seeping through the vents. One tenant even claimed to have heard whispers behind the bathroom wall. We entered with his authorization. No forced entry was necessary. Unit 1B had been vacant for almost six months. The last tenant had left without paying rent or utilities. No forwarding address, no subsequent contact. The apartment. was clean, no graffiti, no broken glass, no signs of intruders. But the air was dense, heavy,

and the smell, impossible to ignore. It wasn't a fresh odor of decomposition, but something old, dry with a sweet and sour mix that only becomes recognizable if you've smelled it before. Tran and I began checking room by room, wearing gloves and N95 masks. There was no visible source of the smell. The ventilation system was off. The refrigerator empty. Yet the stench grew stronger as we approached the bathroom wall, the one shared with Unit 1A, and then it was heard. Three knocks, soft, spaced, almost timid, we froze. I knocked three times in response. Absolute silence. I immediately called over the radio. Unit 17 to dispatch, possible 10 to 54, requesting forensics and building inspector for wall opening. Code 10-54 is used for a possible deceased person. Firefighters arrived

to assist with the wall opening. Before touching anything, I checked the building plans with the manager to ensure there were no pipes or wiring inside that wall. Once confirmed, they began carefully removing the drywall. It didn't take long. About 60 centimeters inside the wall, between two vertical studs, we saw what appeared to be a human leg. Desiccated. Tanned, tight skin, barefoot, curled toes. Mummified. We stopped work immediately.

The scene was secured, the time recorded, and an officer was left on guard according to protocol for unattended deaths with suspicious circumstances. Homicide in the coroner were notified. The scene was classified as a suspicious. vicious death. Not yet a homicide, but without a logical explanation. The forensic team arrived in less than an hour. They removed more wall and confirmed the presence of the full body, positioned upright, arms pressed to the chest. A man estimated between 35 and 40 years old based on skeletal structure. Completely mummified, wearing jeans in a gray hoodie. No identification, no wallet, no visible wounds. No bullet impacts.

no signs of restraints. All evidence indicated he had entered through the maintenance panel located behind the water heater in the utility closet. That panel was forced from the inside, not the outside. The front door showed no signs of forced entry. The coroner estimated death between eight and ten months prior. Due to the stable temperature and lack of moisture inside the wall cavity, the body dehydrated instead of decomposing, which explained both the lack of odor outside the area. and the almost intact state of the corpse. Fingerprints were taken. No matches.

No missing persons reports matched his description. DNA was entered into the CODIS system. No results. We re-interviewed the tenants. Some recalled strange noises about a year ago. One woman claimed to have heard a voice whisper help once, but thought it was a dream. Another remembered Knox on the same wall for two consecutive nights,

and then nothing more. A theory emerged. The man had been hiding, but from whom? Nobody knew. Rumors suggested he had broken into the apartment when it was empty, possibly fleeing from a gang or an abusive partner.

Others thought he might have been a squatter who became accidentally trapped, but the body's position did not suggest an accident. It seemed like an intentional concealment as if someone had entered willingly and sealed their own hiding place. No evidence of homicide was found, no restraints, no blood, no signs of struggle. But there was something unsettling about how his body fit perfectly between the walls,

as if he had wanted to disappear completely, or as if someone had placed him there with precision. Cause of death was recorded as undetermined. Identity. Unknown. The case went cold six months later. No new leads. Everything was documented according to protocol. Digital log photographs, chain of custody preserved. The final report was filed under the code unattended death, unresolved with suspicious characteristics.

To this day, I still think about those knocks. They were not loud. They were not desperate, just intentional. And by the time someone decided to listen, it was already too late to respond. Story four. Night ships in the police force are usually quiet until they aren't. People outside the job think it's all sirens flashing lights and car chases, but the truth is that most nights, especially in medium-sized departments like ours,

you spend them doing routine rounds, checking properties, or sitting in the dark, watching a monitor blink. That night I was in charge of a team of four officers assigned to the third shift, from midnight to eight in the morning. Our task was to cover the old municipal justice building, the district headquarters before the department moved operations to the northern zone. Nowadays, that building is mostly used as a storage facility, archive, and holding cell area that we rarely use. Still, we maintained it because the chain of custody requires certain physical records to remain in place,

including evidence files dating back to the 1970s. Officer Carroll was assigned to the internal surveillance room on the third floor, East Wing. Standard night shift. unarmed unless a confirmed threat appeared. His responsibility was to monitor the 22 CCTV cameras in the building, hallways, archives, elevators, and the rear dock. The entire system was wired with no cloud or wireless connections, a completely closed circuit.

The building had been locked at 6 p.m. according to municipal protocol. We verified that all staff had left, performed an inspection, and recorded the time. At 2.40 a.m. Carol called me over the radio. Command, this is 3-15, detecting movement on camera 12, 3rd floor, east hallway. I responded immediately. Copy. Confirm movement. Any alarms triggered? Negative. sensor detects a shadow. It moves in front of the archive entrance. No access records since closing. I was in the mobile unit parked in front of the building finishing paperwork. I opened the tablet in the vehicle and access the feed. Camera 13, low angle, infrared black and white view. Just as Carol described, a human height silhouette walking slowly from right to left, then back again. That area was restricted with card access outside working hours. It stored removed evidence, including sealed narcotics records and judicial materials under custody orders. We had locked that door at 6.02 p.m. with electronic logging.

The magnetic control showed no subsequent entries, not even cleaning staff, whose shift ended at 5.30 p.m. by contract. Carol returned to the radio, his tone more tense. Sergeant, it's still moving. Exactly the same pattern. Looks like a loop, but there's no system malfunction. All other cameras are working fine. I replied,

hold the image. Enter through the west staircase. Officer Vega is approaching from the south. south parking lot. Don't intervene until we clear the area. I swiped my card at the personnel entry reader, entered with tactical flashlight, weapon holstered. By protocol, the weapon is only drawn upon a confirmed threat or visible danger. Up to that point, we had neither, just inexplicable movement in a secure area. I notified Vega to flank by a staircase B. We moved in constant communication, body cameras recording. The hallways were silent, no sounds, the dim light steady,

no flickers. We arrived at the east hallway right in front of the archive access. The door remained locked, no signs of tampering. The security tape on the last audit check was intact. I verified the seal and timestamp. Carol reported that the movement had stopped just as we arrived. We entered using the master access card under full logging protocol. The interior light switched on as we entered. We checked the room. Empty. Dust undisturbed.

Shelves in order. Air cold, normal for the building's program nighttime temperature. From inside the archive, I instructed Carol over the radio. Rewind Camera 12. What do you see at 243? There was a few seconds of silence. then her voice trembled slightly. Sergeant, it's back.

Replaying. Stops right when you open the staircase door. Fades to the left of the frame. Then nothing. Later, I personally reviewed the footage. The shadow was real, solid. It wasn't blur or lens error. It moves slowly with rhythm,

no visible features but clearly upright, casting a shadow from an opposite light source. It's worth noting that the hallway LED lights were fixed, no flicker or movement. Whatever blocked the light had to be physically there, we requested a full audit of the camera system. No malfunctions, no loops, no manipulation. The cameras had no test modes or video overlays. Time stamps matched the dispatch logs exactly, second by second. So the question was inevitable. Who or what was behind that glass? That hallway was empty, verified, locked, and monitored. No doubt.

door opened, no sound heard, no security breach detected, and yet the camera, which had never failed before or after, captured a figure walking slowly in front of the archive door. We logged the incident as an unidentified surveillance anomaly, no unauthorized access, no crime, no follow-up required. Officially, the case was filed. Un Officially, Carol requested a rotation to vehicle patrol after that night. She said she no longer felt comfortable in front of the monitors, commented that she kept seeing the silhouette out of the corner of her eye in reflections, but never again on screen.

I didn't press it. Everyone handles these things in their own way. I only know that shadow moved with purpose, as if it knew we were watching. Story 5. At the Academy, they teach you to look for the obvious first. Points of entry, signs of struggle. clear indications of motive or means. Every scene tells a story if you know how to read it.

But some, just some, whisper things that don't fit, no matter how many times you review them. This one came in around 6.18 a.m. I was halfway through a double shift, finishing a theft report downtown, when dispatch assigned me to assist a patrol unit at a suspected suicide. Mail about 40 years old. A neighbor had reported him after not seeing him for several days and noticing a strange odor coming from the shared ventilation duct in the hallway.

The building manager allowed us entry. Standard welfare check procedure. No sirens, no lights, just protocol. The apartment was on the third floor of an old pre-war building. Thick plaster walls, a single main door, no rear exit. Windows were double locked from the inside with security latches. We began clearing the main room, nothing indicated intrusion. Lock intact, no signs of forced entry.

The main bolt was engaged, and the security chain still in place, secured from the inside. Then we reached the bedroom. The door was closed and blocked from the inside. A piece of furniture had been pushed against it. A dresser and a wooden chair jammed under the doorknob. We requested authorization over the radio to force entry. Following protocol, I documented the obstruction through the frame before acting with body camera recording. It took effort, but we opened it carefully, preserving the integrity of the scene.

What we found inside didn't make sense. The man identified as Daniel R lay on his back next to the bed. He had a gunshot wound to the right temple. No vital signs. Rigor mortis fully established rigid limbs, locked jaw, fixed liver. Based on visual and olfactory cues, time of death was estimated at 36 to 48 hours prior. He wore casual clothes, no shoes. Alone, no suicide note, no phone in sight, no recent digital activity, no bottles, no medications,

no relevant medical or psychological history. But the strangest thing wasn't that. It was the weapon. A 0.38 special revolver. old model six-shot cylinder. It was at the opposite end of the room nearly three meters from the body, not in his hand, not beside him.

A clean shot to the right temple, sealed room little blood, and no fingerprints on the gun. None, not even his. I've seen suicide scenes where guns move as the body collapses. Revolvers can bounce if a body falls with muscular spasms, but they don't cross a room. not like this, and certainly not without leaving a single print.

We collected it with gloves, sealed it, and logged it as evidence per protocol. Forensics later confirmed. No latent prints on the barrel, trigger, cylinder, or handle. Nothing. Not even greasy residues. As if it had been cleaned, though no cleaning products had been used and no gloves were found. The weapon was spotless. The bullet matched the gun.

The cylinder had one fired round and four unfired cartridges. No prints on any of them either. We reconstructed the scene. Door locked and bolted from the inside. Chain in place. Furniture blocking the entrance. Windows sealed from inside. No access to the attic.

No wall gaps. No internal ducts. Ventilation system external. Nothing indicated anyone else had entered or left for days. The medical examiner ruled, cause of death, gunshot wound to the head, manner of death undetermined, neither homicide nor confirmed suicide, just unresolved. We investigated his history thoroughly. Daniel R. had no criminal record. Lived alone, worked remotely, had no enemies or close family. Friends described him as reserved,

calm. One neighbor said he'd seem paranoid lately, checking locks repeatedly, asking if the building had security cameras. It didn't. We analyzed his computer. His last search recorded two days before the estimated time of death read, Can someone die in a locked room and no one know why? Discerving, but inconclusive. There were no signs of struggle on the body, no defensive injuries, no restraint marks, no patiquiae, no bruises. Just one shot, clean. We searched the entire floor. No cameras, no audio recordings. One neighbor reported hearing a loud thump, but attributed it to someone moving furniture. Time.

2.41 a.m. matching the estimated time of the shot. The scene was documented, photographed, and processed per department policy. All evidence was sent to the state forensic lab, chain of custody intact. I wrote the report myself. No theories, just facts, bolts secured from inside. side, furniture blocking the door, windows sealed, weapon found far from the body, no fingerprints, no note, no mental health history, no signs of violence, no way anyone physically entered or left the room. The case was never reopened, no leads, no progress, filed as an unresolved death.

But every now and then I go back to that final detail. The one that still unsettles me. if he didn't shoot himself then who did? And how did they leave a room that no one else could enter? Thank you for joining me in these stories. Your support means everything, and I love reading your reactions and personal experiences in the comments. If any of these cases kept you on the edge of your seat or gave you chills, don't forget to leave a like and consider subscribing for more unsettling tales.

Have you experienced something similar? Or perhaps you have an inexplicable? story you'd like to share? I'd love to read it in the comments. Each experience you contribute adds a new layer to this growing community of mystery enthusiasts. And if you know someone who enjoys a good scare, share this story with them. Stay tuned for more spine-chilling stories. And remember, sometimes the most terrifying tales are the ones that could happen to anyone. Thank you for watching. See you next time, if you dare.