Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - 100% REAL SCARY STORIES THAT HAPPENED PART4 #28

Episode Date: October 1, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truehorrorstories #creepyencounters #nightmarefuel #realhorrorstories #scaryexperiences  Part 4 of 100% REAL SCARY STORIES THAT HAPPENED shares more terrifying true experiences. From unnerving strangers to inexplicable events, these stories immerse readers in suspense, dread, and fear. Each encounter emphasizes that reality can be far more frightening than fiction, leaving a lasting impact on anyone who reads them.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truehorrorstories, creepyencounters, nightmarefuel, realhorrorstories, scaryexperiences, chillingtales, unsettlingmoments, realnightmares, disturbingstories, mysteriousoccurrences, survivalstories, stalkerstories, truestoryhorror, urbanhorrorstories

I remember the day like it happened last week, even though it's been years. The smell of damp asphalt, the lazy buzz of summer cicadas, and that weird, tense energy in the air that you can't really explain but your body just knows something is off. That was the kind of day we found the car. We were all standing at the far end of the cracked, weed infested parking lot, me, Tristan and Aaron, staring at this old, beat-up gray Nissan that just sat there like it had been dropped from the sky. The lot was mostly empty except for a few piles of broken concrete and some half-dead bushes that looked like they'd been trying to survive for decades. The place itself felt abandoned, forgotten, like no one had been here in years. The weird part.

There wasn't any obvious way that Carr could have gotten here. The road leading into this place was basically a mess of overgrown grass and potholes deep enough to break an axle. We'd had to weave through half a mile of bumpy dirt just to get here on foot. But somehow, that Nissan had made it. I could tell Tristan was already uneasy. He kept fidgeting, glancing around like something might jump out from behind the bushes. You guys seriously don't think this is weird, he asked, his voice pitched a little higher than usual. Aaron smirked and gave him that look older brothers give their little siblings when they're being dramatic, except Aaron wasn't related to him.

What's the matter, man? afraid of a car, he teased. I laughed and added, yeah, come on. What's it going to do? Roll over here and run us down by itself. But honestly, I was only half joking. There was something about the way that Carr sat there that didn't feel right. Still, we walked over to check it out. Up close, it wasn't nearly as rusted or busted as I thought it would be. The paint was a dull gray, sure, but there were no dense, no shattered glass, not even dirt smeared up the sides like you'd expect from a car that had just trekked through the mess of a road outside. That should have been our first red flag. But we were teenagers, so our brains were more interested in the adventure than the warning signs.

Leaving the Nissan behind, we wandered toward the old gas station at the edge of the lot. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie, the kind where the main characters definitely shouldn't go inside, but they do anyway because otherwise there wouldn't be a movie. Every single window on the first and second floor was boarded up, and the front door was sealed tight with weather-warked plywood nailed in at odd angles. We circled the building, crunching through gravel and weeds until we reached the back. That's where we saw it, a flimsy, cheap lock dangling from the door like it was doing its best to keep the place secure but failing miserably. Aaron, being Aaron, spotted a discarded fence post nearby.

Without hesitation, he picked it up, took a step back, and slammed it against the lock. The clang echoed so loud I swore it probably woke up every raccoon in a three-mile radius. It took a few more hits, but eventually the lock snapped off and clattered to the ground. As Aaron pushed the door open, we all froze. A loud jingle-jingle. rang out from inside. My stomach dropped, but then we realized it was just one of those little metal belt chain stores used to announce customers. Still, in that silence, it was enough to make my pulse race. The air inside was stale, thick with dust and that faint scent of something long forgotten, maybe oil, maybe mold, maybe both. The light that slipped through the cracks in the boards

painted the inside in these thin golden stripes, making everything feel more ghost-like than real. We stepped over random debris, a cracked soda bottle here, a shredded piece of cardboard there. Some shelves were still standing, though empty, there would warp with time. The first floor didn't have much to offer, so we headed upstairs. The second floor was just one big office space. A long table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by scattered chairs and a couple of old desks that looked like they hadn't been touched in decades. Aaron, always the supplier of questionable ideas, dug into his backpack and pulled out three bottles of beer.

Time to Kristen the new clubhouse, he said with a grin. We sat around, clinking bottles and telling dumb jokes, letting the creepiness of the place fade just a little. For a while, it almost felt like a normal hangout, until the sound hit us. At first, I thought it was police sirens in the distance, but the pitch wasn't right. A moment later, it clicked, it was a car alarm. Not just any car alarm. That car's alarm. The Nissan outside. I crept to one of the boarded windows, peeking through a small hole. That's when I saw him. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood beside the car, completely bald, his skin pale under the fading sunlight. His posture was rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. He wasn't. He wasn't. He was a just checking his car, he was scanning, looking. My hand went numb, and I dropped my beer bottle. It hit the floor and shattered into sharp, wet pieces. The man's head snapped toward the building.

I ducked back, my breath caught in my throat. We dropped to the floor and scrambled under the big table, our heart's thundering in unison. The alarm eventually stopped, but the silence didn't bring relief. Instead, it was broken by the faint sound of the chain bells downstairs jingling again. The front door creaked open. I know you're here, a deep voice called. I swear I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth. The man's voice grew louder, angrier. You think you can mess with my car? You think this is a game. Confusion flickered between us. We hadn't touched his car. But his tone was beyond reason. The sound of heavy boots thudded against the stairs, each one bringing him closer.

And then he was there, stepping into the room. From under the table, I got a full look at him. He was big, not just tall, but solid, the kind of guy who could take down three teenagers without breaking a sweat. His eyes scanned the room, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes crept across his face. Come out, come out, wherever you are, he said, his voice dripping. with mock playfulness that made my skin crawl. He started walking toward the back of the table, his boots slow and deliberate on the dusty floor. That's when Aaron did something none of us

expected. He lunged out from under the table, beer bottle in hand, and smashed it against the man's skull. The sound was sickening, a mix of glass shattering and a dull thud. The man collapsed forward, hitting the floor hard. A large hunting knife slipped from his grip and skittered across the room. We didn't waste a second. Bolting from our hiding spot, we flew down the stairs, through the front door, and into the wild tangle of trees beyond the lot. Branches whipped at our faces as we sprinted blindly, our breaths ragged. Behind us, I thought I heard movement, maybe him, maybe my imagination, but I didn't dare

look back. We didn't stop until we reached my house. My lungs burned, my legs shook, but I'd never been so thankful to see my own front yard. That was two years ago. I still think about it sometimes, usually late at night when the world is quiet. I still wonder what would have happened if Aaron hadn't acted. And honestly, I'm not sure I want to know. When we finally stumbled into my driveway, it was like my brain took a second to believe we'd actually made it. My legs felt like rubber, my throat was raw from breathing so hard, and I was sure at least one of us was going to throw up. Tristan collapsed onto the grass, lying there like he'd just run a marathon, which, in a way, we kind of had. Aaron stayed standing, pacing back and forth like a caged animal,

muttering curses under his breath. Nobody said anything for a while. It was that weird silence where your ears are still ringing from adrenaline. I could feel my heart thudding against my ribs, each beat almost painful. Every small sound, a passing car, the wind shifting the trees, made me jerk my head toward it. I kept expecting to see that bald guy's massive frame emerge from the shadows at the edge of my yard. Finally, Tristan croaked, what the hell, was that? His voice cracked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Aaron just spat into the dirt and said, Psycho, that was the only word for it. We didn't go inside right away.

My parents weren't home, and for some reason, stepping into the house felt too, enclosed. Too easy for something, or someone, to trap us in. We sat outside for maybe half an hour, just watching the road, half expecting that old Nissan to roll up. It never did. For the first few nights after that, I barely slept. I jolt awake at every creek of the floorboards, every distant bark of a dog. My brain kept replaying the moment the man's boots hit the second floor, his shadow stretching

toward us under the table. I'd hear his voice in my head, that sick, sing song, come out, come out, and my stomach would twist. Two years later, I can still hear it if I think about it too hard. And yeah, sometimes I still check my windows twice before I go to bed. I grew up in a decent-sized town, about 45 minutes to an hour from the second biggest city in the state. The city was famous for its three rivers and the way its bridges looked lit up at night, kind of beautiful if you ignored the fact that most of downtown shut down by 9 p.m. My town wasn't

tiny, but it was small enough that you knew the faces of people you saw regularly, even if you didn't know their names. I was the youngest of three boys. Mom ran my grandfather's golf course as the general manager. Dad was a state police lieutenant back then. We weren't rich. We weren't rich. but we never went without. We had decent clothes, decent food, a decent roof, the kind of middle ground where you don't realize until you're older how lucky you actually were. Dad was tough, the kind of guy who could command a room just by walking into it. He had this whole cop-voice thing, deep, even, no nonsense, and when it came out, you listened. He wasn't cruel, but he didn't take crap either. If you messed up, you heard about it.

If you talked back, you regretted it instantly. But one thing me and my brothers learned from him was respect, for people, for rules, for yourself. We weren't exactly a warm, cuddly family. There was, other stuff, drama I don't feel like dragging out here, that kept me from ever feeling really close to my parents or my brothers. But that night in the gas station made me think about Dad differently. We didn't share much, personality-wise, But we did share one thing, if someone threatened the people we cared about, we wouldn't hesitate

to step in, no matter the risk. A couple of years before the gas station thing, when I was around 16, I had my own little run-in with danger, though back then, it felt more like a dumb street-level problem than the nightmare it could have become. Me and my friends were hanging out downtown, not far from the high school football stadium. It was a nice afternoon, one of those lazy days where you just ride around, mess with with each other, maybe grab snacks from the corner store. We were on bikes, of course.

Everybody was on bikes back then. I'd leaned mine up against the wall outside the arcade while we went in to kill some time. When we came back out, my stomach dropped, my bike was gone. At first I thought maybe one of my friends was screwing with me, but after a few minutes of searching the nearby streets, it was clear, someone had stolen it. I called Dad. He'd just gotten off work and didn't even sound annoyed, which was weird in itself. He drove down to meet us.

I expected him to lecture me about leaving my bike unattended, but instead, he just said, All right, let's see if we can find it. My friends split up, riding in different directions to check the usual spots. Me and Dad drove slow, scanning sidewalks and alleys. That's when I saw them. Three people walking toward us on a side street, two guys and a girl. One of the guys was pushing my bike. Dad, I said sharply.

They have my bike. He pulled over so fast the tires squealed. We both jumped out. What happened next is seared into my memory. Dad instantly went into full cop mode. He ordered the girl and one of the guys to stand against the wall, noses touching the brick. Then he slammed the other guy, the one holding my bike, to the ground so fast the guy didn't even have time to react. I grabbed my bike and loaded it into the back of Dad's truck.

My pulse was pounding with a mix of adrenaline and satisfaction. Since it was just the two of us against three of them, Dad told me, Rick, get in the truck so they don't see your face. But I was 16, cocky, and stupid. Screw that, I said, and stayed right there, arms. crossed, glaring at them until the local cops showed up and arrested all three. At the time, it felt like a victory. But later, well, let's just say I'd come to regret being so bold. Fast forward about two years. I was 18, fresh out of military school, thinking I was tougher than I probably was. And then, well, that's where this whole other story kicks in. To be continued.