Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - 100% REAL SCARY STORIES THAT HAPPENED PART5 #29

Episode Date: October 1, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truehorrorstories #creepyencounters #nightmarefuel #realhorrorstories #scaryexperiences  Part 5 of 100% REAL SCARY STORIES THAT HAPPENED concludes the series with more chilling accounts of real-life terror. From frightening encounters with strangers to strange, unexplained events, each story keeps readers on edge. These true experiences highlight the terrifying unpredictability of the world, proving that reality can be scarier than any fictional tale.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truehorrorstories, creepyencounters, nightmarefuel, realhorrorstories, scaryexperiences, chillingtales, unsettlingmoments, realnightmares, disturbingstories, mysteriousoccurrences, survivalstories, stalkerstories, truestoryhorror, urbanhorrorstories

If I rewind my life to about two years after I left home for the first time, I was 18. Fresh out of military school. Coming back felt strange, like I'd been dropped into the same place, but my head and my habits had been rewired. I wasn't the same person who had left. Military school had this way of grinding things into you, discipline, awareness, a sharper eye for detail, and a sense that danger could be anywhere if you weren't paying attention. Those lessons ended up coming in handy way sooner than I expected. One evening, sometime around six, I decided to go for a jog.

It wasn't anything unusual for me, I liked running as a way to clear my head. The air was still warm from the day, but not uncomfortably so. As I rounded a bend in the road, a car came flying past me. I mean, flying. It was going way too fast for a quiet neighborhood street. I remember thinking, man, some people just don't care about speed limits. But then something weird happened. Instead of disappearing into the distance, the car slowed down.

Really slowed down. It rolled to a complete stop at a stop sign maybe a hundred yards ahead. I kept jogging, but something about it set off this little alarm in my brain. The way it just sat there. No turn signal. No movement. Just, idling. I could feel the driver's eyes on me, even though I couldn't see their face from where I was.

Thanks to my time in military school, I'd gotten into the habit of clocking small details about my surroundings, vehicles, people, anything that seemed out of place. So as I approached, I made mental notes. The make, the color, any dents or scratches, even the shape of the taillights. I didn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but I took it. what I could. The street my house was on happened to be up ahead. As I reached my front door, the car finally moved again, slowly, almost reluctantly, and rolled past my house. I glanced at it just long enough to confirm my earlier mental notes. The driver didn't look over. At least, not that I could tell. I brushed it off at the time. Figured maybe they were lost, or waiting for

someone. No big deal, right? Fast forward about a week later. Another jog. Another evening. Different route, same habit of ending with a walk into the kitchen to grab a drink of water. Our front door opens right into the kitchen and that night I stepped inside, breathing heavy, sweat sticking to my shirt. I went straight to the sink, leaning over it, turning the cold tap on so I could splash water on my face. And that's when I heard it. A loud bang. Sharp.

Echoing in the street outside. Then three more, quick and closed together. My body reacted before my brain even caught up, military school had drilled into me exactly what that sound was. Gunfire. I dropped low, crawling away from the window and toward the door. My hands fumbled for something, anything, that I could use as a weapon. My fingers closed around one of my brother's old baseball bats. Now, I'm not stupid.

I knew a bat was useless against a gun. But my adrenaline was already flooding my system, and the only plan I could form in that split second was maybe, just maybe, if I surprised them, I could close the distance before they had a chance to aim again. I threw the door open and sprinted outside. The cool evening air hit me like a slap, but my focus was was locked on the road. I caught sight of taillights disappearing down the street. And I knew that car. It was the same one from a week earlier. Thankfully, no one else was home. That thought hit me in a delayed wave, if my family had been inside, things could have gone much worse. In small towns like ours, news spreads faster than wildfire. My brothers, of course, couldn't

resist turning the whole thing into a running joke. They kept asking me sarcastic questions like, so, did you think you were going to be a hero or something, and what were you planning to do, bet the bullets away? They weren't wrong, it was crazy to run outside toward gunfire. But in that moment, I wasn't thinking about logic. I was thinking about stopping whoever was out there. A couple of days later, the police called. They told us they had caught the guy. And get a Guess what? It was the same guy who had stolen my bike two and a half years earlier. I couldn't believe it. The charges were serious, attempted murder with a firearm. He got ten years. Later I found out he didn't even serve the full sentence. Life went on. I became an EMT. My work kept me

busy, and for a while, I didn't think much about that guy. Then, years later, when I was 26, I went back to visit my parents in my hometown. I walked into their kitchen one morning and noticed a newspaper on the table. Big, bold headline right on the front. Local woman missing, vehicle found abandoned. I started reading, sipping my coffee. And then my stomach dropped. The missing woman's boyfriend? The same guy. The one who stole my bike. The one who shot at my parents' house. I was so angry I nearly flipped the table over right there.

But here's the thing, he wasn't arrested. Wasn't even charged with anything related to her disappearance. From that day on, I made sure I carried a pistol with me everywhere, except when I was on the job. My paranoia spiked for a while. I even distanced myself from my family just to avoid the possibility of putting them in danger. But life does this thing where it keeps moving forward whether you're ready or not. Eventually, I found a rhythm again. Kept working as an EMT. And as of now, that guy's in prison again, different charges, unrelated to the missing woman. She was eventually found dead. Back in 2014,

I joined a Facebook group for people from my hometown in Southern California. At first, it was great, everyone was sharing memories, old photos, stories from when we were kids. Most people were friendly, and it was like this little nostalgia bubble. But there's always one person who stirs the pot. This guy got into it with one of the admins, a man named Robert, and ended up getting kicked out of the group. I should note, at this point, I was in my mid-30s, and most of the members were at least 20 years older than me. Robert was pushing 60. Married. Had kids my age. He seemed nice enough at first. Took a liking to me. Called me down to earth and easy to talk to. We swapped numbers, and he'd text me from time to time. No big deal, I thought, he's married, I'm just being friendly. Except, it didn't stay that innocent.

Robert started digging. Somehow, he found. He's married. He's just being friendly. Except, it didn't stay that innocent. Robert started digging. Somehow, he found out my landline number, my address, even my mother's address back in California. Later, I learned he had one of those paid subscriptions to a people search site that gives you all kinds of personal info, addresses, relatives, phone numbers, the works. When he figured out my birthday from Facebook, he sent me flowers. I thanked him, but something about it didn't sit right. The whole thing felt off. Then he started bad mouth. his wife to me, said she only wanted him for his pain pills and money. I wasn't about to get in the

middle of that drama, so I kept my responses short. Around this time, I met the man who would eventually become my husband. Naturally, I posted about it on Facebook. Robert lost his mind. He sent me this long, angry message saying I should have known he was in love with me. I replied, you're married. Why are you in love with another woman? From there, the messages got worse. 10, 20 texts a day. He'd go from calling me horrible names to apologizing over and over. I blocked his number.

So he started blowing up my landline instead. Most of the time I left it unplugged, but one day I listened to the voicemails out of curiosity. One of them claimed I owed him $13,000. Another had threats about coming to my house, or visiting my mother. That's when I blocked him there too and called my mom to warn her. But he got clever. Started texting me from random California numbers. Sent letters that made no sense.

That's when I decided I needed a restraining order. I tried twice through my county court, but because I was living in Washington at the time and he was in California, the judge wouldn't grant it. When Robert found out I couldn't file, he sent me more hateful messages, bragging that I'd never get rid of him. I went back to court with the new messages. For the hearing, Robert mailed in this bizarre rebuttal letter. Claimed he used to work for a school district, was an electrician by trade, was now on disability, and couldn't drive more than half an hour without being in excruciating pain. He even asked, so how could I possibly come to Washington?

He was clearly trying to paint himself as some harmless, broken old man. But I'd already learned the hard way that people like him, the ones who go out of their way to convince you they can't hurt you, are often the ones you should be most wary of. I told the judge that just because he said he couldn't drive, didn't mean he couldn't get someone else to take him. Or hop on a bus. Or even fly. Money, distance, pain, it's all irrelevant when someone's obsessed enough. The judge didn't seem overly convinced, but he did at least accept my pile of evidence, screenshots of messages, call logs, voicemails, even envelopes with his handwriting. I remember sitting in that courtroom, my hand sweating against the Manila folder in my lap,

trying to look calm even though inside, I felt like my stomach was twisting into knots. Robert didn't show up in person. Just that weird letter. But reading it out loud in court was surreal, like having his voice in the room without him physically being there. He alternated between portraying himself as a victim and taking little passive-aggressive jabs at me. When the hearing ended, the judge said he'd take it under consideration and mail me the decision. That week waiting for the letter was brutal. Every time my phone buzzed, my body tensed. Every car that slowed down near my street had me glancing out the window. I even started leaving certain lights on at night just so it looked like I was awake. When the envelope finally came, I sat at the

kitchen table staring at it for a good five minutes before I opened it. The restraining order was granted. Three years. It felt like breathing for the first time in months. I called my mom immediately to tell her. She was relieved, but cautious. Three years goes fast, she said. Make sure you keep everything in case he starts up again, and she was right. Because when you've been stalked, you learn that silence isn't always peace. Sometimes it's just the quiet before someone tries something again. The next couple of years went by without any direct contact from Robert. But I never completely relaxed.

I still checked my rearview mirror more than necessary. I still scanned parking lots before getting out of my car. I still carried my pistol every time I left the house. I kept the Facebook group muted. I avoided posts that might give away where I was. Even when my husband and I went on trips, I was careful not to post about them until we were already home. But here's the thing about fear, it becomes part of your routine, and routine feels normal, until something shakes it loose again. That something came earlier this year.

I was sitting in my living room one quiet afternoon, scrolling through my phone, when a message from a friend popped up. It was just a screenshot. No explanation. It was a Facebook post from Robert. His profile picture was the same as before, but his post was short and vague, just a photo of a road sign in Washington State. The same state I live in. My heart started hammering. I zoomed in on the picture, scanning for any clue about where exactly it was taken.

It was only about an hour from my house. I hadn't heard from him in years. But there he was, close enough to show up in my town if he wanted to. I went straight to my computer, logged every single detail, time, date, location, even saved the photo in multiple places. Then I called the police to file a report. They told me since the restraining order had expired, there wasn't much they could do unless he contacted me directly again.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept replaying everything in my head, the bike theft, the gunshots, the missing woman, the phone calls, the letters. I thought about how people like him don't just stop. They circle back. And I don't intend to be caught off guard if he does. When I think back to the start of it all, I realize that a lot of how I react to danger now comes from those two years in military school.

People joke about those places being like glorified summer camp with push-ups, but for me, it was like a crash course in survival. You learn to pay attention to small details, the sound of footsteps behind you, the difference between someone walking casually and someone walking with intent. You learn to keep calm when chaos breaks loose, and you learn that hesitation can be the difference between walking away and not walking at all. So when that car slowed down near me all those years ago during my jog, I didn't ignore it. I didn't panic either, but I clocked the color, the make, the dents in the side panel, even the way the exhaust rattled. Those habits, scanning, memorizing, mentally filing away little pieces of information,

have stuck with me ever since. And then, of course, came the gunshots. People who haven't been around real gunfire sometimes confuse it with fireworks or a car backfiring. I didn't have that luxury. The crack of the first shot and the rhythm of the next three hit my ears like an old, unwanted friend. I knew instantly what it was, and my body reacted before my brain could finish processing. Yeah, I grabbed a baseball bat. Dumb, right? But adrenaline makes you believe you can do insane things, like run toward gunfire with a stick. Looking back, maybe it wasn't bravery, it was just the muscle memory of training. Move. Respond. Eliminate the threat. When I saw those tail lights disappearing, my brain caught up. That same damn car from a week before.

And then it was gone, swallowed by the dark street, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding against my ribs. What shook me more than the shooting itself was finding out later it was the same guy who stole my bike. Back then, I thought the bike theft was just bad luck, a random crime in a small town. Turns out, it was a preview of a much darker pattern. He wasn't just some petty thief. He was someone capable of coming back, years later, with a gun. After he got sentenced, I thought maybe that was the end of his story in my life. But the day I saw that headline, local woman missing, vehicle found abandoned, and recognized his name, something in me snapped. I slammed the paper down so hard the coffee mug on the table rattled. It wasn't just anger,

it was this deep, sick feeling in my stomach. Like, here was proof that he hadn't changed, that the system had let him out early just so he could wreck more lives. That's when I started carrying a pistol full-time. Even when I wasn't in uniform for EMT work, it was on me. It wasn't about feeling tough, it was about feeling like I had options if someone tried to hurt me again. I wish I could say life just went on after that, but the truth is, I kept my distance from my family for a while. Not because I didn't love them, but because I couldn't shake the paranoia. I didn't want to be the reason someone dangerous found their way back to their doorstep. Fast forward a few years, and I'm in my mid-30s. I joined this Facebook group for people from

my hometown, thinking it'd be fun to reminisce. Most folks were older, sharing grainy photos of the old diners and parks, telling stories about who used to own what business. Then there was Robert. At first, he just seemed like a friendly older guy, married, kids, nothing to set off alarms. But little comments here and there started creeping into our conversations. Complements that didn't feel like casual banter, messages at odd hours, finding my personal info without me giving it to him. That was the first time I felt the familiar itch of danger again. When he started sending flowers for my birthday, something I never told him directly, I knew he'd dug deep deep. than social media. Then came the oversharing about his marriage, painting himself as some

misunderstood victim. When I met my future husband and posted about it, Robert's mask slipped completely. The rage in his messages was unhinged, claiming I should have known he was in love with me, accusing me of betraying him, calling me names. It went from creepy to threatening fast. Dozens of texts a day, calls to my landline, bizarre voicemails about me owing him thousands of dollars, and then, threats about showing up at my house or my mom's. I blocked him on everything, but he just switched numbers, even sent letters full of rambling nonsense. The restraining order process was exhausting. The first two times, I was denied because we lived in different states. That was a gut punch, like the law was saying, sorry, we can't help until he actually shows up

to hurt you. When I finally got the order, I cried, not out of joy, but out of pure. bone-deep relief. For three years, I didn't hear from him. But you never really stop listening for the footsteps behind you. Then this year, that picture of a road sign in my state popped up on my radar. And just like that, all the old instincts roared back to life. I reported it, logged it, and now, I wait. Maybe he won't come near me again. Or maybe he's already closer than I think. That's the thing about people like Robert, and about the guy who stole my bike, shot at my house, and maybe did worse to that missing woman. They don't just disappear. They linger in the background of your life like a storm you can see far off on the horizon.

You can't stop it from rolling in, but you can make damn sure you're ready when it does. T. B. Kuntnud