Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - A House Party Turned Into a Trap I Barely Escaped a Setup That Could’ve Killed Me PART2 #73

Episode Date: September 17, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #trapnight #survivorstory #betrayaldanger #nearfatalescape #darkpartyhorror  Part 2 deepens the horror as the narrator recounts the chilling moments they barely escaped the deadly setup. Tensions rise, trust evaporates, and danger lurks around every corner. With betrayal cutting deep, the struggle to survive becomes even more desperate. This chapter reveals the raw fear and resilience of someone caught in a nightmare they never saw coming.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,part2thriller, nearfatalescape, betrayalhorror, survivalfight, darknightmare, dangeroustrap, truehorrorstory, emotionaltrauma, chaoticencounters, fearandfight, trustbrokenagain, terrifyingexperience, hauntingtruths, nightmarecontinues

All right, so let me take you all the way back to 2012. I was in college, right in the middle of the chaos that is student life, living with a few buddies in this rundown one-bedroom apartment not far from campus. Honestly, we were more focused on partying and surviving off ramen noodles than we were on our GPA. That apartment was nothing fancy, just a crash pad where we slept off hangovers and microwaved frozen pizzas. But it gave us the freedom to be our reckless young selves, without the watchful eyes of our parents or the ever-nosey college admin breathing down our necks. Now, here's the thing, our place was smack dab in a part of town where hearing cops break up fights or chase down some low-life wasn't exactly rare.

If a week went by without a police car flashing its lights outside our window, we'd be surprised. You could hear couples screaming at each other through the walls like it was part of the local ambience. It was rough, sure, but it was home. For that year, anyway. One night, the guys decided to hit up some house party while I stayed back to actually get some studying done. Exams were around the corner, and I was trying to be responsible for once. The night was chill.

Tupac was playing from somewhere above, probably some stoner blasting his old school playlist. Other than that, nothing seemed off. Until around 11 p.m. That's when I heard it. A weird, dragging metal sound just outside the front door. At first, I thought maybe someone was moving furniture or something, but it didn't stop. It kept scraping along the floor, real slow, like something heavy being dragged. Mixed in with it was this muffled voice, like someone talking through a thick mask or with

their face buried in a pillow. I couldn't make out the words, but it definitely wasn't singing or casual chatter. This creepy audio experience lasted for about ten minutes, and I finally got off my ass and crept to the door. I looked through the peephole and at first, nothing. Just the hallway, dimly lit and dead silent. Then a figure appeared. He stopped directly between my door and the one across. Caucasian guy.

No shirt. Drenched in sweat like he'd just run a marathon in a sauna. And in his right hand, An axe. A big one. He was dragging it along the concrete floor like something out of a cheap horror flick. But the icing on the nightmare cake. The dude had on a black leather gas mask.

You know, the kind that looks like something soldiers would wear during chemical warfare. His entire face was hidden, just black lenses and rubber tubes. Every single alarm bell in my head started ringing. It was like my brain couldn't fall. process what I was seeing because it was just too surreal. Like, this kind of thing doesn't happen in real life. It belongs on late-night horror channels with bad acting and fake blood. And then, as if he somehow knew I was watching, this guy started singing. Not just any tune. A muffled, eerie rendition of Tupac's Hail Mary. Come with me. Hail Mary, run quick see.

What do we have here now? Do you want to ride or die, Lauda. As soon as he hit the last note, he lifted one leg and just launched that axe straight into my door with enough force to shake it on its hinges. I fell backward, smacked the floor, heart jackhammering like I was in a war zone. Then I heard another voice shout from down the hall. Hey. What the, expletive, are you doing?

I jumped back up, peeked through the peephole again. Gas mask guy. Gone. To the left of our front door was a fire escape, and that must have been how he bailed. The security guard from the building showed up with a taser in hand, looking pissed and ready to rumble. I shouted through the door, you want me to call the cops. He nodded, already jogging toward the stairwell. Yeah, do it. I'm going around the building. So I dialed 9-1-1 and told them everything. Guy with an axe, black gas mask, singing Tupac. They showed up in like 10 minutes, but by then the psycho had vanished. Our complex was backed up by a little forest and a bunch of alleyways,

too many escape routes. Safe to say, I didn't stay in that apartment long after that. I tucked it out until the lease was up and then got the hell out. You can endure only so many drug deals and domestic squabbles through paper-thin-walls. But an axe-wielding gas-mask clowns singing Tupac. That was it. Game over. To this day, nothing like that has happened to me again. And thank God for that. But I still can't look at clowns, masks, or hear, Hail Mary, without breaking out in cold sweat. I laugh now, but man, that was nightmare fuel. Okay, story number two. Different vibe. We're jumping way back to the early 90s.

I was in the fourth grade. The internet wasn't a thing yet, cell phones weren't a thing either, and if you wanted to know the time, you checked the streetlights. When they came on, you better be halfway home or your mom was going to lose it. So, back then, I had this quirky habit of walking on my tiptoes. Always have. Still do, actually. Kids used to tease me, called me Tippy or ballerina. No matter how hard I tried to walk flat-footed, I'd eventually sneak back up on my toes.

My family joked I was destined to be a dancer, even though I hated dresses and preferred climbing trees over pirouettes. My mom worked two jobs, still found time to sign me up for ballet at the community center. Thought I'd love it. I didn't. The instructor's name was Melanie. Real stuck-up type. Acted like she was training future Broadway stars, even though we were just a bunch of neighborhood kids.

She liked how I moved but clearly wasn't a fan of the fact we were broke. After class, she told me I was too tall and awkward. Cool way to boost a fourth grader's confidence, right? I was walking out of the studio, trying not to cry, when I heard her whisper to another teacher, I don't teach trailer trash. I froze. Turned around, furious. Excuse me.

She sneered and said, I don't teach kids like you. That was the moment Mr. Diaz stepped into my life. He was a karate instructor at the center, overheard the whole thing. That's a fighter in you, he said. You ever thought about trying karate? He took me under his wing, no charge. I was his first female student, and he taught me to turn those tiptoe legs into weapons. I learned to kick like a mule, and I'm still packing thunder in my calves and thighs.

Around that same time, our little town in coastal North Carolina was being stalked by a sicko. This guy had been abducting girls, doing unspeakable things, and then dumping them in the next town over. None were killed, but the trauma was brutal. Each attack was worse than the last. Mr. Diaz changed our lessons. He taught us how to fight dirty. nose, eyes, groin. Make noise. But don't scream, rape, he said, people don't want to acknowledge that kind of horror. Instead, scream, fire, or something outrageous like, I lost my arm. Weird? Maybe.

But effective. Then one day, it almost became all too real. Spring 1990. Me and my best friend Ginny were out walking around the neighborhood. We were chatting about boys and the latest horror story making the rounds, another girl we knew had been victimized and was now in the psych ward. Out of nowhere, this old Pontiac rolled up slowly beside us. Maroon paint, kind of faded. The guy inside looked like a creeper straight from a serial killer documentary. Red-rimmed glasses, tight blonde curls, smile that made my skin itch. Hey girls, he said, leaning out the window. I'm trying to find the electric office. Can you help?

It was weird. The office was a mile away. Anyone local would know where it was. He had a map on the passenger seat, like he was trying to sell the story of being new in town. Claimed his mom usually paid the bills. Said he just got out of the military, but his hair was too long and he didn't have the base sticker. He waved Ginny over to point something out on the map. She didn't sense the danger.

But I did. Every word from Mr. Diaz came flooding back. Fight if you can't flee. I yelled, wait, Ginny, don't. But it was too late. The guy lunged across the seat and grabbed her arm. The car started inching forward. I sprinted, grabbed Ginny by the torso and yanked with all my strength.

We both fell to the pavement hard. My elbows scraped raw. knees bruised. But I had her. Neighbors came running. One of them, my friend Brandon's mom, jotted down the license plate as the car screeched away. Turns out, that man was the predator. The same one who'd hurt all those other girls. I don't remember his name. Maybe that's for the best. But I do remember his face, his voice, that disgusting grin. And how close we came to becoming another tragedy. To be continued.