Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - A Mother’s Pact with Darkness to Avenge the Horror That Destroyed Her Daughter’s Life PART3 #6

Episode Date: July 20, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales#finalconfrontation #darkmagic #revengecomplete #motherswrath #supernaturalshowdown  In Part 3, the mother steps fully into her cursed destiny. No longer seeking help, mercy, or salvation, she becomes a vessel of dark justice. Armed with forbidden knowledge and powers granted by her pact, she battles through hellish terrain to reach the beast at the heart of her suffering. But the deeper she goes, the more twisted the truth becomes. What really happened to her daughter? Who is the real monster? As the final confrontation unfolds, the line between vengeance and damnation disappears. This is the explosive conclusion to a story about grief, wrath, sacrifice—and the terrifying things a mother will become to avenge the innocent.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,finalbattle, cursedmother, vengeancefulfilled, demonicduel, horrorending, supernaturalrevenge,soulforsoul, eldritchterror, monsterconfrontation, pactwithdarkness, griefturnstowrath, corruptedbypower,shadowvsshadow, horrorfinale, daughtervengeance, mothervsbeast

There's so much rugby on Sports Extra from Sky. They've asked me to read the whole lad at the same speed I usually use for the legal bit at the end. Here goes. This winter Sports Extra is jam-packed with rugby. For the first time we've got every Champions Cup match exclusively live, plus action from the URC, the Challenge Cup, and much more. Thus the URC and all the best European rugby all in the same place.

Get more exclusively live tournaments than ever before on Sports Extra. Jampack with rugby. Phew, that is a lot of rugby. Get Sports Extra on Sky for 15 euro a month for 12 months. Search Sports Extra. New Sports Extra customers only. Standard Pressing applies after 12 months for the terms apply. The mornings began to stretch longer, the daylight creeping through her curtains in thin,

eager beams. Moni was sixteen when she first recognized the weight of her gift, though at the time she hadn't called it that. She simply knew it to be something strange, something that made her both special and, in some ways, profoundly broken. She had known for years that touching a gravestone could draw out memories of the deceased, but it wasn't until she grew older, more curious, more reckless, that she realized that she realized how far she could push it. Some nights, as her fingers brushed against the cool stone of

a forgotten tomb, the world around her would shudder and vanish entirely, leaving her to step into the shoes of another life, another soul. It started with harmless visits into the local cemetery, a place she knew well. The gravestones were like old friends, familiar, worn smooth by time and history. Each one had a story to tell, and in the quiet of the cemetery, Moni learned to listen. She would kneel by the stone of someone long dead, press her palm against it, and let her mind fall into the echo of their life. The first was a war hero named Thomas Caldwell. His life was one of sacrifice, honor, and loss. Moni felt the weight of it all, the long marches, the battles fought far from home, the quiet longing for a woman he had loved.

In those fleeting moments, she was Thomas. She tasted the salt of his sweat, the brink. burn in his muscles, the cold fear that nodded him during the war's bloodiest hours. And then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Her hand would leave the stone, and she would be back in the world she knew, a little shaken, a little changed, but eager to chase the next story. The thrill of discovery, of stepping into the shoes of strangers, began to consume her. Moni started visiting cemeteries in different towns, each time drawn by a name, a story, an echo could not resist. She became something of a wanderer, following the call of the dead wherever it

led. The more she touched, the more she learned, and the more she craved. By the time she was 18, Moni had begun to write. Her first book, an attempt at capturing the stories she'd uncovered, was nothing but fragmented memories and half-formed thoughts. The words poured from her like water from a broken dam, and when it was finished, it felt like nothing more than an exercise in indulgence. But something in it had sparked a fire, and when it was sent out into the world, the world responded. The silent staircase was published on a whim. The story, loosely based on the life of a woman named Anastasia Vaughn, who had died under mysterious circumstances in the 1800s, was raw, visceral, and haunting. The critics were divided, some calling it genius,

others dismissing it as melodrama. But the book caught fire. Readers fell in love with the way it made them feel as if they were walking through a graveyard themselves, hearing the whispers of the dead. Moni hadn't expected this. She had written it as a tribute, a way to give voice to a woman who had been forgotten by time. But now, as she looked at the success of her book, a gnawing feeling began to take root. She had taken Anastasia's death and turned it into art.

She channeled her sorrow and fear into words, transforming it into something others could consume. People were reading her book, unaware that every word had been drawn from the real, living memories of the dead. It was her gift. Her curse. Soon, the offers came. Publishers wanted more of her stories, stories from the graveyard she frequented, stories of lives long gone, deaths misunderstood, or forgotten. It was as if her gift had turned into a business, a commodity. The lines blurred, and she struggled to find her footing in this new world of fame and expectation.

She wrote more books, each one more successful than the last. But with each success, the questions became harder to ignore. How many of the people she wrote about had truly wanted their lives told? How many had simply been lost souls, forgotten by history, left to haunt their graves in peace? There were nights when Moni would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the faces of the people whose lives she had bled onto the page. She could still hear them sometimes, the echo of their voices, the tremor in their words. Did they know she was using their memories? Did they understand that she was taking their pain and making it something for others to consume?

Her second book, Shattered Memories, was a hit, just as expected. But this time, the story came with a price. The life she had relived was that of a young man named Jack Thorne, a boy who had died in a grip of madness, his body found in an abandoned house miles from civilization. His family had never found out the truth, and Jack's death remained a mystery. When Mony first touched Jack's gravestone, she felt his grief like a weight pressing on her chest. The anguish, the fear, the sense of betrayal, it flooded her mind. She saw him in the days before his death, his grief. growing paranoia, his isolation. She felt the cold, stifling air of the house where he had taken

his final breath. She felt the sharp ache of his mother's unspoken questions, the love that had failed to save him. And she wrote it all down, word for word. But with that book came something Mone hadn't expected, Jack's memory became a haunting presence. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, twisted in confusion, his eyes filled with pleading. She began to question herself more, question her motives, her ethics. Was it worth it? Was it right to take someone's death, someone's pain, and turn it into a story for the world to consume? The line between what was real and what was fiction became increasingly difficult to see.

The people she had written about, were they alive in her memory, or had she simply appropriated their lives for her own gain? There was no turning back now. Moni had found something in the graveyards, something beyond the dead. It was the way their stories made her feel alive, the way they gave her purpose. But that purpose was becoming something darker, something she didn't know how to control. The questions never stopped. Was it a gift? Or was it a curse?

She would spend weeks or months trying to answer that question, but each time she thought she had found clarity. the answer would slip through her fingers. And so, she kept writing, her books becoming more successful, her fame growing, but the weight of her gift, the responsibility of it, felt heavier each day. She had become a thief of souls, taking their most intimate moments and turning them into something others would devour. The fame she had once craved felt hollow now. The stories no longer brought her peace, instead, they weighed on her, suffocating her with guilt. She wondered if the dead even wanted to be remembered this way, if they sought this kind of immortality.

With each new book, the darkness grew, and Moni wondered if she'd ever escape it. She would spend her life chasing answers that would never come, trapped in a cycle of her own making, listening to the dead, but never truly at peace. To be continued.