Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - A Skull-Faced Giant Waited in the Shadows of Justice, and I Was Told to Stay Silent #7

Episode Date: August 19, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #skullfacedgiant #conspiracyhorror #silentthreat #supernaturalentity #darkjustice  This chilling horror tale follows a whistleblower who uncovers something terrifying hidden within the justice system—a towering, skull-faced giant lurking in the shadows, watching and waiting. As warnings pile up and the pressure to stay silent grows, the narrator realizes they’re trapped in a nightmarish conspiracy far bigger than they imagined. A haunting blend of supernatural horror and real-world fear, where justice is anything but blind.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, supernaturalhorror, conspiracy, skullfacedentity, justicecorrupted, whistleblower, psychologicalterror, horrorfiction, fear, chillingpresence, authorityfear, entityinthehall, unseenhorror, nightmarefuel, silencedtruth

You know those nights where you think you're going to have the most boring, uneventful evening? Yeah, February 24th, 2020, 9 p.m. was supposed to be exactly that. My grand plan for the night was simple, give my cat some attention, maybe scratch behind her ears while watching dumb YouTube videos at my desk, and then, if I'm being real honest, probably rub one out before passing out in my computer chair like the emotionally drained office drone I've become. But instead... Instead, I somehow found myself standing in the middle of the aftermath of a blood-soaked crime scene in a cold, dead three-room apartment, wishing I was anywhere but there.

And let me tell you, the only guy who could possibly have been more pissed about it than me was my partner, Jimmy. Everybody calls him Jim, not just because it's shorter, but also because the man is a walking, talking carbon copy of Commissioner Gordon from Batman. You know the guy, same tired eyes, wireframe glasses, an old red one. brown trench coat that smells faintly of stale coffee and nicotine, and a mustache so thick it could probably sweep a floor. Only difference between him and Gotham's finest is that Jim's voice sounds like he gargled gravel mixed with cigarette ash every day since he was born. His physical

health isn't winning any awards either, one flight of stairs and he's wheezing like a busted radiator. We got the call late. Jim had muttered something about how shit rolls downhill, and here we were, cleaning up messes left behind by people who outranked us. Jim said he'd hold the front, while I ventured further into the dingy little apartment to see if there was anything worth writing in the report. The first room? I guess you could call it a living room if you were feeling generous. It looked more like a cheap set from one of those TV cop dramas.

There was a small round table, flipped upside down like someone had lost their temper playing cards. The couch was riddled with bullet holes and deep cuts, probably from a blade. Blood splatter on the wall suggested whoever was here put up one hell of a fight. The only light came from an old TV stuck on static in the corner, its gray glow painting everything in flickering shadows. Pretty standard for a disturbance-turned murder call. But the thing that got me? The window. A single barred window had been shattered from the outside.

The bars weren't just bent, they were pried apart like they were made of Plato. Whoever did this wasn't just strong. They were inhumanly strong. With nothing immediately useful for my notes, I stood there like an idiot for a second, debating my next move. I had two doors to choose from. Door A, which led to a cramped little bathroom that smelled like mold even from here, or door B, which opened into a slightly larger kitchen. Between the two, I figured I'd hit the kitchen first.

Bathrooms at crime scenes are almost always disgusting, and I wasn't in the mood to start my night by dry heaving over a clogged toilet. Before going in, I noticed there was a small roller shutter on the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. It was closed, dented, and scraped up, probably from the struggle. The whole thing felt like one of those dumb game shows where your choices are door A for a new car, or door B for a lifetime supply of canned beans. Only here, the fabulous prize was more paperwork due by 9 a.m. Pushing the kitchen door open hard, because in my line of work, you never know who or what might be lurking behind it, I braced myself. But the kitchen was empty. It was about the same size as my own back at home, cramped, dark, and depressing. No lights on. Forks, knives, and various kitchen crowds.

were scattered all over the floor like someone had tried to grab a weapon but got smacked down before they could use it. From where I stood, I could see pretty much the whole kitchen. There was a window left wide open, leading to a fire escape. That was odd in itself, this was the first time I'd been called to a scene where a fire escape actually came into play. Usually, those are just movie clichés. I was standing there, staring at it, lost in thought, wondering if someone had made a clean getaway that way, when, crash. An earth-shaking bang exploded behind me. My first thought,

"'Shit, I just triggered some kind of trap, and now the ceiling's about to collapse and crush me into a Gary-flavored pancake. My heart slammed into overdrive as I spun around, and froze. Perched on the bathroom sink like some nightmare straight out of a bad comic book was a massive guy. And when I say massive, I mean this dude made Eddie Hall look like a middle schooler. His head was covered by a loose black balaclava that left only his eyes exposed, glowing faintly red behind a pair of thick goggles. The balaclava had a cartoonish skull design stitched into it. Another cartoon skull was stamped in the center of his tight black shirt.

A white fur-collared coat hung from his shoulders like a cape. I didn't even have time to process before I noticed his chest. hands, massive mitts encased in what I first thought were brass knuckles but were more like small iron gauntlets. His shoulders were padded like a football players, with sharp metal spikes sticking out in all directions. Blood, some fresh, some dried, splattered across his outfit in patterns that made my stomach turn. This was no random burglar. No, this guy was a walking weapon. Jim's voice rang out from the front, what the hell was that? I opened my mouth answer, but before I could even squeak, the mountain of a man was on me. He clamped his massive

hand over my mouth like a vice. Tell him it's fine, he hissed in a deep, robotic voice. His mask flickered slightly when he spoke, like it had some kind of built-in voice modulator. Uh, why yeah, everything's fine. I stammered through his grip. Just knocked over the fridge, because let's be honest, when a seven-foot murder machine is holding you like a stress ball, you tell him whatever he wants to hear. Who are you with? He growled, easing his hand off my mouth just enough for me to answer. His fingers dug into my arm like steel rods, sending a jolt of pain down to my elbow. I gave him my name, my badge number, the whole nine yards. I didn't even think about lying, it wasn't worth the risk. He stared me down for what felt like forever. He stared me down for what

felt like forever before clamping his hand over my mouth again. Go, he said. Don't mention me. Understand, I nodded as best I could with his palm smothering my face. Then, with a speed and agility that didn't fit his size, he pulled himself up into a hole in the ceiling, disappearing behind a loose panel. With one hand, he set the panel back into place perfectly, like he'd never been there. I stood there shaking, my heart pounding so hard it felt like my ribs would crack. I forced myself to breathe, forced my hands to stop trembling as I called back to Jim. No clues in here. I said, trying to sound casual.

Let's head out. Back in the car, Jim kept glancing at me. You're acting weird, Gary, he said. What's eating at you? For half a second, I almost told him about the hulking monster man in the apartment. But before I could open my mouth, Jim cut me off. For fuck's sake. Don't even start with some Batman villain bullshit. I'm tired enough already without your comic book crap, Gary.

Guess you know my name now. Here's the thing, earlier that day, a known murderer, rapist, and child trafficker had been reported dead in that apartment along with three of his henchmen. That scumbag had been declared innocent in a court ruling everyone, including me, knew was rigged. Thanks to the political circus surrounding the case, we couldn't even get inside to investigate until hours later. Do I think those guys deserve to die? Probably. But what about the way they were killed? The blood, the violence, the terror, does that make the skull guy any better than them? I don't know. What I do know is I'm sleeping with a baseball bat next to my bed from now on. And every time I hear a creak in my ceiling, my blood runs cold. The end.