Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - A Teller’s Routine Shattered A Fake Bomb Threat Turns Life Into a Nightmare #45

Episode Date: September 3, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #bombthreat #falsedanger #lifeinruin #nightmarestory #unexpectedterror  What started as just another day at the bank quickly spiraled into chaos when a fake bomb threat sent everyone into panic. For the teller caught in the middle, it was more than just an inconvenience—it became a waking nightmare. Suspicion, fear, and mistrust infiltrated every corner of their life. This is the story of how one cruel prank turned a simple routine into a haunting ordeal, where safety was an illusion and peace was shattered forever.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, fakenews, bombthreatpanic, terrorinthemoment, workplacehorror, anxietyattack, lifesuddenchange, falsealarmhorror, psychologicaltrauma, trustbroken, nightmareexperience, realfear, suddenchaos, unexpectedterror, helplessness

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. Oh, Amy, my little one.

I ask myself a million questions every day. When will you give me your first smile? How much sleep do you need? How can I help you and your big brother to get along? At the HSE's MyChild.I.E and in the free MyChaw books, you'll find the answers you need from doctors, midwives, public health nurses, dieticians and lots of other experts. Mychild.I.E.

Expert advice for every step of pregnancy, baby and toddler health. from the HSE. It was a bank. The same bank. The unchanging, dull, painfully familiar bank I dragged myself to every single morning. For five years now, I've been making the same walk, trudging down that muddy little pathway, my footsteps so ingrained in the dirt they could probably guide me their blindfolded. And yet, that day, just because I felt like being a little rebellious, I deliberately stepped out of my usual path and left a fresh footprint in the mud. A tiny act of defiance, like a splash of paint on a blank canvas. For a moment, it felt stupidly liberating, but the feeling didn't last.

I hated that morning, just like I hated most mornings. Inside the bank, rows of impatient, sour-faced people lined up, shifting from foot to foot, eager to get their business over with so they could bolt out of this suffocating place. and honestly, I couldn't blame them. I didn't want to be there either. I could never really remember individual faces. They all blurred together after a while. But I do remember their expressions. Always the same, barely contained irritation, flickers of desperation, sunken eyes heavy with financial dread. Sometimes they gave off this weird aura of hopelessness, and I hated how much I recognized myself in them. We shared this silent negativity. It was like we were trapped in the

same foggy bubble, and somehow that made the bulletproof glass between us feel thicker, like it wasn't just glass anymore, but a solid wall keeping two miserable worlds apart. Working here wasn't just boring, it was mind-numbing agony. Repetitive tasks that never changed. Endless small talk with strangers I didn't care about. If I could have listened to audiobooks or even had music playing in one year, maybe it wouldn't have felt like such torture. But no, constant human interaction meant I couldn't zone out. I couldn't escape. Every day felt like the last. The same fluorescent lights, the same stale air, the same clock hands crawling around like they were tired too. I didn't even want to work at this bank. But what else could I do? Switch to another job

where I'd still be trapped in a box, just with a shinier nameplate and a slightly smaller paycheck. Yeah, no thanks. So I stayed. Hey, Mr. Teller. Can you see me? The squawk yanked me out of my mental spiral. I flinched and looked up, blinking hard like I'd just woken up. Sorry, I said in my best customer service voice, cheerful, apologetic, fake as hell. Didn't sleep much last night. How can I help you today? The man standing in front of me didn't look impressed. His forehead was crinkled in a way that reminded me of a topographic map, all ridges and valleys. But there was something odd about him, something different from the usual annoyed customers. His eyes kept darting around, unable to settle on anything.

His frown wasn't the kind I usually saw, the kind born of bills, overdraft fees, or general frustration with life. No, this was the nervous kind. The kind that comes from fear. Like when someone in a group project suggests a terrible idea the night before it's due, and you know you're all about to fail. He shoved a crumpled piece of paper toward me through the tiny slot in the bulletproof glass. Read this, he muttered. I took it.

The paper was creased and looked like it had been through hell. The message wasn't handwritten but cobbled together from letters cut out of newspaper. It said, I have bombs so give me 10,000, I blinked at it, and blinked again. This had to be a joke, right? A bad one. Some idiot really thought he could scare me with this. A fake bomb threat and a ransom note straight out of a 90s crime show. I almost laughed in his face.

We'd had a single training session years ago about what to do in situations like this. Hit the emergency button under the counter. Keep the criminal distracted until the cops arrive. They'd get here fast anyway, the station was literally up the street. So, I pressed the button. Problem was, I was so thrown off by the absurdity of it all that I wasn't exactly subtle about it. The guy saw me press it. For a split second, we just stared at each other.

And then he moved. He yanked something from his back. and hurled it into the aisle next to mine. It landed with a soft thud. Before I could react, boom. The sound ripped through the air like the world was splitting open. My ears started ringing. A hot, metallic tang filled my nose. When I looked up, there was blood, bright red and wet, splattered across the glass in front of me. People screamed. They ran. Shoes pounded against the tiled floor. Someone knocked over a chair and it clattered

like gunfire. I couldn't move. My hands shook. My heart was slamming against... 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 U.S.C and all the best European rugby all in the same place. Get more exclusively live tournaments than ever before on Sports Extra. 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 Extra applies after 12 months, further terms apply. My ribs so hard it felt like it was trying to break out. Through the haze of fear and adrenaline, one thought warmed its way into my brain. This isn't boring anymore. TV shows and movies always make these moments look clean and dramatic. People say words like traumatic, horrific, life-changing.

And sure, it probably was all those things. But for me? For me, it was electric. Like I'd been sleepwalking for years and someone had finally slapped me awake. This wasn't routine. This wasn't safe or predictable. This was real. When the police finally stormed in and dragged the guy away, I still couldn't stop shaking.

Not from fear anymore, though. From something else. A week later, I quit the bank. They gave me a compensation package, which was nice. But what really stuck with me was seeing myself on the news. They interviewed me, stuck a mic in my face and asked how it felt to be so close to death. I didn't tell them the truth. I didn't say that, deep down, part of me loved it.

That I felt more alive in that one terrifying moment than in five years of trudging through mud to a job I hated. They told me later the guy had been suicidal, that he would have set off the bomb no matter what I'd done, that I shouldn't feel guilty. But I still did. Even so, there was a strange piece in knowing that my monotonous story had ended with a bang, literally, because nothing marks the end of a stagnant life quite like a bloodstained tombstone. The end.