Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Childhood Horrors Terrifying Encounters With Strangers, Stalkers and Backyard Fears PART1 #70

Episode Date: October 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #childhoodhorrors #stalkerstories #creepyencounters #strangerdanger #backyardfear  This first part of Childhood Horrors explores chilling encounters that many can relate to but wish they never experienced. From unsettling strangers watching too closely, stalkers lurking in the shadows, to eerie backyard fears that blur the line between imagination and real danger. These stories remind us how childhood innocence is often interrupted by moments of pure terror.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, childhoodhorrors, creepyencounters, stalkerstories, strangerdanger, backyardfears, realhorrorstories, scarytrueevents, terrifyingchildhood, unsettlingstories, creepychildhood, chillingencounters, childhoodnightmares, darkmemories, truefear

Horror. Number one and number two, childhood horrors. I'm female, and this first story goes way back to 1993 when my twin sister, CJ, and I were both nine years old. Looking back now, it feels like a mix of a childhood memory, a campfire ghost story, and the kind of nightmare you never really shake, even when you're grown. To set the scene, CJ and I lived in a quiet little neighborhood where everybody seemed to know everybody. But our next-door neighbor? Yeah, she was different. To us, she wasn't just the cranky old lady who never smiled or waved. She was straight up a witch. No exaggeration. I know every kid at some point thinks the neighbor with the creepy house is magical or haunted or something, but trust me, CJ and I believed it with our whole hearts.

Why? Well, for starters, she was mean as hell. One time, we were cruising down the sidewalk in our Barbie Jeep, you know, the pink battery-powered kind every 90s kid wanted, and she called the cops on us, for real, like she actually dialed the police because two nine-year-olds drove their plastic Barbie ride two feet onto her property line. Even at nine years old, that told us everything we needed to know. She wasn't just grumpy, she was dangerous. To adults, she was just some bitter, lonely woman, but to us, she was the main character in our late-night ghost stories. Flashlights under blankets, whispers about spells, daring each other to peek into her yard.

She was the witch of our block, no question. When she finally passed away, well, let's just say CJ and I didn't exactly cry about it. Nobody did. The adults gave polite nods, said the usual, what a shame. but no one was heartbroken. Her son inherited the place, but didn't move in. He'd swing by once in a while, but mostly the house sat there, getting scruffier, overgrown, slowly becoming that one yard every parent secretly hopes won't drag down property values. The grown-ups never noticed the weird stuff. They just grumbled about weeds and how the house was going downhill. But CJ and I,

we noticed. We saw things. strange things. Her backyard was massive, like 500 feet deep, a wild mess of bushes and tangles. Our own backyard had tall hedges that blocked most of it from view, but every now and then we'd catch glimpses. Lawn chairs shoved behind rocks, blankets folded strangely and hidden, empty food bags tossed where no one should have been. Our conclusion? Easy. The witch's ghost was still there. Fast forward to summertime, when wild lavender started sprouting in her yard. Gorgeous, tall, purple blooms. C.J. and I wanted them badly. We had big plans to weave them into crowns, pretend we were princesses, maybe even fairies. But our parents had made it crystal

clear. Stay out of that yard. One afternoon, though, we got our chance. Dad was out running errands, and mom, who had a migraine, had retreated to the front room to nap. She banished us to the backyard with strict orders to stay put. CJ wore her pink overall shorts that day. I remember it vividly because that detail became important later. The moment we realized no parents were watching, we made our move. That six-foot chain-link fence separating our yard from the witches was nothing to two determined nine-year-olds.

In seconds, we were up and over, our feet crunching down on forbidden ground. Within minutes, we were lost in our lavender picking mission, weaving flower braids and laughing about how we'd finally outsmarted the adults. But then, the sound came. A dry, raspy cough. CJ and I froze, our heads snapping toward a blue tarp crumpled in the yard. At first, it just sat there, unmoving. Then it started to rustle, shake. And before we could even whisper to each other, something emerged.

He was a huge man. Scragly red hair stuck out in clumps, his face streaked with grime. He wore filthy sweatpants and a jean jacket that looked decades old. And he wasn't just standing there. He was exposed, shamelessly playing with himself. For a split second, I couldn't move. My body turned to ice. It wasn't until CJ screamed that I snapped out of it. That scream seemed to trigger him too because he started moving

toward us. I bolted. I swear I didn't even feel my feet hit the ground as I scrambled back to the fence. I flew over it like I had wings. But CJ wasn't so lucky. One of her overall straps snagged on the fence.

I'll never forget that sound. The sharp tug, the snap a fabric, her shriek as she tumbled over. She landed hard, and her forehead smashed into my nose with a crack that shattered it. We scrambled toward the house, both crying, and just as we slammed the door behind us, I heard it. Wild, manic laughter coming from the other side of the fence. That laughter still lives in my head. Mom woke instantly, panicked, and when she saw our faces, she called the cops without hesitation. They searched the yard, but found nothing, except for something even more horrifying. Over 50 photographs. Pictures of CJ and me. We never saw that man again,

but the memory, it never left. Number two. Now the second story takes place a little earlier in time, mid-1980s, and not in the same neighborhood. This one happened when I was about nine years old, growing up in a suburb of Los Angeles County. Our little corner of the world had this weird Midwestern vibe, nothing like the chaos you'd expect near the big city. The house we lived in had been built in the 1930s, and tucked in the backyard was the coolest thing any kid could imagine,

a miniature playhouse. It was like a child-sized replica of the real house, with plaster walls, carpet, windows, a real roof, even a tiny door. About five feet tall inside, just enough for kids to duck in and play house for hours. For as long as I could remember, my best friend who lived next door had talked about having a sleepover in that playhouse. The idea lived in our heads for nearly a year before we finally got the nerve to do it. When we did, my dad helped set everything up. He cleaned it out, swept the carpet, even rigged up a battery-powered light. It was perfect. The backyard itself was this

odd mix of cozy and eerie. Two massive orange trees dominated the yard, their leaves scattering everywhere. The space was fenced in, with a detached garage that opened to a back alley. Next to the playhouse was a woodshed, with another gate leading out to that same alley. On the side of the house, a shorter three-foot gate led to the front yard. Everything creaked, stuck, or swelled with age. You had to slam the garage door to shut it, and the side gate dragged against the dirt so badly. You had to lift it just to move it.

That night, we set up sleeping bags, grabbed our mad libs, turned on the radio, and laughed ourselves silly. It was everything we had dreamed of. But then, the footsteps started. At first, we thought nothing of it, just the wind, just the trees, But the more we listened, the more it sounded like a heavy person circling the playhouse. Crunching leaves, slow, deliberate steps.

A couple of times I actually called out for my dad, thinking maybe he'd come to check on us. My dad was tall, six foot three, and heavy enough that his footsteps had that same weight. But no answer ever came. Normally, we weren't the type to spook easy. We were horror movie fanatics, always daring each other to watch the goriest or scariest stuff we could find. But this, this felt different. Something in my gut told me not to open the door. We tried peeking through the windows, but with the light on inside, all we saw was our own reflections.

Like idiots, we didn't think to turn it off so we could see out better. Instead, we convinced ourselves we were just being dramatic, just scaring ourselves like usual. Eventually, we switched off the radio and the light, deciding to settle down and sleep. The silence pressed in thick around us. And then, just as we were starting to drift, both of us sat bolt up in our sleeping bags, our hearts hammering. We looked at each other, wide-eyed. Okay, one of us whispered. To be continued.