Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Chilling Encounters Stalkers, Hidden Cameras, and Terrifying Underground Tapes PART2 #16

Episode Date: October 29, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #stalkerencounters #hiddencameras #undergroundtapes #truehorrorstories #survivorstories  Part 2 continues the chilling real-life accounts of stalkers, hidden cameras, and underground tapes. These stories reveal escalating threats, psychological terror, and the constant tension of being watched or pursued. Readers experience the fear and suspense of real-life invasions, highlighting how dangerous and unsettling these encounters can be.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, stalkerencounters, hiddencameras, undergroundtapes, suspenseandterror, dangerousencounters, frighteningexperiences, realhorrorstories, nearfatalencounters, survivorstories, fearinthedark, chillingencounters, unexpecteddanger, psychologicalhorror, truecrimehorror

The roommate with the laptop. I still remember the night it all started, and honestly, it feels burned into my brain like some cheap horror movie I never asked to star in. It was around two in the morning, give or take, when I decided to grab a glass of water. I patted out of my room half asleep, hair messy, eyes half shut. The hallway was dim, only the faint blue glow of a laptop spilling out from under Peter's door. Peter was my roommate back then. He was one of those quiet, awkward guys who never said much, but always smiled in that way that wasn't exactly comforting. I figured he was gaming or watching YouTube or something, so I kept walking.

But as I passed, I glanced inside because his door was slightly cracked open. That's when my stomach dropped. Peter was sitting at his desk, shoulders tense, eyes wide like a deer in head. lights. He had that, caught red-handed, look, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. He jumped when he realized I was standing there, like he wasn't expecting me up at that hour. Behind him, on his laptop screen, was a grainy, black and white video feed. It took me a second to process what I was seeing. My bed. My bedroom. The camera angle showed my sheets, my pillows, the whole setup I had just climbed out of to get a drink.

That meant there was a camera in my room. Watching me. Recording me. My heart did this weird stutter thing, like it wanted to stop but didn't. Peter turned to me, face pale, and immediately started babbling. Listen, it's not what it looks like. I swear, I can explain. But there was nothing to explain.

I saw it with my own eyes. He was watching me sleep. The immediate fallout. Now, here's the thing about Peter. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't the type to stand his ground. He folded instantly, hands up, stammering apologies, talking a mile a minute about how it was all some kind of misunderstanding. But you don't just accidentally set up a hidden camera in someone's

bedroom. That's not something that happens by mistake. I didn't even yell. I just walked back to my room, found a tiny camera perched on my shelf behind some books, ripped it out, and shoved it in my pocket. I couldn't stay there another second. That same night, I grabbed what I could carry, clothes, my laptop, my phone charger, and left. Didn't even pack properly. I drove to a friend's place and crashed on their couch until I could figure things out. The police report. The next morning, after about three hours of restless sleep, I filed a police report. The officer who took it nodded, asked a few questions, and typed everything into his system.

He didn't say much, probably because the case was technically still open. But here's the part that kept gnawing at me, I didn't know how much footage Peter had of me. Had he been recording for weeks? Months? Was it just boring stuff, like me scrolling TikTok in bed, or had he captured me changing? Showering? Worse? The thought made my skin crawl.

To this day, I don't know if he uploaded anything online. I don't know if there are nude clips of me floating around in some disgusting corner of the internet. That's the kind of uncertainty that eats at you. because there's no closure. The house after. The other roommate bailed too, not long after I did. Whatever weird vibe Peter gave off, apparently they felt it too once everything came out.

A few months later, I drove past the old house. The lawn was overgrown, the windows dark, and a foreclosure sign stuck in the front yard. For a second, I felt relief. Like maybe karma caught up with Peter Maybe the universe doesn't let creeps win forever But I never went back Never checked in

Some doors, once you close them, you don't open again Fast forward, the front desk Now let me shift gears Different story, same thread of unease I'm a cop won't say which city, but it's one of the big ones here in Australia. My station's in a rough area, lots of bail check-ins, people with face tattoos, folks who look like they've lived three hard lifetimes by the time they're 30.

So it wasn't unusual that the lobby was packed on a random Monday lunchtime. The place always smells faintly of sweat, old coffee, and whatever someone microwaved in the break room. That's when I noticed her. A woman, maybe late twenties or early thirties, standing in line. No tattoos, no hard look in her eyes. Just, nervous. She stood out instantly, fidgeting with her bag strap, eyes darting around like she didn't want to be there. When it was her turn, she walked up to my desk and said, I think I need to talk to a detective.

Now, that's usually a red flag in this line of work. People don't open with that unless they've got something weird. I pulled out my notebook and told her she could start with me. She hesitated, then reached into her bag. Look, I've seen enough movies to know reaching into a bag at a police station could end badly. But Australia isn't the US, and people here don't usually jump straight to assuming you're pulling a weapon. Still, I was tense. What she pulled out wasn't a gun.

It was a VHS tape. She slid it under the glass like she was handing me a cursed object. The story of the tape. It took some coaxing to get the full story. She kept swinging between horrified and embarrassed, apologizing for wasting police time. Her name was Jennifer. A couple months back, she'd been jogging around her neighborhood when she saw a big pile of stuff by the sidewalk outside a house. Furniture, boxes, random junk. Looked like someone had either moved out

or was having their place cleaned out. Among the pile was a cardboard box with a VCR in it. She figured, hey, maybe it still works. She came back later with her car, grabbed it, and brought it home. For two months, it sat on her shelf collecting dust. Then one weekend, she finally decided to test it out. She even went to a thrift shop and bought a random VHS tape to try. But when she opened the VCR, she realized there was already a tape inside.

Curiosity 1. She hit play. What was on the tape? Jennifer told me she regretted pressing play the second the screen flickered to life. The tape was labeled SECC Camera Club. It started with a woman tied to a chair in what looked like a shed or a barn, the walls made of corrugated iron. The camera was handheld, shaky, moving around the woman like whoever was filming was savoring the moment. Then the cameraman leaned close to her face. You could hear him breathing, loud, heavy, almost excited.

The woman in the chair started begging. Pleading for her life. That's when Jennifer paused the story, her hands shaking. She asked if we could watch it together in one of the interrogation rooms. Watching the tape. We still had old TV carts for training videos, ancient VHS setups that looked like they belonged in a school classroom from the 80s. I wheeled one in, popped in the tape, and hit play. Jennifer sat next to me, pale and fidgeting.

The video picked up right where she described. The woman tied up, crying, begging. The camera circling like a predator. Jennifer couldn't take it. She asked to step into the hallway. I let her. What happened next? It still makes me feel sick thinking about it.

The cameraman pulled out a knife. The woman's screams tore through the speakers. And then, it happened. I won't describe every detail, but let's just say it wasn't staged. At least, not in my eyes. The terror on her face, the way her body jerked, it felt real. Too real. I sat there frozen, my stomach churning.

The sergeant's reaction. When it ended, I didn't know what to do. I looked like an idiot, probably pale as a ghost. I wheeled the TV into my sergeant's office and told him what I'd seen. He laughed. Actually laughed in my face. Fake, he said. All fake.

I've been to dozens of stabbings. You never get that much blood. Some sicko horror film, that's all. Then he got pissed at me for wasting time while the lobby was still packed. So that was that. No investigation, no evidence collected. Just a shrug in a lecture. Jennifer's relief

When I told Jennifer what my sergeant said, she looked half relieved and half embarrassed. She didn't even want the tape back. Told me to chuck it in the bin. Said she never wanted to see it again. I don't blame her. My own research. Later, I started digging. The closest thing I found was a 1978 movie called Faces of Death.

A fake documentary with staged death scenes. Shocking for its time, tamed by today's standards. But what we watched, It didn't feel like faces of death. It felt raw. Underground. I searched a CCC camera club. Nothing.

Not on Google, not on forums. It was like it didn't exist. So what was it? A bootleg horror project? Some amateur film crew pushing the limits. Or, was it real? That question's still haunts me. The end? Or not? There's always a reason to be afraid. And sometimes,

the scariest part isn't what you see on the screen. It's what you don't know. It's the unanswered questions. Like, how many tapes are out there? How many people have watched them? and who the hell is behind the camera the end