Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Chilling True Crime Encounters From the Gainesville Ripper to Unexpected Killers PART1 #80

Episode Date: October 7, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truecrime #gainesvilleripper #unexpectedkillers #chillingencounters #realhorrorstories  “Chilling True Crime Encounters: From the Gainesville Ripper to Unexpected Killers PART 1” explores real-life encounters with some of the most terrifying criminals. From infamous serial killers to unsuspected perpetrators, these stories reveal the fear, tension, and danger that victims face. Each account captures the raw intensity of living in moments where every decision could be a matter of life or death.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, gainesvilleripper, unexpectedkillers, chillingencounters, realhorrorstories, terrifyingmoments, crimehorrorstories, darkencounters, criminalencounters, nightmarefuel, scaryexperiences, unsettlingstories, realfear, truecrimeaccounts

You ever get that feeling in your gut when you're standing in some stranger's workshop and suddenly realize, wow, this guy's got more old electronics than the Smithsonian. That was me, just, standing there, awkwardly clutching a VHS tape like it was some cursed artifact I just dug up. The guy, this repairman, was this quiet, older dude with the kind of face that looked like it had seen a million broken gadgets and just as many strange customers. His workshop wasn't just a workshop, it was a time capsule. Towers of dusty VCRs, stacks of unlabeled tapes, cables coiled like sleeping snakes, and the faint smell of old plastic and machine oil in the air. All right, follow me, he said, his voice low but steady. I trailed him deeper inside, still holding the tape like I wasn't sure if handing it over was a good idea. In the back, there was this beat-up

workbench lit by a single lamp, and on it lay every weird tool you could imagine, magnifying glasses, tweezers, spools of tape, tiny screwdrivers. This was his surgery table, and the tape in my hand was about to be the patient. I finally handed it over. He didn't even look at me, just picked it up like a jeweler handling some priceless gem. Then he grabbed what looked like plastic padded steel tongs, something between chopsticks and a medieval torture device, and started pressing out the wrinkles in the tape. It was, weirdly mesmerizing. The way he worked was part surgeon, part watchmaker, every movement precise, deliberate, and weirdly fast. You could tell this guy had done this a thousand times. My eyes followed every press, every adjustment, as if he was performing

some magic ritual. Finally, after what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, He pressed the last stubborn wrinkle flat and began winding the tape back into the reel. Well, he said, almost like a doctor delivering good news after a risky surgery, looks like we're all done here. Nice and flat. He rolled over a big wheeled rack that had a TV stacked on top of a VCR, both the kind of bulky, boxy models that felt like they belonged in a 90s classroom. He popped the tape in, hit play, and leaned back.

Let's see what life she's got left in her, he said. And just like that, I was staring into my own past. The TV flickered and came alive, showing a much younger me, tiny hands, messy hair, playing with this old musical Teddy Bear. My mom was there too, smiling, laughing with me, her voice warm and light. It was the kind of seen people frame and keep on their shelves forever. The repairman asked, what part got eaten up? I didn't answer.

My eyes were locked on the screen. On the tape, my mom wrapped her arms around me in this huge hug. And I swear, in that moment, this creeping, molten dread started pooling in my stomach. It wasn't nostalgia, it was the kind of instinctive fear you get before a storm hits. My mind started to remember, something. Something bad. My dad's voice came from behind the camera, saying something I couldn't quite make out, and then. The tape glitched.

Normally, this was the part where the screen would just fuzz out completely, but this time, after the repairman's handiwork, the picture was there, distorted, yes, but watchable. The audio slowed slightly, making everyone's voices sound deeper, unnatural. Like they were speaking through some dark, underwater cave. Better than it was before, huh, the repairman said. I was about to respond when it hit me. Not just a memory, more like the memory. The one I'd shoved into the deepest, darkest mental closet and padlocked shut.

And now it came roaring back, violent and unstoppable, like waves smashing into jagged rocks. Oh God! This day! This awful, awful day! The footage showed the camera getting set down on the floor. The angle tilted awkwardly, the bottom half of the screen filled with carpet. Then, footsteps. Heavy, angry footsteps.

My dad stormed out of frame, then stomped back in. Ben, what are you doing? My mom's voice asked, shaky but trying to sound firm. Shut the, underscore underscore, up, my dad's voice exploded. He dropped to his knees in front of the camera, getting right up in the face of my four-year-old self. And in his hand, a steak knife. The tip was inches from my tiny nose. You little, underscore underscore, he growled, voice so distorted from the tape speed that it sounded demonic. Ben, let him go, my mom cried. I said shut the up. This little, wants to play with girl toys and I'm sick of it. Here, be a man. Cut it up. On screen, I started to cry, loud, sharp wails that made the old TV's plastic casing vibrate. The slow motion effect warped my sobs into something.

unearthly. The repairman turned to me, his eyes wide. Jesus, is that you, I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up. My gaze was glued to the TV. The tape skipped, then resumed. You gonna do it, my dad taunted. Benjamin, stop, then it happened. Off screen, there was a sickening, wet crack. My mom collapsed just out of view, but the sound, God, the sound, was like a cannon going off underwater. A spray of blood hit the wall behind her, splattering in big, jarring red stains. She lay still for a few seconds, trying to push herself back up, and my dad, he didn't even look at her. He went right back to me. Knife still in his hand. He lifted it, aimed it directly at my tiny chest, and with a rage I could feel even decades later, he thrust it forward.

But he didn't hit me. The teddy bear took it. The knife went straight through the stuffed animal, and the bear's tinny little music box began to play, off-key, eerie, while its plastic heart lit up in blinking colors. My dad yanked the knife out, the bear still impaled, and began stabbing the floor beside me over and over, each blow so close I could see the carpet fibers shaking. The blade snapped with a sharp ping and the bear fell to the ground, a giant hole ripped through its chest. White stuffing floated into the air, drifting down like snow around my stunned little face.

The camera's autofocus shifted to me, as if even the machine didn't know what to do. My tiny hands reached out, clumsily trying to shove the stuffing back into the bear's wound, tears blinding me. My dad, panting now, grabbed the camera. Then, footsteps again. My mom. She was standing, unsteady but alive. The camera swung wildly, then was set down facing a wall. I heard hurried footsteps retreating, my mom, carrying me away down the hall.

My crying grew fainter in the background until it was just static. When the damaged section ended, the audio returned to normal. The screen showed someone's feet stepping into frame. A voice, my dad's, soft, almost rehearsed. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. All right. I love you. A faint, broken, I love you too, replied. I hit the stop button. The repairman was still staring at the now black screen, his face pale and rigid. Kid, what was that about? I swallowed hard. My father was a monster. My mom knew he was a monster. They, kept this hidden for years.

That day, he tried to kill me. And if it hadn't been for a stuffed bear, I trailed off. My throat felt tight, my chest heavy. Part of me wanted to break down right there. Another part of me, some stubborn, cold part, wouldn't let me. Then, from my back pocket, my phone rang. I pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID. It was my dad.

And in that moment, I understood something. There's always a reason to be afraid. To be continued.