Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Creepy Encounters at Gas Stations Predatory Strangers, Amber Alert, and a Ghost Stop PART2 #68

Episode Date: October 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #gasstationencounters #truehorrorstories #amberalertfear #ghoststopstories #creepystrangers  Part 2 continues the unsettling saga of terrifying gas station encounters. Dark nights bring face-to-face moments with predatory strangers, an Amber Alert spirals into chaos, and a ghostly stop leaves behind chilling evidence of the supernatural. These true-inspired tales prove that even the most ordinary pit stops can hide unimaginable horrors.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, gasstationencounters, creepystrangers, amberalertfear, ghoststopstories, roadsidehorror, chillingencounters, truehorrorstories, supernaturalstories, paranormalchills, scaryroadtrips, hauntedplaces, nightmarestories, creepyencounters, realfear

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 been 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. Jampact 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, further terms apply. I've been thinking we need to talk to him about it.

He might not listen to me. But yeah, as good a time as any. Okay, I'll give it a go. If he ever takes those earphones out. Vaping is harmful to your child's health. Nicotine addiction can affect their concentration, sleep and moods. They're much more likely to smoke when they're older too. So take a deep breath and talk to them today.

Get the facts about vaping and nicotine. Visit hse.e. forward slash vaping from the HSE. Horror. Graveyard shift stories, the night of Jack. Working the graveyard shift at a gas station is a strange kind of existence. If you've never done it, you probably imagine it's just like any other retail job, only later at night. Maybe you think it's quiet, boring, nothing happening except the occasional drunk college kids stumbling in for Doritos. And to be fair, sometimes it is exactly that. But when you've been at it for a while, you start to notice patterns. See, there are different categories of people who come in after midnight, archetypes, regulars, repeat offenders,

if you want to call them that. You don't just deal with random customers, you deal with characters. And when you've been standing behind a counter for years like I have, you start recognizing them like old sitcom reruns. There are the dead, tired commuters, still. in their work uniforms, yawning, buying a gatorade or coffee before dragging themselves home. Then you've got the packs of teenagers, high on sugar and stupidity, who flood the candy aisle and laugh too loud at three in the morning. There are the meth heads who blow their entire monthly food stamps on chips and cheap soda, their eyes darting around like hummingbirds. Then the wine moms, who look like they should have gone to bed hours ago, but instead are here

buying gas and whispering into their Bluetooth headsets about book clubs or divorces. And then, of course, there are the gym rats, 24-hour fitness freaks, dripping sweat, muscles twitching, buying protein bars at 2 a.m., because apparently eating grilled chicken like a normal person is against the law. And don't forget the alcoholics on bikes, the kind who racked up DUIs, but still need their fix, so they pedal up on. rusty mountain bikes, dig through their pockets for $2 and change, and ask for the cheapest malt liquor you've got. That's the zoo I work in. Now, here's the thing. After enough nights, even the weirdest customers stop being weird to you. They're just part of the routine. You build

up this insane tolerance to nonsense. Stuff that would make a normal person's skin crawl becomes background noise. But every so often, something happens that cuts through the numbness, something so off, so unnerving that it reminds you just how bizarre and dangerous the night can really be. And that brings me to one particular autumn night, the one I'll never forget, the night of Jack. 3am customers. It was one of those cold, crispy fall nights where the air outside, smells faintly of wet leaves and exhaust fumes. The kind of night where you can see your breath, but not enough to call it freezing. It was around 3 a.m., which, in graveyard shift terms, is the witching hour. That's when the true night creature show up. I was leaning against the counter,

half-heartedly scrolling through my phone. I had earbuds in, but only one side, never both, because you never know when something's about to go down. My brain was half a asleep, my body running on autopilot. That's when the door creaked open. A man and a young boy walked in. I tossed out my usual weak attempt at customer service. Hey, how's it going? Though it probably came out flat and bored. My eyes flicked up at them for half a second, then went right back to my phone. The boy couldn't have been more than nine. He walked slowly, like every step was a decision, heading toward the candy aisle. His dad. Dad, on the other hand, made a B-line for the beer coolers. Now, you learn a lot just from body

language when you work a job like this. And his body language screamed hostility. His shoulders were hunched forward, his stride was short and sharp, and his face carried this clenched expression, like he was either already pissed or about to get pissed. I sighed internally. I knew the script. Last call for alcohol in Ontario is 2 a.m. No beer after that. Which means every once in a while, some drunk or angly guy comes in at three thinking he can sweet talk or bully his way into buying some. I braced myself for an argument I'd had a hundred times. Sure enough, he stopped at the beer cooler, looked at it, then glanced back at me. His eyes narrowed, but instead of saying anything, he just turned, walked down the wall, grabbed an iced tea, and marched up to the counter.

The way he moved made me uneasy. There was a stiffness, like every step was a stump. The kind of gate you see in someone winding themselves up for a fight. My gut tightened. 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. Jam back 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 pricing applies after 12 months for the terms apply. I've been thinking we need to talk to him about. He might not listen to me. But yeah, as good a time as any. Okay, I'll give it a go. If he ever takes those earphones out. Vaping is harmful to your child's health.

Nicotine addiction can affect their concentration, sleep and moods. They're much more likely to smoke when they're older too. So take a deep breath and talk to them today. Get the facts about vaping and nicotine. Visit hse.i forward slash vaping from the HSC. I prepared myself but tried to diffuse things the only way I knew how, bland friendliness. How's it going? I asked, monotone.

He didn't answer right away. just stared at me. A long, uncomfortable stare that made my skin crawl. Finally, he muttered, pack of Marlborough Reds. I felt a wave of relief. Okay, not about arguing beer, just smokes and tea. I could handle that. I turned to grab the cigarettes off the shelf behind me, and then, Jack! The shout exploded behind me, making me flinch so hard I nearly dropped the pack of smokes. I spun around. The man had barked the name like a gunshot. His son was still in the candy aisle, staring blankly at the shelves. He wasn't even reaching for anything, just standing there, vacant, eyes glazed, like he wasn't really seeing the candy at all. The boy didn't move at

first. Then, slowly, like he'd been shocked awake, he shuffled toward the front. His eyes were shiny, like he'd been crying earlier and was holding back more tears. and the look on his face. I've seen a lot of sad kids in this job, but this was different. This was the face of someone carrying bruises on the inside, and probably the outside, too. I swallowed my questions and kept my mouth shut. In this job, you learn not to meddle, not unless you absolutely have to. The man tossed a crumpled $10 bill onto the counter, grumbling under his breath.

Less than 20 seconds later, he barked again. Jesus Christ, hurry the hell up! That was it. The line had been crossed. The breaking point. There's a weird balance to working graveyard. On one hand, you're supposed to be polite, helpful, smiling, basic customer service. On the other hand, you're also the only line of defense in the store.

You're alone, late at night, and sometimes people cast boundaries just to see if they can. You've got to project just enough toughness to make them. think twice. I kept my voice low and firm. Hey, relax. He snapped his head toward me with that same wild intensity he'd shouted with and grout. What was that? I held his stare. He can take two minutes to pick out a candy bar. You don't score points buying him one if you're just going to scream at him for it. For a second, the whole store went dead silent, just buzzing fluorescent lights and my own heartbeat in my ears. Finally, he snarled. You can shut the hell up, too. I pushed his money back across the counter. We're done here.

That's when I noticed something. The bill he'd thrown down wasn't just grimy. It had blood on it. My eyes flicked up, and that's when I saw his right hand. His knuckles were split open, bleeding, not fresh cuts, but still oozing, crusted around the edges. My stomach sank. This wasn't just some drunk dad, something else was going on here. The threat. I'm not a small guy, solid build, heavier than him by maybe 40 pounds. But size doesn't mean much at 3 a.m. when you don't know what the other person's got in their pockets, knife, gun, whatever. And our company policy, no weapons allowed, which is corporate speak for good luck if someone tries to kill you. That said, I wasn't about to stand there helpless. I had a pry bar stashed under the counter,

technically for stockroom maintenance, but really for moments like this. I shifted my stance slightly so I could grab it in a second if I had to. I locked eyes with him and said quietly, I bet your boy would like to leave now. He can keep the candy. Another long, unsettling stare. My skin prickled under the weight of it. Finally, he muttered, I'll be right back. Something in the way he said it chilled me, like he wasn't just going out to smoke a cigarette or grab something from the car. It sounded like a promise. And I wasn't about to find out what kind. The moment he walked out the door, I bolted.

I ran straight to the back office, slammed the door shut, locked it, and grabbed the phone. My hands were shaking as I dialed 911. I felt stupid as I explained it. Yeah, so this guy came in with his kid. got aggressive, bleeding hands left saying he'd be right back. I don't know, maybe he's just an asshole, but the dispatcher's tone changed when I described the car. She cut me off mid-sentence. Wait, did he have a little boy with him? Yes, I said, about nine years old. Stay on the line, she told me. Even before I hung up, I started hearing sirens. Not one or two, a whole swarm of

them. The aftermath. Over the next next, few days, the full story came out, and it made my stomach turn. That man, Jack Sr., wasn't just some angry father out too late. He wasn't supposed to be with his son at all. He'd lost visitation rights. The boy himself had asked the court not to see him anymore. And here's where it gets worse. Earlier that same day, six hours away from my gas station, Jack Sr. had tracked down his ex-wife. What he did to her with a claw hammer was so brutal, the police said she was unrecognizable. The blood on his knuckles splinters from her skull. He'd kidnapped his son and then, for some reason, ended up.