Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dangerous Choices, Haunting Encounters, and the Chilling Lessons They Left Behind PART2 #37

Episode Date: October 2, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #paranormalencounters #fearfulchoices #darklessons #creepytales #realhorrorstories  Part 2 dives deeper into the consequences of dangerous choices, with haunting encounters that refuse to be forgotten. Each chilling lesson reveals how fear takes root in the smallest decisions, turning ordinary moments into lasting nightmares. These stories show that some horrors never truly end—they follow you long after the lights go out.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, dangerouschoices, hauntingencounters, chillinglessons, darkfear, creepyencounters, truehorrorstories, supernaturalterror, eerieencounters, nightterrors, mysterythriller, realhorrorstories, survivalhorror, spinechilling, disturbingtruths

When you grow up in a place like the one I did, danger doesn't exactly show up, it's just there, part of the background. For me, that place was an apartment building in Baltimore that should have had a skull and crossbones on the front door. We were on the kind of street where if you heard laughter, it was probably just someone drunk enough to forget how bad things were, and if you heard running footsteps, it meant trouble was spilling your way. Our building wasn't some rotting old brick thing from the movies, it had decent bones, but the life in the way. inside it had rotted to the core. Some floors were makeshift drug labs, some were stash spots, some were distribution points. The whole place was like a beehive for criminals, except the bees had guns, short tempers, and no mercy. At night, the soundtrack of my life was arguments echoing through the floors, the muffled pop-pop-pop-pop of gunfire from somewhere below,

and the occasional shriek that was cut off too fast to mean anything good. The stairwells were the worst, you'd catch a whiff of that coppery tang in the air, the smell of blood. I'd picture bodies being dragged down the stairs, bumping one step at a time, leaving stains no one bothered to clean because, really, who cared? Every so often, some guys in the hall would corner me. Not with small talk, they had propositions. They wanted me to run packages across town to another crack house. Nobody'll mess with you, they'd say.

but I knew that was a lie. Rival crews would be more than happy to knock me around and steal whatever I was carrying. I wasn't about to take that risk for anybody. Turning them down didn't make me popular. I got shoved, smacked, and threatened plenty of times. But most days, they left me alone. Maybe they figured I wasn't worth the trouble. Or maybe they were just saving me for later.

The craziest thing... After a while, I got used to it. Seeing guns in the hallway didn't make my stomach drop anymore. Hearing someone get beaten right outside our door with baseball bats or tire irons barely raised my pulse. I just grabbed my grandmother and hold her until the noise stopped, knowing that our deadbolt wouldn't really stop anyone if they decided they wanted in. Truth was, the only thing that kept us safe was their indifference. We weren't important enough to target. That illusion shattered one afternoon.

I'd just gotten home from school, backpack still slung over my shoulder, when I saw it, our apartment door wide open. No knock, no scratch marks, just, open. My gut tightened. I stepped inside, and there they were, six men, heavily armed, gathered around our kitchen table like it was their personal war room. Assault rifles, shotguns, hard faces. One of them didn't like the sight of me.

He grabbed me by the neck and dragged me across the kitchen. My feet barely touched the floor. He shoved me into my grandmother's bedroom, where she was sitting on the bed, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook. I rushed to her, wrapped my arms around her, and the men slammed the door shut behind us. Time got weird in there. Could have been minutes, could have been an hour. Then it happened. Gunfire

Not just a couple of shots, an eruption. The sound was so close, so loud, it felt like my skull was rattling. My grandmother and I hit the floor, pressing pillows over our ears. The sound of automatic rifles filled the apartment. Screams, shouts, chaos. Then, silence. The kind of silence that feels heavier than noise. My ears rang so loud I thought.

thought I'd gone deaf. The bedroom door burst open. A man in a black bandana stepped in, rifle up, scanning us. He paused, pointed the barrel at us for a few long seconds that felt like years, then lowered it and walked out. I couldn't move at first. My legs didn't want to work. But finally, I forced myself to get up, cracked the door, and peeked into the kitchen. It was a slaughterhouse. The six men from before were lying where they'd been sitting, bullet holes in their bodies, blood pooling on the floor. Chairs overturned, a deck of cards scattered across the table. No sign of who'd done it. I didn't think twice. I grabbed my grandmother's hand, and we walked out without looking back. No packing, no locking the door. We just left. No cops came. No

It was like it had never happened. A neighbor downstairs let us stay the night. The next day, we went to my school together and told my teacher everything. That set off a chain of phone calls, and eventually the school found us a shelter. We never went back for our stuff. The building was raided and demolished not long after. As far as I was concerned, we barely made it out alive. There was nothing they're worth going back for.

Fast forward years later, 2011. My 21st birthday. Some people celebrate that milestone with a bar crawl or a night in Vegas. Me? I decided to go backpacking through the Canadian mountains, alone. I'd been camping before, but always with friends or family. This time, I wanted to test myself. Just me, the wilderness, and whatever the hell came my way.

By my third day, I reached the destination I'd picked out ahead of time, an old farmhouse in an overgrown field. I'd found it on Google Earth, marked it on my map, and been itching to see it up close. I had my gear, compass, first-aid kit, utility knife, and, most importantly, a Smith and Wesson Governor revolver my dad had loaned me for protection. Six shots, heavy in the hand, beautiful in its own way. I'd practiced with it before. leaving, just like Dad insisted. The place looked like it hadn't seen life in decades. Every window on the ground floor was boarded up. By the front door, a faded plastic pinwheel turned lazily in the breeze. I walked up the front steps, feeling silly, and knocked. No answer.

So I circled the place. Found a rusty fire escaped dangling from an upstairs window. An old fridge, tipped on its side, half buried in tall grass. When I got back to the front, I tried the knob. It was stiff, but it turned, and the door creaked open. That's when I felt it, eyes on me. I spun around, and there he was. Out by the tree line. A man with a long gray beard, just, watching.

I raised my hand in an awkward wave, the other hand sliding to rest on my revolver. Hey. Is this your place? Sorry, I'll leave if it is. Nothing. Just staring. Then he turned and walked into the trees. That made my skin crawl. I didn't want to go back into the woods knowing he was out there. So I stepped inside, shut the door, and slid a stool in front of it. If it tipped over, I'd know someone had come in. For the next hour, I explored. Dust every day. everywhere, boards creaking under my weight. I checked the windows every so often, half expecting to see him again. By the time it started getting dark, I decided I wasn't leaving. I found the attic stairs, climbed up, locked the door behind me, set up my lantern, unrolled my sleeping bag. Ate a small dinner, scribbled in my journal, turned off the light. And then, creak. My eyes snapped open. Footsteps on the stairs. I grabbed my flashlight and my gun, aimed both at the door.

Who's there? If I'm trespassing, I'll leave. Just don't try to come in. I have a gun. The footsteps didn't stop. The knob rattled. I said stop. I'll shoot. I shouted, trying to make my voice sound meaner than I felt. The rattling got louder. I counted to 5, my finger tightening on the trigger. Still rattling. I counted again. Then I fired twice through the door, aiming low. The shots thundered in the enclosed space. Silence. No thud. No scream. Just, nothing. I inched forward, unlocked the door, swung it open, and saw nothing. No blood, no body, no footprints. Heart pound. I slammed it shut, locked it, and dragged an old armchair in front of it. I didn't sleep

much that night. When the sun finally rose, I packed fast, climbed out the attic window, and went down the fire escape. About 20 steps from the house, I made the mistake of looking back. He was there. The bearded man. Watching from the attic window. I aimed my revolver at him, didn't fire, just a warning. Then I ran. Two years later, summer of 2013, I brought four friends back to that house. Showed them the bullet holes in the attic door. We didn't stay long. I still go camping now and then. And I still carry my handgun. Because out there, in the city, in the woods, anywhere, you never know who's watching. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end.