Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dark Paths and Chilling Encounters That Forever Changed the Lives of Strangers PART1 #38

Episode Date: October 2, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #darkpaths #chillingencounters #strangertales #lifechanginghorror #truecreepystories  Part 1 unravels eerie journeys down dark paths and unsettling encounters that left strangers forever changed. These haunting stories reveal how unexpected meetings and chilling twists can alter the course of a life in ways that linger long after the terror ends.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, darkpaths, chillingencounters, lifechanginghorror, strangerstories, creepyencounters, truehorrorstories, supernaturalfear, eeriejourneys, nightterrors, mysterythriller, hauntingtales, survivalhorror, disturbingtruths, spinechilling

Back in the tail end of the 90s, I was living in this quiet little coastal town in Maine, the kind of place where everyone knows the smell of saltwater and you can hear the gulls before you even step outside. My place was one of those old New England houses with white clabbard siding, weather-worn shutters, and, my favorite feature, a widow's walk on the roof. If you've never seen a widow's walk, it's basically a little fenced platform perched right on top of the house. Sailor's wives used to stand up there scanning the horizon for ships returning from the sea. Mine wasn't so romantic, no ships to watch for, but it had a killer view of the Atlantic, and on sunny days, I'd take a mug of coffee up there and just breathe.

My life then was, simple. I worked at the local bank, which was only a block away. My commute was a three-minute walk, two if I skipped breakfast and jogged. I hardly ever traveled more than 20 miles from my driveway. My world was basically my job, my house, and my cat, Emmett. Then my younger sister had her daughter, Sarah. She was only 20, still in college, and juggling classes with motherhood. I offered to watch Sarah on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in the late afternoons while she went to her lectures. I had the space, big yard, cozy rooms, and I actually liked having the company. Sarah was one of those kids who seemed to have been born with a pencil in her hand.

Even at five, she could fill a whole page with her little crayon worlds, my house, me, Emmett, always with these bright, clashing colors that somehow worked. One day she brought me a drawing that made me pause. It showed me, her, and Emmett up on the widow's walk, our hair flying wildly like we were in a hurricane. But down at the far end of the platform, she'd added something, else. A figure. All black.

Too thin, arms hanging ridiculously long, leaning over the side like it was about to spill right off the roof. What's that? I asked. That's the long legs monster, she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I played along. And where does the long legs monster live? She didn't even look up from coloring. Under your house.

It comes out at night. Sometimes it climbs up high so it can see. see us better. But it doesn't like Emmett. I laughed, because, come on, this was adorable. Creepy, sure, but clearly something her little brain cooked up after seeing a shadow in the yard. I encouraged her to keep drawing it if she saw it again. And she did. Over the next few weeks, I ended up with a small stack of her artwork, at least a dozen of them featuring this thing. What started to bother me was that in the beginning, the monster was always outside, but lately, it was appearing inside the house in her pictures.

When I asked her how it got in, she said, through the trapdoor on the widow's walk. You never lock it, she wasn't wrong. I'd never bothered bolting it, who's going to break in from the roof? But the fact she'd noticed that detail was unsettling. I still didn't tell her mom, I chalked it up to her imagination working over to. time. Then came that winter night when Emmett vanished. Snow was piled up a foot outside, and I tore the place apart looking for him, under beds, behind the dryer, in every stupid cabinet he'd ever wedged himself into. Nothing. A week later, Sarah came over, plopped down by the

fireplace, and drew Emmett, running through snow, with the long legs monster right behind him. Where's he running to? I asked. He's not cut. He's not cut. coming back, she said, cheerful as ever. That night I was sitting cross-legged on my bed with my little electric heater humming when I heard light, deliberate footsteps above me. The Widows Walk. I told myself it was squirrels. Then came a heavy thud right over the trapdoor in the hall. I got up, flipped the hallway light on, and immediately noticed the faint smell of cold air. The trap door was closed, but, something had lifted it and let it drop. And there was no way the wind, or a squirrel, could do that.

I bolted it. Later, I dug Sarah's drawings out of my drawer. For some reason, I turned one upside down, and my stomach dropped. What I'd thought was just a blob with long legs was, a human figure. Upside down. Crab walking. Its head hanging backward, mouth wide open. I couldn't shake it.

The next night, I came in from shab walking. shoveling snow and was taking off my coat when I heard footsteps upstairs again. I grabbed an old stun gun from the kitchen, probably dead, but it made me feel better, and went up. One of the picture frames in the hall had fallen. As I reached to hang it back up, there was another thump from the trapdoor. I unbolted it, pushed it open, and stepped outside. The snow on the widow's walk was pristine, no footprints. I walked to the railing, leaned over to check the roof. When I turned back, there they were. Fresh tracks in the snow by the trapdoor. Not footprints. Handprints. I scrambled back inside, slammed it shut, and bolted it.

I didn't tell anyone, except my psychiatrist years later. Life moved on, but I never forgot it. Especially because a few nights ago, two decades later, I heard the shuffling on the roof again. When I called Sarah, now in college herself, she didn't remember any of it. I went to find those old drawings, every single one with the monster was gone. Only the normal ones remained. I've kept that trapdoor locked ever since. But last month, I dreamed it was at the foot of my bed, head hanging grotesquely upside down, eyes black and hungry. I told myself it was just a dream.

My name's Dominic. I live in Portsmouth, New Hampshire now, near the Route 95 Bridge. A while back, I heard a story that shook me to my core, it reminded me of something from 2014. That summer, I was out in a field, messing around with a new drone. Just flying it around, practicing, filming the scenery. When I got home and watched the footage, I noticed something on the roof of a barn. At first I thought it was a cat. But, no.

The limbs were too long. Spider-like, but way too big to be any insect. I zoomed in until the image got fuzzy, but it looked almost like a person crouching, except the arms and legs bent wrong. What freaked me out most was that I'd been standing less than 50 yards away while flying the drone. If that was a person, they'd been close enough to see me clearly. I eventually forgot about it, until a few nights later, my dog was. dog Ronan went ballistic. First barking at the west side of the house, then the south, and by midnight he was at the front door, snarling like there was someone right outside.

I switched on the porch light. Nothing. I stuck him in the basement laundry room so he could bark without driving me insane. The next day, my five-year-old nephew Kyle, who was spending the weekend, taped a drawing to my fridge. Black creature. Multiple long legs. crawling up the driveway. What's this? I asked. The monster that was outside last night, he said casually. Ronan scared it away, but when you put him downstairs, it climbed on the roof.

Tried to get in. But it couldn't. I stared at him. Why would it want to get in? You made it angry, he said. I swallowed. How did I make it angry? To be continued.