Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dark Paths and Chilling Encounters That Forever Changed the Lives of Strangers PART2 #39

Episode Date: October 2, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #darkpaths #hauntingencounters #strangertales #lifealteringhorror #truehorrorstories  Part 2 continues down the dark paths where chilling encounters leave strangers scarred forever. These unsettling tales show how one terrifying moment can change the course of a life, proving that the scariest stories aren’t always legends—they’re the ones lived and survived.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, darkpaths, hauntingencounters, chillingfates, strangerstories, eerieencounters, truehorrorstories, survivalterror, supernaturalhorror, disturbingtruths, spinechilling, nightterrors, mysterythriller, creepyjourneys, hauntingtales

If you've ever had one of those days where something feels, just off, like the air itself is holding its breath, then you'll understand the way this whole thing started for me. It didn't come with thunder and lightning or some cinematic sign. No, it crept in on little details. The kind you almost brush off, until you can't. It began with Kyle. Now, Kyle's my nephew, six years old, a human energy drink in sneakers. He's one of those kids who can spend hours drawing aliens with three heads or superheroes

with way too many muscles. But this time, he plopped a piece of paper in front of me and said something that made my stomach do a little flip. It's mad at you, Uncle Dom, I squinted at him. Mad at me? Who's mad at me? He jabbed his little finger at the page like it should have been obvious. That thing.

And there it was, black, tangled scribbles shaped into something vaguely. wrong. Not your usual, kid drew a monster wrong. More like, why does it have knees bending the wrong way wrong? My first thought was that he'd been watching some scary cartoon. But then he said the thing that stopped me mid-smirk. You made it mad because you took its picture. My mouth actually dropped open. Wait, what? I took a harder look at the drawing. And here's the thing, in a strange, unsettling way, it looked exactly like something I'd seen before. Not in a dream. Not in a movie. But through the grainy, zoomed in footage from my drone, footage I hadn't shown anyone. Not Kyle. Not my sister. Not a single person. And definitely not a six-year-old who still thought

ketchup counted as a vegetable. My brain started chewing on that fact, and the taste was bitter. I tried questioning Kyle, gently at first, then with the kind of tone you use when you're hoping the kid is just making things up. But every answer he gave me was vague, classic small child nonsense. It lives up there sometimes. It watches when you're asleep, don't look at it too long. That night, Ronan, my German shepherd and usually my nothing's getting past me guard dog, started barking.

Not his, squirrel in the yard, bark. This was full on, every hair on his back standing up barking. And he didn't stop. Not for hours. Past midnight. Past one in the morning. Long enough for my phone to buzz with a very irritated text for my neighbor, Dom, can you get your dog under control? Some of us have work in the morning.

Reluctantly, I caved. I took Ronan down to the laundry room in the basement, his old safe space when thunderstorms freaked him out. But this time, my reluctance wasn't about bothering the neighbor. I just, didn't want him down there. Couldn't tell you why. Just had this gut-punch feeling. I'd barely climbed back into bed when I heard it, heavy scuttling on my roof. Not like leaves or branches.

Not like rain. It was sharp, deliberate, like something with weight was pacing back and forth. My brain wanted to say raccoons. My instinct said otherwise. Kyle's words flashed in my head, you took its picture. My fear spiked hard. And in a moment of pure, irrational panic, I grabbed my laptop and deleted everything. All the drone footage.

Every photo. Every clip. Like I could undo whatever I'd done just by erasing proof it happened. Five minutes later, the sound stopped. I told myself that meant I'd done the wrong. right thing. I told myself that a lot as I drifted into a restless sleep. The next day, my neighbor from across the street walked over. She had this tight, uncomfortable look on her face and was holding a piece of paper. This is, odd, she said. My daughter drew this at daycare yesterday,

and she insists it's the monster that watches her from your roof. Already, my shoulders were tense. But when I unfolded the paper, my stomach did that ugly drop thing again. Her kid had drawn herself and her mom, and, sure enough, there was my house in the background. On the roof sat a black, hunched shape with long limbs, staring down at them like they were something on the menu. I laughed, too quickly, too forced. It's just a drawing, I said, handing it back. Kids have nightmares. It's not proof of anything,

She didn't take it. Just gave me this summer day glare, bright but burning, and walked off without another word. That night, Kyle went home, and Ronan didn't bark. Not the next night either. Or the next week. No scuttling. No weird drawings. I told myself it was over.

So, naturally, I did the dumb thing. I took the drone out again. No rooftop scanning this time, just harmless footage of the skate park and, later, the farmer's market. I filmed for hours, the day fading into one of those pink orange sunsets that makes you forget anything bad could possibly exist. The farmer's market packed up. The skate park emptied. I was the last one there, sitting on a bench, smoking, talking to my sister on the phone. She was asking about Kyle. You know he keeps drawing those black monsters, right, she said.

I froze. What do you mean keeps? He says they're in your room sometimes. That there's this giant spider thing that stands at the foot of your bed. My mouth went dry. I stood up without realizing it, glancing around. I got to go, I said, and hung up. That's when I heard something behind me.

A slow, deliberate scrape. From the shadows behind the ramp, something shifted. One impossibly long leg slid. into view. Then another. I didn't wait to see more. I bolted. Full sprint. Around the skate park, past the strip mall, putting as much distance as possible between me and it. By the time I slowed down, my rational brain was already lecturing me. It was a bird. A trick of the light. I'd spooked myself. Monsters aren't real. I forced myself to walk casual. I forced myself to walk catch to the parking garage, even holding the elevator for some guy in a dark hoodie.

He was tall, ridiculously tall. Kept his head down. We rode up in silence. The doors opened. I stepped out. Five steps later, I heard it. My name. Whispered.

Dominic, I turned, expecting maybe some old acquaintance. What I saw instead. I almost wish I'd imagine. The man bent backward, not like leaning, like his spine folded the wrong way, knees pointing up, elbows jutting out. His arms caught the weight of his upper body as his head, oh God, spun around with a sharp, wet crack. The elevator light flickered.

His shape swelled, filling the small space. Limbs stretched, bending wrong in ways joints aren't supposed to bend. When the strobe-like flicker hit, I saw it for what it was, a black, hairy bulk, for crooked limbs anchoring it, and two red eyes boring into me from beneath the twisted head. The doors slid shut. I dropped my bag. My suitcase. My drone.

Everything. And I ran. I didn't look back when I heard the elevator open again. Didn't care what came out. I drove home, grabbed Ronan, and checked. into a motel in Vermont for six days. When I finally came back, Kyle's drawings were gone. All of them, except for the one from my neighbor's kid, crumpled in my garage trash. I installed a full security system. Motion sensors. Cameras. Told myself I was being overcautious. Years passed.

I almost convinced myself I'd imagined it. Then I heard a story online. A woman in Maine, describing the exact same thing. She called it the long-legs monster. And just like that, the fear was back. One day, I was helping my dad put up a fence for some new animals we'd gotten on the farm. We were working on opposite ends, and even though I could still see him, that prickling sense of being watched started up again. The sun was sinking, shadows stretching toward the tree lean. And that tree-lein, felt closer than it should have.

I kept glancing over my shoulder, eyes on the woods. Every instinct in me whispered, not safe. Humans might think we're apex predators, but deep down. We know when something's sizing us up. I tried to ignore it, focus on the fence. But it was like trying to pretend a scorpion wasn't crawling on your neck. Finally, I took a break, wandering over to the chicken coop. Thought maybe the animals would give me a sign if something was out there.

They did. And I'll never unsee it. The chickens were dead. All of them. Not mauled. Not torn apart. Just, collapsed in bloody heaps. No broken bones. No claw marks. My dad picked one up, turning it over in his hands. It's like something just, drained M, he muttered. He set up trail cams around the property that night, determined to catch whatever did it. Later, upstairs in my room, the world outside my window was pure black. I was gaming, trying to shake that crawling dread from earlier. That's when, to be continued.