Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dark Paths and Chilling Encounters That Forever Changed the Lives of Strangers PART3 #40

Episode Date: October 2, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #darkpaths #creepyenounters #strangerhorror #lifechangingfear #truehorrorstories  Part 3 dives deeper into the terrifying aftermath of dark paths and chilling encounters that forever marked the lives of strangers. These stories reveal the haunting weight of choices, eerie meetings, and the inescapable truths that follow—reminding us that some horrors never truly end, they only echo louder.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, darkpaths, chillingencounters, strangerhorror, lifechangingfear, eerieencounters, hauntingtales, supernaturalterror, truehorrorstories, nightmarishfates, mysterythriller, disturbingtruths, survivalhorror, spinechilling, creepyjourneys

It was one of those nights where the world outside felt swallowed whole by the dark, no stars, no moon, just the black kind of black that swallows up everything it touches. Inside my room, though, I was perfectly content, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eyes glued to my game, drowning out the silence with the constant hum of the console. I'd managed to shake off that earlier weird, heavy feeling I'd had when I was outside, one of those sudden chills that makes your skin crawl for no reason you can explain. By now, it was past midnight, and I was so deep into my game that the real world barely existed. But then, it came back.

That feeling. Like somebody invisible had just slipped into the room and was standing right behind me, watching. Except this time, it hit even harder, so much worse than before. The hairs on my arms stood up so sharply they almost hurt. My stomach dropped like I'd missed a step on a staircase. Without even realizing it, I'd shut off my game. The sudden silence made the room feel, wrong. I froze right in the middle of the room, surrounded by nothing but the faint, ghostly glow of the blank TV screen.

And then I saw it. Reflected in that pale, glassy surface, something moving. Something huge. Crawling. Right past my window. I didn't even think, I just bolted. My body took over before my brain could catch up. Down the stairs two at a time, bare feet slapping the cold wood.

I ducked into the laundry room, only room in the house without windows, and slammed the door behind me. There was an old cot in there, and I crouched down beside it, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. I didn't wake my parents. I should have. I know I should have. But some part of me knew, knew, knew,

They wouldn't believe me. I could already picture the look on my dad's face, the half-smirk he got when he thought I was being dramatic. Still, part of me feels like a real jerk for leaving them upstairs with, whatever that thing was. The next morning, my dad was doing his usual routine, scrolling through the trail-cam pictures from the night before. He'd set those cameras up to keep an eye on the deer and the occasional coyote that wandered near our property. Only, one picture stopped us cold. Two pale eyes. Dead center in the frame.

They weren't dear eyes. I've seen hundreds of those in pictures before. Dear eyes don't make your stomach twist into a knot like these did. These, they looked too aware. Not just aware of the camera, but like they knew what it was for. Like they knew we'd be sitting there the next day, looking right back at them. We must have stared at that picture for ten minutes straight, neither of us saying much, just, trying to keep our composure. Needless to say, we never got around to working on the fence that day. That night, we locked everything. Every deadbolt, every latch. My dad even kept his shotgun leaning right by the door. We sat in the living room, pretending to watch TV, but really just, talking. Filling the silence so we wouldn't have to

think about what we'd seen. Around 11 p.m., it started. A scuttling sound. From the roof. It was soft at first, like branches scraping in the wind, except there wasn't any wind. Twenty minutes of that, and my dad finally stood up, told us to stay put, grabbed his gun, and went outside. We didn't hear any gunshots. Less than a minute later, the door burst open. He slammed it shut and locked it so fast I thought his hand might break the key. Delete the picture, he said, out of breath. We asked him why, but he just shook his head, eyes wide, face pale, and whispered. It told me too.

That was all we got out of him that night. The next day, he finally described it. Something spider-like. It had him dead to rights, as he put it. But instead of attacking, it just let him go. He took down all the trail cams after that. We never finished the fence. Why bother?

A fence wasn't going to keep that thing out. And me? I've spent years trying to figure out what it was. After reading enough strange accounts online, I'm convinced it was what people call the Longlegs monster. I'm going to skip forward a bit here, because that wasn't the last time I'd cross paths with that name. And yeah, I wish it was.

See, I work on and off as a videographer. Done a bunch of stuff, TV crime dramas, commercials, even a couple of films. My longest gig was on entourage, but in my spare time, I shoot more, dangerous stuff. Extreme skateboarding, free climbing, underground street fights. The kind of things that require everyone to sign a waiver in case they break their neck. Sometimes I sell the footage to music video producers, sometimes to movie. studios for filler shots. Back in 2003, my friend Troy and I were out in the woods in rural Virginia. It was summer, hot and muggy enough that you could practically drink the air. I'd brought my girlfriend

along, Grissom, from Norway. We were filming some archery shots, arrows through an old, rusted chain-link fence. Troy's job was to run and collect the arrows after each shot, plant them point down in the dirt next to Grissom, and she'd shoot them again. I was smoking, holding the camera, getting different angles. We were maybe 20 minutes in when Troy jerked his hand back suddenly, swearing under his breath. What happened? I asked. Something just moved on to my hand, he said, shaking it like he'd been burned.

Grissom pulled one of the arrows from the dirt, but then made this face, half disgust, half disbelief, and held it at arm's length. It was covered in daddy long legs. I zoomed in with the camera. Fifteen of them, easy. All crawling over each other like they couldn't get enough of that arrow. She dropped it, grabbed another. This one had four. Still too many.

We both glanced toward where Troy had picked them up, on the other side of the fence. We walked down the fence line until we came to a patch of shade beneath two massive trees leaning into each other. The ground was alive. Hundreds, literally hundreds, of long-legged spiders skittering over the leaves, up and down the tree trunks. What the hell's making them gather like this? I muttered. Troy stepped back. He didn't want any part of it.

But I kept filming, brushing at my ankles every few seconds to make sure none of them were crawling up me. After a while, Troy called from a distance, dude, I'm done. I'm heading back. I almost followed him, but then then. I noticed something. A line of them. Not random crawling, this was organized. Marching in a perfect little column, like ants, heading deeper into the woods. And, of course, I followed. Troy yelled after me, it's going to lead to some dead animal, man. I'm not waiting for you, I ignored him. The line led to the base of a tree. And crouched there, almost blending into the shadows, was a figure.

Dark coat. Hood pulled low. The spiders, were walking right into his open hand. Up his arm. Under his sleeve. I froze. Then, like something out of a nightmare, his head snapped toward me. And then he moved. His torso twisted 90 degrees while his legs stayed still. Then his legs bent backwards, his limbs stretching unnaturally long. I didn't know what I was looking at. It was wrong. My brain tried to reject it, but my eyes wouldn't look away. It screamed, high and piercing, and then it was coming at us, fast, moving like a spider closing in on its prey. I dropped my camera and ran. We made it to the car. I stood there in shock until Grissom grabbed my collar and yanked me inside. Troy floored it. What is that, behind us, he yelled. We turned.

Through the trees, that dark, long-limbed shape was chasing. And then it was gone. We never spoke of it again. Not really. Not properly. It was like we'd made some silent pact. And even now, I think we're all still keeping that pact. Because how do you tell anyone about that without proof. And how do you live with it if they do believe you? Sometimes I wonder if it's still out there, crawling, waiting. And sometimes. I think it knows I'm still here too. The end.