Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Dark Secrets at Summer Camps True Stories of Death, Mystery, and Unsolved Crimes PART3 #69

Episode Date: November 5, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #summercamphorror #unsolvedmysteries #darkcampstories #campdeath #truecrimestories  Part 3 delves deeper into the terrifying secrets of summer camps, where death, disappearances, and unsolved crimes continue to haunt campers. These stories reveal how the cheerful appearance of camp life can mask sinister events, creating a chilling atmosphere where danger and mystery lurk behind every cabin, trail, and campfire.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, summercamphorrorstories, truecrimestories, darkcampmysteries, unsolvedcases, campdeathstories, chillingencounters, creepyexperiences, scarycampstories, sinistercampstories, unsettlingmoments, nightmarestories, realhorrorstories, spookytales, terrifyingexperiences

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If your test is due today, you can book it today or hsseccd. I. The story that wouldn't let go. The story that wouldn't let go. You know how most sleepovers are all giggles, junk food, and crush talk. That was how ours started. But then Emma opened her mouth that night, and the vibe completely changed.

The stories we told before were harmless, little recycled ghost tales, like the girl who saw a shadow in the bathroom mirror or the camper who wandered into the woods and never came back. Silly, spooky fun, nothing that made you want to sleep with the lights on. But Emma? Emma came in swinging with something darker. Something I didn't even think a kid our age could invent. Her story had details, ugly, two real details. Not just, boo, there's a ghost.

No. We're talking bruises, strangulation, bloody footprints. Things 12-year-old shouldn't even have an ever. vocabulary, let alone use for a story in a blanket fort. We laughed nervously at first, but I'll be honest, I didn't laugh for long. That night I barely slept. Every creek in Leah's house turned into footsteps in my head. Every shadow was a man with tape over a flashlight, still hunting for more victims. I stared at the ceiling for hours, telling myself it was just a made-up story, but my stomach knew better. My stomach

told me Emma hadn't been making things up at all. Fast forward, seven years later. I was 18, a freshman in college, back home for Thanksgiving break. Coming home felt weird, like slipping into clothes you've outgrown but still recognized the smell of. My town hadn't changed much. Same gas stations, same cracked sidewalks, same faded banners from events no one remembered anymore. And Leah? Well, I hadn't seen her since high school graduation. Life had pulled us in

different directions. But the day before Thanksgiving, I decided to drive over to her house. A little reunion. Harmless. We did the usual catching up, classes, families, dumb old inside jokes. But then she leaned back in her chair and dropped a bomb that made my insides turn cold. Do you remember that really messed up story Emma told us that night at the sleepover? She asked, casual but with something sharp in her eyes. Of course I remembered. I'd never forgotten. That story had been writing shotgun in my brain for years. Yeah, I said slowly. Why? Leah's face tightened because, it wasn't made up.

The truth behind Emma's words. At first, I thought she was messing with me. Some weird late teens prank. But she wasn't smiling. She explained how she'd been digging into local history during her time at school. I was curious, she said. That story always stuck with me, too. So I went down a rabbit hole in the library archives.

And what she found made my blood pressure spike. In 1977, three Girl Scouts, Lori Farmer, Michelle Guza, and Denise Milner, were found dead in their sleeping bags at Camp Scott, Oklahoma. They'd been brutally murdered. And the counselor who discovered them, none other than Carlo Wilhite. Emma's aunt. My stomach dropped like a stone. For years, we'd rolled our eyes, assuming Emma was just a girl with a flare for drama, trying to freak us out. But she'd been telling the truth.

Every word. Her aunt had been there, first on the scene, the one who unzipped those sleeping bags and saw those young faces frozen forever. Leah kept talking, spilling the rest of what she'd learned. about Jean Leroy Hart, the escaped convict suspected of the murders. About how he'd been arrested, tried, and ultimately acquitted because of lack of evidence. About how decades later, in 2022, DNA would link him back to the crime, but too late, because he'd already been dead for over 40 years. By the time she finished, I felt sick.

That story we'd dismissed as a spooky sleepover tale was actually a piece of of living, bleeding history. And the kicker. Even with the DNA results, nothing was ever 100% proven. Meaning Leah ended our conversation the same way Emma had ended her story years earlier. They never caught the guy. Some people say he's still out there, lurking in the woods. Another layer, my own story.

That alone would have been enough to mess me up for weeks. But that wasn't all. Because after I heard Leah's revelation, I started thinking about my own past. About the summers I'd spent as a counselor at Camp Valleyway, buried in the Appalachian foothills. There's so much rugby on Sports Exter 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.

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And about one summer in particular, 31 years ago now, that I tried and failed to bury. See, I worked at Camp Valleyway starting at 15. Summers meant lake water that never washed off your skin, mosquito bites like constellations on your arms, and the endless chaos of kids shipped in weekly from all over the state. By the time I was 18, I'd logged hundreds of hours as a lifeguard and swim instructor.

And then came that one week. The week before the 4th of July. The hottest day of that summer. The week I can never forget, no matter how hard I try. The scene, Camp Valleyway Camp Valleyway sat cradled between two mountains, wrapped around a clay-stained lake that looked like it had been steeped in tea. The cabin smelled of pine and mildew.

The mess hall had floors that squeaked in protest with every step. We counselors had our own rhythms. Every week felt the same and different all at once. Mondays were chaos as kids arrived. Tuesdays were swim-tenths. tests. Wednesdays meant canoe races, Fridays, campfires and tearful goodbyes, and in between, all the small dramas of bug bites, homesickness, and first crushes. But Week 5, that was different. That was what we called Rich Week, because the campers were mostly from wealthier families taking advantage of vacation time. It came right after Orphan Week, when kids from the Clarkstown Orphanage got to come for free, thanks to some state program. I still remember the bittersweet sight of local

families showing up at the end of Orphan Week, sometimes adopting kids right there. I remember one girl, Ellie, being scooped into a pickup truck by her new foster parents. She waved at us from the window, her face a mix of excitement and fear. That's the kind of place Camp Valley Way was. Joy and heartbreak, tangled together. Logan and the Twins During my off hours, I'd help patch sails under the water sports canopy. Logan, the head counsellor, oversaw everything with military precision. He was only about five years older than me but carried himself like he'd seen things.

His buzz cut revealed a scar wrapping around the back of his skull, and his voice carried that slow southern draw that somehow made everything sound both calm and commanding. Mike, he'd bark whenever I screwed up. Watch what you're doing. That day, I'd skipped a stitch in a sail repair. Logan's eyes, small but sharp, didn't miss it. I only got two eyes, he muttered, and too much going on to watch everybody. Don't make me watch you too.

Yes, sir, I mumbled, fixing my mistake. Logan's attention kept drifting to the lake, though. Two of our counselors, Ed and Ted, identical twins with about one functioning brain between them, were handling beginner swim lessons. And Logan never trusted them. He called them walking liability forms. So when Ed came sprinting up from the lakeshore, hair-dripping, eyes wide, gasping like he'd run a marathon, on, Logan was already braced for trouble.

Trouble at the lake. Ed's chest heaved like he was about to puke water. His wet hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were bugging out in a way that made even Logan sit up straighter. What is it? Logan asked, voice low but sharp. It's, Ed coughed. It's one of the kids.

Something's wrong. He's not. he's not coming up. Logan was on his feet before Ed even finished the sentence. His scarred head caught the sunlight as he bolted toward the waterline. I dropped the sail I'd been stitching and followed. My legs felt like rubber band stretched too tight. By the time we got there, Ted was already waist-deep, splashing around like he'd lost his

glasses, even though he didn't wear any. kids on the shore were screaming, pointing at the water, their voices blending into a single high-pitched whale. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee, a visit filled with festivity. Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with breathtaking views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness.

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One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. Then suddenly, water gushed out of the boy's mouth, soaking my shirt. He coughed, gagged, and his body spasmed like a fish thrown on land. The crowd of kids let out a collective gasp. Some started crying, others clapped in shaky relief. Logan leaned back, jaw tight, eyes still scanning the lake. Get him to the nurse's cabin, he ordered, pointing at Ted.

Now. And you, he jabbed a finger at Ed, you stay with me. We're not done here. Not done here. My brain screamed at the words, but Logan's face made it clear. He didn't think this was just an accident. Whispers among the pines That night, the camp felt wrong.

The cicadas droned louder than usual. The pine trees creaked like they were gossiping with each other. Even the lake, usually peaceful at dusk, seemed restless, rippling in the moonlight as if something beneath the surface was shifting. Word of the near-drowning spread like wildfire. Kids whispered about monsters in the water. Some swore they'd seen a shadowy figure on the far bank, just watching. I told myself it was just nerves, imagination fueled by adrenaline.

But then Logan called an emergency counselor meeting in the mess hall. He stood at the front, arms crossed, scar catching the fluorescent light. That wasn't no accident, he said flatly. That boy didn't just wander into deep water. Someone pulled him under. The room buzzed with protests, nervous laughter, and flat-out denial. But Logan didn't blink. You think I don't know the difference between a kid panicking and a kid being dragged, he growled.

I was right there. Something else was in that water. The twins exchanged a nervous glance. Another counselor muttered something about snapping turtles. Logan shut him down with a glare. No turtle leaves bruises shaped like fingers. A hush fell over the room. My skin crawled.

A history buried in the woods. Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I sat outside my cabin, the humid air sticking to my skin, listening to the night noises. That's when Logan sat down beside me. You believe me, don't you? He asked quietly. I hesitated. I don't know what I believe. Logan sighed, staring into the dark tree lean. This camp has history. Bad history. Things that don't get printed in brochures. And then he told me.

How years earlier, before my time, a girl had gone missing during orphaned. and weak. She'd been last seen near the lake, but no body was ever found. Officials chalked it up to a runaway. How two summers later, a counselor claimed he saw a figure moving between the cabins at night. When he gave chase, it vanished into the woods. How whispers floated around about the land itself, about old crimes, buried bodies, and spirits that never left. I swallowed hard, goosebumps racing up my arms despite the heat. You think it's connected? I asked.

Logan's eyes were hard. I don't think. I know. And I need you to keep your eyes open. Because whatever it is, it's not done yet. The second incident. Two days later, it happened again. This time, it wasn't the last.

lake. It was the climbing wall. A kid named Tommy slipped, not from losing his grip, but because his harness had been cut. Not frayed. Not worn out. Cut clean through. He hit the mulch at the base hard, breaking his arm in two places. His screams echoed through the valley, chilling enough to make every hair on my body stand on end. Logan examined the harness later, jaw set. sabotage, he muttered. Someone's playing games. The other counsellors tried to laugh it off, calling it paranoia. But I saw the truth in his eyes. Someone, or something, wanted to hurt these kids. Night Patrol From then on, Logan assigned me to Night Patrol with him. We'd walk the campgrounds after lights out,

flashlights cutting through the thick dark. The woods pressed in from all sides, whispering with every step. Sometimes we'd hear rustling. Sometimes we'd find footprints that didn't match any boots issued to staff. Once, we found a piece of cloth snagged on a low branch, a filthy scrap of flannel, smelling of mildew and sweat. Logan kept it in his pocket like evidence. Who do you think it is?

I asked him once, my voice barely above a whisper. Could be a drifter, he said. Could be worse. Worse than a drifter? He didn't answer. Just kept walking, flashlight beam steady, eyes scanning. The night by the lake. And then came the night I'll never forget. The night that's kept me awake for decades. It was just past midnight.

Logan and I were circling the lake when we heard it, a splash, faint but distinct, from the far side. We froze. Listened. Another splash. Then the unmistakable sound of someone breathing, ragged and heavy, carried across the water. Stay here, Logan whispered. Before I could argue, he stripped off his shirt and dove into the lake. His body cut a silver line across the surface as he swam toward the sound.

I stood there, heart hammering, flashlight trembling in my hand. The breathing grew louder, closer, like whatever it was had noticed me. Then, silence. I swung the beam wildly, desperate to catch sight of Logan, of anything. That's when I saw it. On the far bank, just beyond the reach of my light, stood a figure. Tall, broad, still as a statue, watching me. My throat went dry. My legs wanted to run, but my body was rooted to the spot.

And then, as silently as it had appeared, the figure melted back into the trees. The search When Logan finally came back out of the water, he was gasping like a man who had swum through hell. His face was pale, his scar shining under the moonlight. You saw it, didn't you, he asked, barely catching his breath. I nodded, throat too dry for words. He didn't press me. Just grabbed my arm and said, we're not telling the others.

Not yet. Panic spreads fast, and if whoever, or whatever, that was is still out there, we need to be smart. But how do you stay smart when you're scared out of your mind? Every shadow that night looked like a figure. Every creek of the trees sounded like footsteps. Sleep was impossible. The next morning, Logan organized a search under the excuse of nature exploration. He led a group of counselors into the woods, armed with my own.

nothing but flashlights and walkie-talkies. I tagged along, trying not to show how bad my hands were shaking. We didn't find much at first. Just broken branches, footprints that disappeared in the clay, and that constant feeling of being watched. Then we found it. A campsite. Hidden in a hollow not 50 yards from the lake. The fire pit was still warm. Empty cans of beans lay scattered around. And hanging from a tree branch was a necklace, bead strung on a cheap cord. A kid's necklace. I recognized it instantly.

One of the orphans, Ellie, had worn it the summer before. The Confrontation When we brought the necklace back, Logan gathered the staff again. He slammed it down on the mess hall table and glared at everyone like he was daring them to deny what it meant. Somebody's been living out there, he said. Close enough to watch the camp. Close enough to touch the kids.

A ripple of unease spread across the room. Nobody cracked a joke this time. Nobody even breathed too loud. One counselor, a tall guy named Brent, shifted uncomfortably. Look, maybe it was left behind by campers last year. You're jumping to conclusions. Logan's eyes narrowed. Then explain why the fire pit was still warm.

Or why we've had two kids nearly die in less than a week. Silence. That night, Logan doubled patrols. He armed himself with a wooden bat from the equipment shed. I carried a flashlight so tight my fingers cramped. The kids, blitz. blissfully unaware of the full truth, thought we were just being extra cautious because of bears. I almost wished it was bears.

At least you know what bears want. The third attack. It happened on the fourth night after the lake incident. A scream tore through camp. High-pitched, desperate, echoing off the mountains. Logan and I sprinted toward the sound, my flashlight beam bouncing. wildly. The screen came from Cabin 6, the younger boy's cabin. When we burst inside, the kids were huddled in a corner, eyes wide with terror. One boy pointed at the window. He was there.

He was looking in. Logan yanked the shutters open, but the night stared back blankly. Still, the ground beneath the window told another story, footprints. Deep, fresh, too big to belong to any kid. And smeared on the glass, just faint enough to miss at first glance, was the outline of a hand. Large, muddy, pressed against the pain. The boy who'd screamed swore the figure had tried to open the window before Logan's approach scared it off. That was the night Logan stopped pretending this was just about safety.

The truth about Logan The next day, Logan pulled me aside. His voice was low, urgent. There's something I haven't told you, he said. I braced myself. My scar, he went on, tapping the back of his head. It's not from a fall, like I said. It's from here.

From this camp. years ago. I stared, not understanding. I was a camper here, he explained. Long before I worked as a counselor. And I saw him, the same man you saw by the lake. He came into our cabin one night. Tried to drag a kid out of bed.

I fought him, and he slammed me into the wall so hard it split my scalp open. My stomach twisted. They said it was an accident, Logan continued. They always say it's an accident. But I know better. He's been here a long time. Watching. Waiting.

And now he's back. The last night. By the time the week neared its end, the kids were jittery, the counselors exhausted, and Logan on edge like a coiled spring. On the final night, just before parents were due to arrive the next morning, we decided to do one last sweep of the grounds. Logan insisted we circle the lake again. The air was thick, heavy, the kind of stillness that makes your ears ring. My flashlight barely cut through the darkness. Then we heard it.

Rustling. Not the wind, not animals. Deliberate. human. Logan raised his bat. Stay behind me. The rustling grew louder, closer, until from the shadows stepped the figure. Tall, broad, clothes ragged, beard wild, eyes glinting with something feral. For a heartbeat, everything froze. Then Logan lunged. The man snarled, an actual guttural snarl, and the two collided like a storm-breaking. The bat swung, connected with a sickening crack.

The man howled but didn't fall. His strength was unreal, primal, like he wasn't entirely human anymore. I wanted to help, but my legs were cement. All I could do was shine the flashlight, illuminating the struggle. Finally, with one last desperate swing, Logan brought the bat down on the man's shoulder. He staggered, roared, and then bolted into the trees, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared.

We stood there, hearts pounding, the night swallowing the echoes of his retreat. Aftermath The next morning, parents arrived, smiling, clueless. The kids ran to them, clutching their bags, faces pale but relieved. Logan and I said nothing. No one would believe us anyway. To the world, Camp Valleyway was still just a summer getaway in the Appalachians. But for me, it was the place where I learned monsters don't always hide under beds or in stories. Sometimes, they live in the woods, watching, waiting. And maybe they never really leave. Epilogue

It's been decades since that summer I've tried to bury it to convince myself it was just fear playing tricks on a teenage mind But sometimes, when the night is quiet and the wind shifts just right, I swear I can still hear that ragged breathing by the lake And I remember Emma's words, the ones that started it all. They never caught the guy Some say he's still out there, lurking somewhere in those woods.

I believe her now. I always will. To be continued.