Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Encounters with White-Eyed Children, a Cursed Jawbone, and the Gates of Hell Woods PART1 #21

Episode Date: October 10, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #whiteeyedchildren #cursedjawbone #hellwoods #paranormalencounters #truehorrorstories  “Encounters with White-Eyed Children, a Cursed Jawbone, and the Gates of Hell Woods PART 1” presents real-life chilling experiences with supernatural and cursed phenomena. From encounters with eerie white-eyed children to cursed objects and sinister locations, these stories capture the fear, tension, and lasting impact on those who experienced them. Each account explores the intersection of folklore, terror, and the unknown.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, whiteeyedchildren, cursedjawbone, hellwoods, paranormalencounters, truehorrorstories, chillingtales, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, frighteningexperiences, darkparanormal, mysteriousencounters, hauntedlocations, terrifyingmoments, realfear

Horror. Number one. I'm a young guy, originally from Texas. I've moved on since then, but back in the summer of 1997 when I was 16, something happened that completely flipped my worldview upside down. Before that summer, I was like most people, skeptical of ghost stories, UFO sightings, or anything labeled paranormal. I figured it was all just stories to scare kids or entertain people with wild imaginations. Then that night happened. I had three close friends back then, Mike, Abe, and Tim. The four of us spent that summer mostly trying to look tough,

like we were each the alpha of the group. We'd get together, sit around someone's front porch or bedroom, and trash talk each other in that way teenage guys do, when we're all pretending we're braver than we actually are. It started with Tim, as it usually did. He had this habit of throwing challenges at people just to see if they'd flinch. One evening, while we were sitting in the humid Texas heat, swatting away mosquitoes and sipping sodas, Tim dropped his latest challenge.

I've walked through the old cemetery at night before, he said, leaning back in his chair like he was about to tell a campfire story. Bet none of you has the balls to do it. Now, there's something about teenage boys. You tell us we won't do something, and suddenly, we feel like we have to. Mike immediately took the bait. He leaned forward, grinning. Fifty bucks and I'll do it, Mike said. Without hesitation, Tim grinned right back. Deal. Not wanting to be left out. I spoke up. Make that two people. I'll do it for 50 bucks too.

And then, of course, Abe chimed in. All right, fine, I'm in too. Looking back now, I'm not sure why we were throwing around $50 bets like we were all loaded. Between the four of us, we probably couldn't scrape together $20, but in that moment, it wasn't about the money. It was about pride. Now, this cemetery wasn't just some quiet little graveyard with pretty headstones and manicured lawns.

It had a reputation. People around town told stories about strange screams in the minute of the night, echoing from behind its rusty iron gates. Years earlier, a homeless man had apparently crawled into a freshly dug grave and taken his own life. A police officer back in the 70s claimed he saw a tall, shadowy figure with glowing yellow eyes cross in front of his patrol car right outside the cemetery entrance. Even if you ignored the ghost stories, it was still rural Texas.

We had real dangers out there, snakes hiding in tall grass, coyotes that didn't mind picking a fight, and other animals you wouldn't want to bump into in the dark. But we were 16 and invincible, or at least we thought we were, so none of that mattered. That night we met at my place at midnight. The plan was simple. Mike and I would go in and stay inside the cemetery for one full hour. No hanging out near the fence, no hiding close to the gate. Abe had brought a stopwatch to time us, and he made it clear.

If we came out before the hour was up, we owed them. didn't think to bring flashlights, which shows you just how smart we were being. The moon was out, but it wasn't bright enough to light the whole place. The cemetery was a maze of crooked tombstones and old trees that looked like they'd been there since before Texas was even a state. Mike and I climbed over the fence first. I remember my shoe getting caught and having to stop to retie it on the other side. Tim took that opportunity to taunt me from behind. Already chickening out, he laughed. We ignored him and started walking deeper into the graveyard. At first, we kept the mood light, talking about random stuff, football, movies we'd just seen,

what we'd do with our imaginary 50 bucks. After maybe 15 minutes, we sat down, leaning our backs against separate headstones. That's when I first heard it. It was faint, almost like the sound was coming from far away, but it didn't sound like the wind. It was low, throaty, muttering. like someone talking to themselves under their breath. I didn't say anything at first because I didn't want Mike to think I was spooked, but after a while I noticed him shifting uncomfortably.

When our eyes met, I could tell he heard it too. Probably just some homeless guy, he said after a pause, maybe drunk, we should probably go. We stood up and started heading back toward the entrance, not exactly running, but walking fast enough to make it obvious we weren't sticking around to investigate. And then it happened. Mike suddenly froze mid-step, his eyes going wide. Something's got me, he screamed. Before I could react, he fell forward, hitting the ground hard. Something was dragging him backward, fast. His shoes scraped against the gravel, the sound almost as loud as his screams. I lunged forward, grabbing him by the arms, trying to pull him toward me. That's when I realized it wasn't

just him being pulled, it was like he was suspended between two forces, one pulling him forward, me pulling him back. His legs were lifted slightly off the ground, higher than they should have been, as if whatever had him was tall, taller than me. And there was nothing there, no shadow, no shape, nothing I could see, just Mike being yanked backward by something invisible. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. We bolted. I don't think I've ever run faster in my life. By the time we reached the gate, our momentum almost carried us over it. We hit the ground on the other side and kept going, sprinting all the way back to my house. Tim and Abe were already on their way back, wide-eyed and breathless. They said they'd seen something inside the gates, some kind of figure moving toward them,

and they took off running. Abe swore that when he glanced back, the things, the thing thing had passed through the gates and was following them up the street. The rest of that night is a blur. Mike had a long scratch down near his ankle. Tim and Abe were panicking, convinced the thing was still out there. We made enough noise that my parents came outside, furious about the commotion. They didn't believe a word of it. Mike was never the same after that night. He had nightmares, always about that same low murmuring in the dark. Two years later, he used one of his dad guns to take his own life. Abe didn't last much longer. In 2001, drunk out of his mind, he wandered into the road and got hit by a truck. It happened on the same street where the cemetery was.

Tim's life fell apart too. In 2005, he nearly overdosed. In 2006, he killed two people while driving drunk and went to prison. I visited him once. He told me the nightmares weren't as bad in there. He said he never wanted to leave. As for me, I moved far away from Texas. I've built a decent life, but I've never set foot in a cemetery since. Whenever someone tells me ghosts aren't real, I just nod and let them believe it. I wish I could still believe it too. Number two. I grew up in a small Virginia town, one of those places where everybody knows everybody and your business spreads faster than wildfire. Rolling Hills, old barns, one high school. My family was small, just me, my mom, my dad, and my older brother, who was six years ahead of me.

My grandparents lived less than a mile away. My great-grandmother lived even closer. She was a sharp-tongued, no-nonsense woman, the kind of person who could scold you with just a look. Her house was big, Cape Cod style with wide open rooms and hardwood floors that creaked just right to make it feel like the kind of place you could get lost in as a kid. My brother and I loved going there, partly because our own house was cramped and hers felt like a playground. When she passed away, it hit my family hard, especially my grandmother, who lost both her mother and her husband in the same week. She was left alone in that big house, and I think it weighed on her. The older I got, the more I realized the place had a strange atmosphere.

Not in an obvious this place is haunted way, but in that subtle way where you catch yourself feeling uneasy without knowing why. Whenever my brother and I visited, we'd eventually sneak upstairs while my grandma was busy. There was one room that always drew me in, even though I didn't like being near it. It was small, just a twin bed, a dresser, some old boxes of Christmas decorations, and my great-grandmother clothes still hanging in the closet. In the corner, next to a little crawl-in storage space, was a mirror. I can't explain it, but that mirror, it was wrong somehow. It made me feel heavy, like the air around it was thicker than the rest of the house. I couldn't stop looking at it,

even though I wanted to avoid it. Sometimes I'd catch my brother glancing at it too, the same uneasy look in his eyes that I had.