Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Encounters with White-Eyed Children, a Cursed Jawbone, and the Gates of Hell Woods PART2 #22

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 2” continues the terrifying series, delving deeper into eerie supernatural phenomena. From unsettling encounters with white-eyed children to cursed objects and ominous locations, these real-life stories highlight the fear, suspense, and lasting psychological impact on those involved. Each account immerses readers in a chilling blend of folklore, mystery, and paranormal terror.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, whiteeyedchildren, cursedjawbone, hellwoods, paranormalencounters, truehorrorstories, chillingtales, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, frighteningexperiences, darkparanormal, mysteriousencounters, hauntedlocations, terrifyingmoments, realfear

Horror, the mirror, the dreams, and the things I wish I never saw. You know how sometimes you have an object in your house that just feels off? Like it's not just there, but actually watching you? That's exactly how it was with the mirror. It wasn't some fancy antique hanging proudly in the living room, no, this thing sat quietly in a room we barely used, like it was just biting its stuff. time. My brother noticed it too. Every now and then, I'd catch him glancing at it with this weird, almost suspicious look, like the way you'd look at someone you think might be lying to you.

At first, I didn't think much about it. I mean, it was just a mirror, right? We all have them. You use them, you forget about them. But then I started dreaming about it, not just once, over and over. Same mirror, same setting, same creepy, too real vibe that made me question whether I was asleep or not. The dreams were always vivid, like I could feel the air on my skin, hear the floorboards creak under my feet, except I wasn't actually walking. It always began with me standing on the porch of a house. Everything was silent, except for this faint breeze, the kind you barely notice until you realize it's making the tiny hairs on your arms stand up. Then, without really deciding to, I drift inside, and I mean drift. My feet never touched the ground. I was floating.

Doors would open on their own as I approached, not slamming open, not creaking dramatically, just swinging open like they already knew I was coming. The lights were all off, but somehow the place wasn't completely dark. The full moon would spill this pale, overglow through the open windows, and the wind would make the curtains dance like they were alive. Here's the thing. In these dreams, I wasn't scared at first. I wasn't curious either. I just was, like I belonged there, like I was expected. Every time, without fail, I float upstairs. I wouldn't even question why. It was like some invisible thread was pulling me to the same exact room every time. and that's when the fear would kick in, that heavy, stomach-dropping dread that makes you want to

turn around, but you can't. I'd find myself standing right in front of the mirror, and here's the weirdest part. I never saw my reflection, not once, just emptiness staring back at me. Then it would happen. She'd appear, my great-grandmother, at least that's who I recognized her as, except not how I remembered her from photos. Her skin was this lifeless gray, stretched tight and cold-looking. Her eyes were hollow, dark pits, like someone had scooped out whatever humanity was supposed to be there. That uneasy feeling I'd been carrying would spike into full-on terror. My chest would feel tight, my brain would scream, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up. And then she'd change. Her mouth would stretch open far too wide, impossibly wide, and she'd let out this scream, a sound so sharp and

raw, it felt like it was slicing straight into my skull. That's the moment I'd always wake up, soaked in sweat, heart pounding like I'd just run for my life. I had that dream more times than I can count as a kid, but I never told anyone, not even my grandmother, who was her daughter. Years later, my grandmother passed away. Cancer. Mother's Day of all days. My family started the slow, heavy process of cleaning out her house. By then, I hadn't had that dream in about a decade. I'd almost forgotten it, almost, until my brother and I, now both in our 30s, were assigned to clean that room. The air felt different the second I stepped inside. That same chill I'd felt in the dreams crawled right back under my skin. My brother was poking around and laughed. We had some good

time snooping around up here as kids, didn't we? I forced a smile. Yeah, fun times. Then he pointed, hey, you remember that mirror right there? The hair on my arms stood straight up, my stomach dropped. Yeah, why? He shrugged like it was nothing. I don't know if you ever knew, but that mirror was great grannies from when she was a kid. And here's the weird part. Right below it, directly downstairs, that's the chair she died in. That night, I dreamed about the mirror again. Winter 2014, The Black Thing.

The next part of my story happened years later, during one of the coldest winters I can remember, 2014. My mom and I had moved into this new place the winter before, and it was fine at first, cozy even. But I was in a rough headspace that year. Winter blues, sure, but heavier than usual, like there was a fog pressing down on everything. Even getting out of bed felt like dragging myself through wet cement. One night I decided to stay up late. No school, no work the next day. I had some soft music playing, a book in my hands, and the kind of peace you feel right before sleep takes over. Eventually, my eyelids started to droop, so I put the book down, switched off the lank, and crawled into bed. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up,

no reason, just snap, eyes open. At first, I thought I was still dreaming because of what I saw. It looked like a fuzzy black ball, rolling slowly across the floor right beside my bed. My brain couldn't process it at first. I blinked a few times, expecting it to disappear. It didn't. The light from my little night light caught on it, making it more real, more there. I sat up, my heart thumping. The thing rolled toward my closet, then back toward the bed, slowly, over and over, a loop. And then it stopped. I froze, gripping my sheets so hard my knuckles ached. Right in front of me, This black, fuzzy ball began to morph. It stretched, elongated, pulling itself upward, until it wasn't a ball anymore. It was a tall, willowy shadow, thin as a skeleton, blacker than the dark around it.

What the hell are you? I blurted out before I could stop myself. And then, it was gone, just like that. I was still sitting up in bed when my mom walked in, holding a mug of coffee. Apparently she'd been in the kitchen and heard me talking. She asked, Who were you talking to? When I told her what I'd seen, her face went pale. She said that a couple nights after we first moved in, she had seen something almost exactly the same.

And she wasn't depressed or stressed like I was. Whatever it was, it wasn't just in my head. I hope I never see it again. Even thinking about it makes my skin crawl. The boy who wasn't right. Back when I worked under a supervisor named Kate, we somehow got onto the topic of creepy, unexplainable stuff.

That's when she told me about something that happened to her when she was 18. It was the late 90s, just after she graduated high school. She had this friend named Billy who lived with his mom on the outskirts of a small city in western Maryland. Billy's place had just enough land

to throw huge summer parties, bonfires, music, random strangers showing up. One morning, Billy met this skater kid named Nick at a park. Nick told him he was a runaway living at the park, so Billy, being the overly social type, and maybe feeling a little sorry for him, invited Nick to hang out. From that day on, Nick started showing up every morning at exactly 7 a.m.

He'd spend the whole day with Billy, drinking, playing video games, hanging out, and then vanish at night. He was about 16, with dark eyes and spiky hair. On the surface, nothing too unusual, but there were odd things. First, he always wore the same clothes, plain T-shirt, camo-carga shorts. They were always clean, which was weird for someone supposedly sleeping outside. Second, nobody ever saw him eat, or go to the bathroom, ever. Kate hung out with him twice, and both times she felt this weird wrongness around him. His laugh was the worst, not normal, not even just creepy. It was this

sharp, evil, almost mocking laugh that made the air feel heavier. Then there was the gun thing. He wouldn't stop talking about his father's gun collection, over and over, like it was the only thing in the world he cared about. After about two weeks, Billy had had enough. He told Nick to stop showing up so early because he was waking his mom. Nick just stared at him, then left, and never came back. A few days later, Billy showed Kate a newspaper article. Nick had killed himself, shot himself with his father's gun. But here's the twist, the date on the article said it happened two weeks before they ever met him. And that's why I believe some things don't just go away when people die. The end. Thank you.