Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Five Real-Life Stories of Abduction Attempts, Stalkers, and Unsolved Creepy Encounters PART5 #30

Episode Date: October 11, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #abductionstories #stalkerencounters #unsolvedmysteries #creepyrealities #truehorrorstories  “Five Real-Life Stories of Abduction Attempts, Stalkers, and Unsolved Creepy Encounters PART 5” concludes this intense series, presenting the final accounts of terrifying true events. From stalkers and near-abductions to eerie, unexplained incidents, each story captures suspense, fear, and the lasting psychological impact on the victims. Readers are drawn into a series of chilling real-life horrors that showcase the unpredictability and danger lurking in everyday life.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, abductionstories, stalkerencounters, unsolvedmysteries, creepyrealities, truehorrorstories, chillingtales, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, frighteningexperiences, darkreallife, mysteriousencounters, hauntedlocations, terrifyingmoments, realfear

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Get Sports Extra on Sky for 15 euro a month for 12 months. Search Sports Extra. New Sports Extra customers only. Standard Pressing applies after 12 months for the terms apply. Horror. Number 5. Okay, so before I get into the meat of this story, a little backstory is necessary.

always been, and I mean always, one of those tiny people. Even as a fully grown adult, I stand at a whopping 4-11. I know, laughable, right? But here's the thing. Being small has its advantages. People automatically assume you're younger than you are, which is a blessing when you don't want attention, but also a curse because no one ever takes you seriously. Growing up, I didn't wear makeup, so this little trick of nature worked in my favor. I could pass for a child well into my teenage years, which sometimes saved me from awkward social situations, but sometimes not so much. When I was around seven or eight, my dad bought this little cabin up in a town called Livingston, Texas. Now, before you imagine some picturesque mountain hideaway, think again. The cabin was located

in a part of Livingston called On Alaska. Weird name, right? I, only mention that because the area itself plays a huge role later in the story. Parents, listen up. If you have kids, this is one of those places that warrants extra caution. The cabin itself was nothing to write home about. It was a tiny structure, barely 600 square feet, essentially one giant room, a mini kitchen about the size of a standard bathroom, and a bathroom the size of a walk-in closet you'd find in a slightly fancy house. The porch was the only real feature. and the lot itself was spread over two parcels of land, so there was plenty of outdoor space, but the cabin, dinky, tiny, perfectly normal to say in retrospect that it felt like a child's

playhouse rather than a proper residence. The surrounding area was a strange hybrid of backwoods and suburbia. It wasn't exactly rural, but it also wasn't neatly kept like the neighborhoods I was used to in Houston. Some houses were falling apart, others were surprisingly. nice. People would wave hello from their porches, or sometimes not at all. The landscape was full of uneven dirt roads, wild undergrowth, and the occasional empty lot where weeds ruled supreme. It was a peculiar, borderline creepy mixture of civilization and wilderness, but for me, it was home. And some of my best childhood memories were tied to that cabin, Hurricane Rita evacuation included, but that's a tale for another day. Around the age of 11 or 12,

my dad bought me a four-wheeler. Suddenly the little town of Livingston seemed huge. Before that, my explorations were limited to walking or riding my bike, but the four-wheeler gave me freedom. Not huge distances, mind you, but far enough that I felt like I was discovering new territory every day. I'd ride up and down the roads, sometimes with a gang of neighborhood kids hanging on for dear life behind me. Weekends at the cabin became little adventures, tiny epics in my young life. This was around 2001 or 2002, so cell phones existed, but not everyone had one. I had a beeper, which in today's world seems laughably inadequate. My dad, being cautious, gave me a walkie-talkie with impressive range.

I thought it was cool, though looking back now, I realize it might have been a terrible idea. But in a town that felt safe where everyone knew everyone, it seemed normal at the time. One weekend, I was buzzing around my little neighborhood as usual when I stopped at a peninsula overlooking the lake. There was a set of docks there, perfect for swimming, despite the real threat of alligators lurking beneath the water. We were kids, reckless and stupid, so naturally we didn't worry about predators in the water. I parked my four-wheeler near the edge, watching the sun shimmer off the lake when my walkie-talkie buzzed to life. Thinking it was my dad trying to reach me, I responded quickly.

At first, I couldn't make out what he was saying. The voice was garbled, odd, but I assumed it was him. My dad had a tendency to mess with me, to prank me, so I didn't think much of it. The conversation drifted awkwardly. Questions were asked, but there were no answers that made sense. Still, I didn't feel scared, yet. After about 15 minutes of this back and forth, something changed. The voice said something I can't remember exactly, but it was off. My stomach flipped. I realized this wasn't my dad. That's when it went

from annoying to chilling. I can see you, the voice said. Come take a ride on my boat. My dad had a boat, sure, but he'd never talk to me like that. My heart rate spiked. I stammered, trying to clarify. You're not my dad, are you? What are you talking about? The voice paused, then said clearly, you're wearing an orange shirt. You have red hair. You're sitting on a four-wheeler right by the swim docks. Why don't you come ride my boat? I froze. My blood ran ice cold. All this time, someone had been watching me. I looked around frantically, then kicked the four-wheeler into gear and bolted home as fast as my tiny legs could manage. Gravel flew under the wheels.

My hands barely gripped the handlebars. I didn't stop until I burst into the cabin. My parents hadn't called me at all, confirming that my instincts were right. I don't even want to imagine what might have happened if I had lingered. The incident never officially resolved itself, but my childhood resumed mostly as normal. But that time, life was about to get darker. After my parents' divorce, I moved to the lakehouse permanently with my dad, at least temporarily. He'd been sick, dealing with a string of health issues, so I took a job at a nearby gas station,

tobacco barn, to help cover bills. For three months I worked there, but those three months were some of the creepiest I've ever experienced. Within the first month, a tall, obese man with a short crew cut and messy beard started obsessing over me. The first encounter was terrifying. He stared at me for minutes, wide-eyed as if memorizing every detail. I couldn't understand why. I worked in a glass-enclosed area. People passed through a small window to pay.

This saved me several times from him, but the obsession escalated. By the fourth or fifth visit, he pressed his face against the glass, waving at me with a manic grin. I ran to my manager, trembling. The last time I saw him, he grabbed my hand through the slot in the glass. I love you, he said. I froze. My heart raced. A scared, sheltered 18-year-old doesn't know how to react.

In a panic, I muttered back, I love you, just to get him to let go. Then he asked for my number. Confused, I stammered. 9-1-1, he winked. It was the sheriff deputy, the very person I would call in an emergency. I tried to stay calm, but the fear stayed lodged in my chest for months. I demanded relief from the gas station window immediately. Thankfully, my dad and I moved soon after, but the memory stuck.

You'd think that would be the end, but college brought another nightmare. While discussing childhood summers with my counselor in Galveston, I mentioned on Alaska, Texas, and the cabin. Her expression darkened. She had been a social worker in that area for years and confirmed my worst suspicions. The town had a dark reputation. Pedophilia, kidnappings, entire neighborhoods complicit in horrors, including police officers. People who tried to expose it were threatened, vanished, or ostracized. When I told her about the sheriff, she paled and didn't need to explain further.

My childhood playground was a nightmare I hadn't fully realized until that moment. I left that conversation shaken. I vowed never to return to Livingston, never to bring children to that town. and to live with a cautious wearingness I hadn't known before. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end.