Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Grandson of a Killer, Son of Trauma, But Building a Legacy That Ends the Cycle #44

Episode Date: July 15, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #generationaltrauma #breakingthecycle #familylegacy #healingjourney #overcomingdarkness  This powerful story follows the grandson of a killer and son of deep trauma as he struggles to break free from the dark legacy that haunts his family. It’s a journey of pain, redemption, and hope—a true testament to the human spirit’s ability to overcome even the darkest past.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, generationaltrauma, familylegacy, healingjourney, breakingthecycle, traumarecovery, darkpast, overcomingfear, redemptionstory, personalgrowth, mentalhealthawareness, survivorstory, emotionalstrength, hauntinghistory, hopeandhealing

All right, so here goes nothing. What I'm about to share isn't easy, and it sure as hell isn't something I usually talk about out loud. But maybe it's time. Time to stop carrying it like some dirty little secret locked in a basement. Time to lay it all out, messy and raw. Maybe someone else out there needs to hear it, or maybe I just need to finally let it out. My name doesn't really matter. What matters is where I come from.

Or rather, who I come from. And that, that part is heavy. Like real heavy. The kind of thing that changes the air in the room once people know. My grandmother was Judy Benoano. Yeah, that Judy. If the name doesn't ring a bell, you're probably better off. But for those deep into the true crime rabbit hole, you might know exactly who I'm talking about.

Florida's first female serial killer. Poisoner Manipulator Executed in 1998 by electric chair Her name shows up on Netflix lists True Crime Podcasts, Reddit threads about the most disturbing women in criminal history To most people, she's just an eerie story

with a morbid end To me She was Grandma. Let that sink in for a second My grandma wasn't the sweet old lady who baked cookies or knitted weird scarves for Christmas. She was a killer. And not in some metaphorical, exaggerated way. She was the real deal.

But here's the thing. I didn't grow up knowing all of it. Not at first. When you're a kid, no one sits you down and says, Hey, champ, your grandmother murdered people. No, it comes in whispers. In fragments. In the way adults get real quiet,

when certain names come up. In the looks. In the lies they tell to protect you. What I did know, almost right away, was the tension. The unease that sat in our house like a ghost no one could see but everyone felt. My mom, Judy's daughter, carried scars you couldn't always see, but man, you felt them. I won't go into detail, not because I'm trying to be dramatic, but because it's her story too and I'm not here to betray her trust. Just know this, she didn't grow up safe.

She grew up trying to survive, trying not to be crushed by the same forces that almost swallowed her whole. And that trauma? That stuff doesn't vanish when you move out or change your last name. It sticks. It trickles down like oil through water. You don't even realize you're drowning in it until it's already in your lungs. Our house wasn't like other houses.

We didn't laugh the same. We didn't fight the same. We didn't love the same. It was like our whole existence had this invisible weight pressing down on it. Sometimes it came out as silence. Other times, rage. And me? I didn't know what to do with any of it.

So I numbed. Alcohol. Pills. Weed. Anything that could mute the noise in my head, shut down the overthinking, the shame, the sadness. I started young. Too young.

By high school, I was the guy always, chill, but never really present. College didn't happen. Or if it did, it happened in short bursts between binges. And deep down, I think I believed I was doomed. Like, how could I ever be anything else? My grandmother murdered people. My mom barely survived her child. childhood. And me? I was just another messed up piece of a cursed bloodline. Every time I tried to get

better, it was like my past was waiting to pull me back. And yeah, I told myself stories. Like, it's not that bad. Or, I can quit whenever. Spoiler, I couldn't. I was spiraling, quietly, slowly, but definitely. And then came the plot. twist. My best friend, the only one who'd stuck by me through all the chaos, told me she was pregnant. And not with my kid, this wasn't some dramatic Mori moment. It was her kid, her situation. But here's what flipped the switch, she looked me in the eye and said, You're gonna be an uncle. Something about that shattered me. Not in a bad way. In a wake the hell-up kind of way. I pictured this tiny little girl being born into our world. Into my world.

Into that story. And I just knew, I couldn't keep going like this. I had a choice. Be another broken branch on a toxic family tree, or be the guy who finally chopped it down. I wanted her to know me. Not as some sad, strung out ghost of a man. Not as the screw-up with a famous killer grandma. I wanted her to see me as someone strong, someone safe, someone who showed up, so I got sober. No lie, it sucked. It wasn't like one of those montages where I throw out all my bottles and suddenly I'm jogging and drinking green juice. It was brutal. Withdrawals, therapy, support groups with strangers who somehow knew exactly how I felt.

I relapsed once, and I hated myself for it. But I got back up. That was six years ago. I haven't touched a drink or a pill since. And yeah, life didn't become sunshine and puppies overnight. Sobriety isn't some magical fix. It's a daily fight. You learn to sit with your demons instead of drowning them. You learn to talk. To cry. To forgive people who never said sorry. Especially yourself. I spent a lot of of time untangling my past. What it meant to be Judy's grandson? What it meant to grow up in that shadow? What it meant to have survived? And somewhere along the line, I realized something that changed everything. Legacy isn't DNA. It's choice. I used to be terrified people would find out

that they'd Google me and see the headlines. That they'd judge me before they even met me. But now, I own it. I own it. Because the story doesn't end with her. I'm not her. I'm not her choices. I'm not her darkness. I'm me. I'm a man who clawed his way out of addiction. Who learned to love himself after decades of hating everything about his reflection. Who decided to be the kind of person he needed growing up. Today, I work with prison ministry. I visit inmates. not to preach, not to judge, but to show up, to say, hey, I see you, you're not forgotten, you're not broken beyond repair, because I know that feeling, I lived it, and maybe, just maybe, they can look at me and see that change is possible, that even someone born into darkness can find their way to the light, my niece, she's amazing. Bright, loud, stubborn, and curious. When she laughs, it feels like the universe is giving me a second chance.

She doesn't know all of this yet. One day she might. And when that day comes, I want her to hear it from me. Not the internet. Not the whispers. I want her to know her uncle isn't perfect, but he fought for the man he became. I want her to know that no matter where you come from, you get to decide where you're going. If you're still reading this, thank you.

Seriously. I don't need pity. I don't want to be a sad story someone scrolls past on social media. I just need it to speak. To be real. To remind myself, and maybe you, that we are not our pasts. We are not the sins of our families. We are not our worst moments.

We are not doomed. We are stories still being written. I come from blood that spilled and hurt. But I also come from people who survived. People who tried. People who kept waking up. I am one of them. And if I can break free.

So can you. The end.