Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Haunted Camping Trips Creepy Humming in Wales and Wendigo Terror in Minnesota PART1 #16

Episode Date: November 8, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #paranormal #hauntedcamping #wendigoterror #creepyencounters #walesmystery  Haunted Camping Trips Part 1 recounts spine-chilling experiences from two separate locations: eerie humming in the forests of Wales and unsettling Wendigo encounters in Minnesota. This opening chapter introduces the protagonists’ camping trips, strange sounds in the night, and the creeping sense of being watched. It sets the stage for a terrifying journey into supernatural and unexplained phenomena.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, paranormal, hauntedcamping, creepyencounters, wendigoterror, walesmystery, chillingtales, nightterror, realhauntings, unexplainedphenomena, supernatural, scarycamping, foresthorror, eerieexperience, hauntedadventure

The night the forest sang my name. This happened about nine or ten years ago, but it's one of those memories that doesn't fade. It clings to me like smoke, like the smell of fire enclosed long after the flames are gone. I've told the story to plenty of people, friends at parties, cousins around the holidays, even strangers when conversations drift into the realm of the paranormal. But here's the truth, most of the time I water it down. I chop it into a two-minute spooky campfire anecdote, polished just enough to get gasps or nervous laughter. That's not the real version.

The real version is Messier, heavier, and honestly, still gives me chills even as I write this now. I usually avoid telling all the details because I think some part of me is still stuck back there, under the cold moonlight in that Welsh forest, frozen stiff in a body that refused to move. Telling the whole story feels a little like reopening a wound I've convinced myself had healed. Up until recently, the only person who knew the full thing was my girlfriend. I told her because I couldn't keep it bottled up anymore, and maybe because I wanted someone to validate me, to assure me that I hadn't lost my mind. I'm not here to persuade you of anything.

Believe me, don't believe me, it doesn't matter. I'm not interested in arguing. I just know what happened. I know what I saw. And I know the sound of my own name sung back to me in the wrong voice is not something I imagined. Setting the stage. Camping has always been my thing. It's the one hobby that feels like home. No walls, no Wi-Fi, no schedules, just a tent, some beer, a book, and the sounds of the woods. Wales was always a favorite spot of mine. Something about the rolling hills, the mist that hangs low in the mornings, and the way the trees crowd together in certain forests makes it feel like another world. This particular

trip happened in late April, maybe early May. The weather was perfect in that suspicious way where you half expect a storm to roll in just to balance the scales. Clear skies, crisp air, and nights cool enough that you needed a sleeping bag but not so cold you shivered through the hours. I had planned a three-night solo trip, the kind of retreat that resets your brain after too much city noise. The first night went fine, textbook camping. By the second night, I was fully in the rhythm, drive back from a day hike, cook something simple on my little stove, crack open a couple of beers, and finally tuck into my tent

with a paperback until my eyelids got heavy. I remember distinctly that on that second night, I zipped up around midnight, buzzed from the drinks and comforted by the simple routine. I wasn't expecting adventure. I certainly wasn't expecting terror. The humming begins. Sleep was close but not quite there yet. You know that floaty stage where you're aware of your body sinking but your mind is still catching stray thoughts. That's where I was when it started. At first, I thought I was dreaming. A melody drifted in from outside the tent. It wasn't a bird, not the creek of branches or the rustle of wind. It was humming. Perfect humming. The kind of humming you'd hear from a trained vocalist who never

missed a note, each rise and fall smooth as glass. It didn't sound close, maybe 50 feet away, off in the trees. That distance gave me enough comfort at first to stay still, eyes squeezed shut, hoping it would fade away. But the more I listened, the stranger it felt. Too precise. Too intentional. And then my brain caught up. Someone was out there.

Camping alone, that thought hits different. You're not picturing friendly hikers singing folk songs. You're picturing maniacs, predators, the kind of people who enjoy finding someone isolated and vulnerable. My body stiffened. My breath slowed, as if even the sound of me breathing could draw attention. Courage, or something like it. The humming crept closer.

I knew I couldn't just lie there forever, paralyzed by possibilities. So I did the stupid thing, the kind of thing characters do in horror films right before the audience yells at the screen. I decided to peek. Every muscle in me screamed against the idea, but curiosity, or maybe the need to assert control, pushed me. I unzipped the tent just enough to stick my head out. And just like that, the humming stopped. Not faded. Not wandered off.

Stopped. One second the forest was alive with this eerie melody, the next it was silence so sharp it rang in my ears. I tried to rationalize. The simplest explanation, someone was pranking me. Maybe some jerk with a speaker or an MP3 file thought it'd be hilarious to freak out a lone camper. That made sense, right? A prank was way easier to digest than anything supernatural. On that shaky assumption, I shouted something along the lines of,

You're not funny, piss off. My voice cracked a little, but it felt cold. to throw sound into the dark. Like maybe if I acted unafraid, I could convince myself I was. For ten seconds, nothing. Just silence. I started to retreat back into my tent, zipper in hand. That's when the humming came back. This time, louder, closer, and from the opposite side of where it had been. Impossible movement My stomach dropped There was no way

The forest was dead still that night, no wind, no rustling leaves to mask movement The moonlight gave me just enough visibility to make out shapes within a decent radius Whoever, or whatever, had been humming on one side could not have circled to the other without me seeing or hearing. Impossible But there it was. Same melody, closer, pressing against my ears like it was aimed directly at me. Hanek flared into anger. Maybe that's my default defense mechanism.

I stormed out of the tent, barefoot in the cold dirt, ready to confront whoever was messing with me. That's when I saw it. The figure Fifteen feet away, near the tree lean, something stood. At first glance, it was humanoid. But the proportions were wrong. Too wrong. It towered over me, easily seven feet tall, maybe more. Its arms and legs stretched too long, like someone had pulled the corners of its body outward.

Its head looked small, rounded, almost shrunk and compared to the grotesque length of its frame. I think it was gray, though the shadows muddled the details. Its face was obscured, a blur of darkness where eyes and mouth should have been. It wasn't still in the way a mannequin is still. It swayed slightly, shifting weight, the kind of tiny adjustments that living things make when they're breathing, existing, aware. And it was aware of me. I froze.

I mean, literally frozen. froze. Every instinct in me screamed to run, but my body refused. My legs, my arms, nothing moved. I was locked in place, staring at this impossible figure while my heart hammered so hard I thought it might burst. That's when the humming stopped again. And then it began to sing. The singing. It didn't hum anymore. It sang. And not just any tune, it sang my name. At first I thought my brain had cracked under the pressure. But then I heard it clearly, syllable by syllable, my name spilling into the night.

And here's the part that still messes with me, the part that makes people raise their eyebrows when I tell it, the voice sounded like mine. Not exactly, not perfectly, but close. Like when you hear yourself on a recording and it's almost right, but not quite. There was something wrong with the rhythm, too. The syllables dragged in strange places, like a bad impersonation. Imagine someone trying to copy your voice after hearing you speak once, mimicking the sounds but missing the human flow. That's what it was doing. Singing my own name back to me in my own voice. I don't know how long that lasted. Probably 10 seconds. But in my memory, it stretches forever. Me, rooted to the ground. The figure, swaying slightly, aimed

right at me, and my own distorted voice dripping out of the darkness like a broken record. Something in my brain finally snapped. Fear overrode paralysis, and my body broke free. I turned and ran. Flight through the woods. If you've never sprinted barefoot through a forest in just socks and pajamas, count yourself lucky. Every rock and twig was an enemy. Branches whipped my face, roots grabbed my ankles. But none of it mattered. The only thought in my head was get away, get away, get away. I didn't know which direction I was going. My tent was somewhere behind me, but I couldn't risk turning around. The forest felt endless, like the trees were multiplying with every step. My lungs burned, my heart pounded so loud I

swore it would give me away if the creature was following. Two minutes of pure sprinting. That's all my body could handle. Finally I collapsed against a tree, chest heaving, socks torn to shreds, sweat cold on my skin despite the chill of the night. Silence The same crushing silence as before. No rustle of animals, no whisper of wind, no sign of pursuit. Just me, shaking against bark, trying not to throw up from fear and exhaustion. Hours in limbo I stayed there for what must have been two hours.

Time doesn't flow normally in moments like that, it stretches and folds and warps. Every minute felt like ten. My ears strained for the faintest sound, the humming, footsteps, anything. But the forest remained unervingly still. I argued with myself the entire time. Go back for your stuff, one part of me insisted. You can't just abandon everything. But the louder voice replied, forget it, leave everything, just get out.

The problem was my phone and car keys were still in the tent. Without those, I wasn't making it back to civilization. I was miles from the nearest road. No choice, I had to go back. Return to the tent. Navigating wasn't as hard as I expected. The forest wasn't dense, and the moonlight gave me faint reference points. I hadn't run as far as I thought.

Within maybe 15 minutes, the shape of my tent appeared between the trees, hunched and harmless. I wanted to collapse in relief, but my gut twisted. The tent felt wrong now, like walking back into a crime scene. Every nerve screamed that the figure might be waiting inside, crouched and patient. I forced myself forward, grabbed only what I needed, phone, car keys, nothing else, and bolted. I didn't care about the sleeping bag, the stove, the book, the beers.

None of it mattered. The car as a sanctuary. My car had never felt so holy. I locked myself inside, curled into the back seat and just shook. I didn't even attempt sleep. Every creek outside, every shadow, made me flinch. I sat like that until sunrise. When the first gray light bled across the sky, I finally exhaled.

like made it feel survivable. By mid-morning, I forced myself back to the campsite. Packed everything up as quickly as possible, refusing to look too closely at the tree-leam, refusing to listen for melodies. Then I left. Aftermath I didn't go camping again for two years. Me, the guy who used to head into the woods every few months like clockwork, suddenly couldn't stomach the idea. Just thinking about zipping into a tent made my skin crawl. And even now, years later, I've never been the same out there. I still can't, but differently. I stay closer to people. I bring more gear, more light, more noise. And I never, ever ignore my instincts. Trying to explain.

Here's the thing, I've spent years trying to rationalize it. I've entertained every possible explanation. Sleep paralysis. No, I was up and moving, fully conscious. Hallucination. Maybe, but two hours in the woods afterwards felt very real. Pranksters. Fine, but explain the figure, explain the singing in my own voice.

None of it fits neatly. Which is why, when I tell people, I usually skim the details. I just say, weird humming in the woods, or, creepy encounter camping. People laugh, they move on. Easy. But the truth is heavier. It lives in me, like a splinter under the skin that never quite works its way out. Reflections on fear

The part that stays with me isn't even the figure itself. it's the feeling. That pure, primal paralysis. The way my body betrayed me, locking up when I needed it most. The way every cell in me screamed danger while my muscles refused to move. It made me realize how fragile we are. How quickly civilization peels away in the face of something we can't explain. Out there, in the woods, I wasn't a rational adult. I was prey. Echoes years later. Even now, sometimes when I'm half asleep, I hear humming. Just faint, drifting through the edge of consciousness.

And my whole body tenses, remembering. Most nights I shake it off, convince myself its imagination. But sometimes, I swear it sounds like my own voice. That's when I roll over, turn on the lamp, and remind myself, light is safety, silence is good, and I am not in that forest anymore. Closing thoughts. I don't expect anyone to believe me. Honestly, if I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe me either.

But this is the closest I can get to putting the full story into words, the version I usually bury under jokes and quick cuts. The night the forest sang my name. The night something too tall, too wrong, stood 15 feet away and tried to wear my voice like a mask. And the night I realized some experiences don't fade, no matter how much daylight you throw at them. To be continued.