Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Haunting True Horror Tales Masked Strangers, Forest Killers, and Creepy Encounters PART4 #86

Episode Date: November 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truehorror #darktales #creepyencounters #forestkillers #maskedstrangers  Part 4 reveals even more terrifying true horror experiences, focusing on encounters that escalate in danger and suspense. Victims face masked strangers, violent attackers in forests, and other eerie situations that test their courage and survival instincts. These chilling accounts highlight how quickly ordinary moments can spiral into life-threatening scenarios, leaving an unforgettable mark of fear and suspense on everyone involved.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, forestkillers, maskedstrangers, creepyencounters, darktales, truehorrorstories, chillingexperiences, nightmarerealities, suspensefultales, terrifyingmoments, hauntingstories, shockingencounters, unsettlingtruths, frighteningevents, unnervingstories

The Forest Thing and the Allens Town Shadows. I was just staring at the forest next to the cabin, zoning out like I usually did when the silence of that place got too heavy. That's when I saw it. At first my brain refused to make sense of it. You know how sometimes your eyes catch a weird silhouette in the dark, like a coat hanging off a chair that suddenly looks like a person, and your heart drops before your logic catches up. That's exactly the sensation I got. Only this time, the more I stared, the less chair with a coat, it looked. It wasn't furniture.

It wasn't a shadow. It wasn't even something I could laugh off. About 20 feet from the balcony, in a tree that stood just a little taller than the cabin roof, I saw, something. It looked human. Sort of. The thing was crouched in this impossible squat, like its hips and knees bent at sharper angles than I thought bones could handle. Its long white arms were stretched

above its head, gripping a higher branch. I remember the arms most vividly, not just long, but wrongly long, like they had been stretched out of proportion on purpose. It must have been eight, maybe nine feet tall if it stood up, ridiculously thin, almost skeletal. Its head tilted slightly as if it had been waiting for me to notice. And the mouth. God, that mouth, just wide open, but with no expression, no sound, no breathing I could hear. What the hell, I whispered under my breath. Midnight, my dog, picked up on it before I even reacted. He stood stiff behind me, hackles up, pacing in these little half-steps, letting out short, nervous barks like he couldn't decide if he wanted to attack or run.

The creature didn't move. Not a twitch. I put my cigarette out, hand-shaking way more than I wanted to admit. Part of me wanted to shine my flashlight at it. Another part of me, the deeper, primal part, screamed that this was the worst idea I could possibly have. Like if I acknowledged it too directly, it would acknowledge me back in some permanent, catastrophic way. So instead, I backed slowly toward the glass door of the master bedroom.

I didn't run. Didn't even breathe loud. Just shuffled backward, whispering, come on, midnight. Inside. The second the lock clicked, I whipped the flashlight around and aimed it right at the tree. Nothing. Branches, snow, emptiness. Like it.

It had never been there. Jesus Christ, I muttered, yanking the curtains closed with way more force than necessary. Midnight jumped onto the bed but refused to settle, his eyes fixed on that door, ears perked like radar dishes. I tried to distract myself with a DVD, the sound turned up way louder than I'd normally allow in the middle of nowhere. It didn't help. Because a couple hours later, the real nightmare started.

like tapping not random not wind not branches this was deliberate a rhythm like someone gently strumming their fingers against the glass of the balcony door tap tap tap tap tap pause tap tap tap it went on for almost an hour i know because i kept checking the glowing numbers of the alarm clock each minute stretching into a turn Midnight stared at the door the entire time, but refused to get closer, like even he had limits. The strangest part wasn't the noise. It was the invitation I felt. Like something on the other side of the glass was whispering into my head, just opened the door. Just a crack.

Come see me properly. But underneath that lure, I also heard another voice. My dad's voice, clear as day, echoing in my head, stay put. Don't you dare move. Don't be stupid. So I didn't. At some point exhaustion overpowered terror, and I drifted off with the tapping still echoing in the room.

When I woke up, the silence was almost worse. The snow outside looked untouched. But my gut told me I wasn't imagining it. I packed up fast. Too fast, probably, but I didn't care. By noon the next day, I was barreling down the mountain road, my dog asleep in the back seat, the cabin shrinking in the rearview mirror. I didn't look back. Jump back to 1984. Fast forward, or rewind, I guess, to another story that still sticks with me. I was eight years old when my family moved to Allentown, New Hampshire.

Our new place sat at the very end of a dirt road, practically kissing the edge of Bear Brook State Park. Out front there was this huge field that stretched maybe 50 yards before the tree line began, dotted with scraggly patches of brush. For a kid, it was paradise. Open field, woods right there for exploring, no neighbors close enough to yell at us for for being loud. My buddy and I spent almost every free afternoon poking around those first couple acres of forest, building forts out of branches, daring each other to wander deeper. And of course, one day, we did. We wandered further than we'd ever gone, past the familiar landmarks, the bent oak tree, the half-rotted log that looked like a crocodile, until we stumbled

across a dirt ridge. Climbing over it felt like stepping into a another world. On the other side was a strange clearing. For wooden cabins lined up in a row, with a shallow pond in front of them, bush patches scattered between. Trees loomed dense on either side like walls. A couple cars sat rusting nearby, their metal bodies warped and blackened like they'd been torched years before. The cabins looked like the stereotypical resort kind, flat rooftops, that log-lined siding. But there were no signs, no gates, no people. Just silence. We did what kids do, we peeked through the windows. Inside, the cabins weren't gutted or abandoned like you'd expect. They were furnished. Beds neatly made, chairs pushed in, like someone could

come back at any minute. But no one did. The creepiness factor cranked up another notch when we circled behind one of the cabins. There, in the dirt, were half-buried bones scattered everywhere. Animal bones, I told myself, repeating my mom's warning about staying away from dead critters because of disease. My friend agreed. But deep down I felt uneasy. We left quickly, but curiosity never dies easy in kids. A week later we returned. This time, the vibe was different, heavier.

Like we were trespassing, though there were still no signs, no fences, no indication of ownership. No roads even led there, which was bizarre. As we moved between the cabins, the feeling of being watched clung to me. My skin prickled. then he appeared. A tall man stepped out from the tree line. He wore a dark jacket, a rifle slung across his back. He was maybe a hundred meters away when he shouted, hey, what are you kids doing here? We froze, then bolted. The man gave chase, unslinging his rifle and shouldering it like he meant business. My chest felt like it would explode as we scrambled back over the dirt ridge

and tore through the woods until we stumbled, gasping, into my yard. We didn't tell our parents. Not because we weren't scared, but because we didn't want them grounding us, banning our forest adventures forever. So we kept it to ourselves, and we never went back to those cabins. At least, not physically. But in my head, that place haunted me. And here's where it gets darker.

The drums About a year later, Hunter stumbled upon a 55-gallon metal drum not far from where those cabins stood. Inside were the remains of a woman and a young girl. At the time, the victims were unidentified. The case went cold. Fifteen years later, a second drum was found, about 100 yards from the first. Inside were two more girls, one of them just 11 months old. just 11 months old.

DNA testing eventually tied the murders to a serial killer named Terry Rasmussen. Now, I can't say for certain that the man who chased us from the cabins was him. I didn't get a clear enough look, and memory is a tricky thing. But when people talk about how not all of Rasmussen's victims were ever found, I can't stop thinking about those bones we saw scattered behind the cabin. At eight years old, I couldn't tell the difference between animal bones and human ones. Looking back now, I'm not so sure what I saw that day. To be continued.