Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Haunting True Horror Tales Masked Strangers, Forest Killers, and Creepy Encounters PART5 #87

Episode Date: November 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truehorrorstories #darkencounters #forestkillers #maskedstrangers #chillingtales  Part 5 continues the terrifying accounts of real-life horror encounters, highlighting situations where masked strangers, killers in forests, and other eerie encounters escalate the fear and suspense. Each story emphasizes the unpredictability of danger and the extreme psychological tension that survivors endure. Readers are left with a deep sense of unease, dread, and the chilling reminder that horror can strike anywhere, anytime.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, maskedstrangers, forestkillers, creepyencounters, chillingevents, darkencounters, truehorrorstories, unsettlingexperiences, terrifyingtruths, hauntingstories, nightmarerealities, suspensefultales, shockingencounters, frighteningevents, unnervingstories

Shadows at Cabin 28 and the Woman in the Snow. When I look back on my childhood, I sometimes wonder how much of what I saw, what I thought I saw, was actually real. I was only eight years old when I stumbled on something I couldn't explain, and honestly, I don't think little kid me could have told the difference between animal bones and human ones. That thought has haunted me my whole life,

because sometimes I catch myself wondering if the fragments of white I saw half buried in dirt weren't just deer ribs or rabbit skulls, but something much darker. That memory of uncertainty came rushing back to me one night when I was listening to a story on your channel. It was about the 1977 Oklahoma Girl Scout murders, and while it was terrifying enough on its own, it stirred up something even more personal for me, a story from my family's own history, something that happened before I was born. And the crazy, got punching truth. If things had gone just a little differently, I wouldn't even be here to tell you this.

The year was 1981. The resort in the pines. The Keddy Resort sat quietly in the Northern California Mountains. It wasn't a big destination, not a flashy ski lodge or tourist trap. It was more of a local spot, the kind of place you'd go if you wanted to fish for a weekend, knock back a few beers, sit by the lake, and let your problems drift off for a while. Families would rent the cabins, couples would come up for a cheap romantic getaway, and groups of friends would use it as an excuse to drink until dawn. My family, at that time, my grandmother Sue, her five kids, and a few of their friends, were staying in one of those cabins.

Number 28 They weren't doing anything unusual or reckless, they were just living out a normal weekend. board games, card-playing, talking around the fireplace. The older kids wandering around the woods, the younger ones crashing early in their sleeping bags. They had no idea that while they were relaxing inside, something far darker was approaching from the tree line. Something that wasn't there for fishing or campfires or laughter. Something that carried pure violence in its heart. The night of April 11, 1981,

No one knows for sure what happened inside Cabin 28 that night. The official police reports are full of blanks and contradictions, and rumors swirl like snow in a storm. What people think is this, sometime between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m., there was a knock at the cabin door. My grandmother, Sue, being who she was, probably answered it without hesitation. She was warm like that, welcoming. Investigators later believed that whoever stood on the other side wasn't a stranger. More likely, it was someone she knew, or at least recognized enough not to slam the door in their face. She let them in.

That choice would cost everything. Once inside, the visitors turned into attackers. There was a struggle, signs everywhere in the cabin later showed chaos, overturned furniture, broken glass, blood spatterers, that told a story too awful to read. My uncle John, just 15 years old, and his friend Dana, 17, were bound with wire. Then came the weapons. A hammer. A knife.

Blow after blow, stab after stab. My grandmother was attacked as well. The brutality of it is something I can't even let myself picture too vividly. Not because I don't want to share, but because these aren't nameless victims in a slasher flick. These are my family. Real people with laughter in their voices and warmth in their hugs. When I think of them, I don't see the crime scene, I see who they were before. The next morning, around 8 a.m., my mother, Sheila, returned from a sleepover at a friend's cabin. She was just a teenager. She walked through the door, expecting the smell of

breakfast or the sound of her siblings playing. Instead, she found her mother, her brother, and Dana's lifeless bodies in the living room. The scream that ripped out of her must have been like something from another world. She bolted, barefoot, running across the resort to the neighbors. And that's how the nightmare broke open. The missing child When the police arrived, they realized quickly that not everyone was accounted for. My aunt Tina, just 12 years old, wasn't in the cabin. For years, questions hung heavy, had she been taken? Did she escape, only to get lost in the woods?

Was she alive somewhere, too afraid to come forward? Three years later, her remains were found. She hadn't escaped. She had been abducted, probably after witnessing the carnage, and murdered elsewhere. What she saw in those last moments, I can't even imagine. An unsolved wound. The investigation was a mess from the start. Evidence was mishandled.

Leeds weren't followed. Witness statements were ignored. By the time anyone tried to clean up the mistakes, the trail was already cold. To this day, no arrests have ever been made. No justice has ever been served. The murders remain one of the darkest unsolved crimes in California's history. I could go deeper into the theories, the suspects, the cover-ups, the rumors of multiple killers, but I can't. Not here, not now.

Because this isn't just a case file. This is my family. And revisiting those details feels like people. stealing open a wound that has never healed. What I will say is this, the girl who walked into that cabin and found the bodies, the one who had to scream for help that morning, was my mother. Sheila Sharp Horror and Hollywood.

People who know this story often compare it to Friday the 13th, cabin in the woods, bloody murders, a masked figure lurking in the dark, it's not hard to see why. But while horror fans might watch Jason Voorhees slash his way through teenagers and think it's cool or badass, I don't share that enthusiasm. For me, Jason isn't a movie monster. He's a shadow of something real. He's the echo of Cabin 28. He's the reminder that behind every fake blood splatter in Hollywood, there are real families

like mine who've lived through the worst version of it. I can't separate the fiction from the reality. Every time I hear that a C-H-H-H-H-ha soundtrack sting, I don't think of camp counsellors. I think of my mom's scream. The Snowstorm Encounter Flash forward decades later. I was older, trying to build a life for myself. A couple years ago, I was working an internship in Charlotte, North Carolina.

It had been snowing all day. Four people up north, that's nothing. But in the south, snow is chaos. Grocery stores get raided like the apocalypse is coming. People buy milk and bread like they're building bunkers. Roads shut down, schools close, and everyone hunkers in. By noon, the storm had quieted enough that I figured I could venture out. I had a truck with good tires, and I thought it would be smart to grab groceries before

the shells went completely bare. Walmart was still open, and after weaving through a half-empty parking lot blanketed in snow, I managed to grab everything I needed. Walking back to my truck, I was already daydreaming about how I'd spend the weekend. Sledding. Hot cocoa. Maybe watching movies with my girlfriend, now my wife. Then a hand grabbed my arm. I flinched and turned. standing there was an older woman, maybe mid-50s. Her face was worn, her eyes watery. Do you have any cigarettes, she asked.

I don't smoke, I told her honestly, and turned back toward my truck. But she tugged at my arm again, softer this time, and launched into a story. She said she'd just come from Alabama on a bus with her granddaughter and their dog. She said she was in town for breast cancer treatments. She said she needed money for a hotel. I shook my head. I don't usually give cash to strangers, too many times it just fuels addictions. If someone's hungry, I'll buy them food, but money?

No. I told her I didn't have any. Then she asked, do you know the area well? At this point, I just want to. wanted to get out of the situation. So I lied. No, I don't. I thought that would end it. Instead, she smiled faintly. Oh, okay. Well, since the weather is so bad, will you drive me to my hotel so I can meet with my granddaughter? They're in the lobby waiting. It's right up the road. I can show you. Everything in me screamed no.

But there I was, raised with the kind of Christian values that said never judge a book by its cover, always help someone in need. I felt guilty for lying about not knowing the area. And I told myself, I'm six feet tall. If something happens, I can handle her. So, against every red flag, I said yes. She climbed into my truck, brushing snow from her coat. I pulled out of the parking lot, and then she lit a cigarette.

I froze. My brain replayed the first thing she'd asked me, do you have any cigarettes? And yet here she was, puffing smoke. That was the first red flag I'd ignored. I asked her politely to put it out. She stubbed it out and tossed it out the window without a fight. We drove on. The snow thickened.

My pulse quickened. I had no idea what I just let into my truck. To be continued.