Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - He Believed I Was the Serpent Queen—Then He Took Our Children and Left Me with the Silence #78

Episode Date: July 29, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #psychologicalhorror #familytrauma #lossandgrief #darkpsychology #hauntedmind   “He Believed I Was the Serpent Queen �� Then He Took Our Children and Left Me with the Silence”A harrowing tale of paranoia and loss, where a man’s delusions shatter a family and leave the narrator isolated in silence. Accused of being the “Serpent Queen,” she faces betrayal, heartbreak, and the devastating theft of her children. This story explores the dark edges of mental illness, fear, and the crushing impact of broken trust.A chilling psychological horror about the fragile line between reality and madness, and the scars left behind. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  psychologicalhorror, familytrauma, lossandgrief, darkpsychology, hauntedmind,  mentalillness, brokentrust, emotionalabuse, chillingconfession, hauntedpast,  darkreality, fracturedfamily, traumaandfear, sinisterbeliefs, survivorstory

I used to think it was just one of those quirky things. You know how people get fixated on weird internet stuff sometimes. That was Andrew in a nutshell. He'd go down rabbit holes for hours. It wasn't anything new, he'd spent months obsessed with ancient aliens once, and before that, it was the JFK assassination. Deep dives were kind of his thing. So when he started reading about reptilians,

lizard people living among us, I didn't think too much of it. I figured it was just another conspiracy phase. We all need distractions sometimes, right? But looking back, I should have seen the signs. It wasn't like the other times. This one stuck. It grew. And it started to change him.

Fast. It began subtly enough. He'd be up late, headphones in, the glow of his laptop lighting up his face in the dark. At first, I thought, he was watching documentaries or scrolling forums like always. But he stopped wanting to go surfing. He cancelled a fishing trip with his brother. He even missed his mom's birthday dinner, and Andrew never missed a family thing. He started spending all his time online, muttering things under his breath, scribbling notes in a journal he kept in his nightstand. Then he began looking at me,

differently. The kind of look you give someone when you're not sure if they're really who they say they are. At first, it was subtle, his smiles didn't quite reach his eyes, and he flinched when I touched him. But then the question started. Innocent at first. Hey, babe, what was your favorite color when you were a kid, or do you remember having dreams about the desert or snakes? I'd laugh and say, what kind of question is that? He'd smile like it was nothing, but I could tell he was filing it away. It got darker.

He'd stare at me when he thought I wasn't looking. He asked if I ever felt different growing up, like I didn't belong. I remember one night we were lying in bed, and he turned to me and whispered, You know, Roxy, your eyes have always looked a little cold, reptilian, even. He laughed right after, but it wasn't funny. Not to me. Not with the way he'd been acting. That night, I couldn't sleep. I just laid there staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. Two weeks later, I woke up and they were gone.

Andrew, Emma, and Henry, vanished. Their beds were empty, the car was gone. There wasn't a note. No goodbye. Just, gone. I called everyone. His mom, his brother, friends, even the police. No one had seen him. That's when I noticed. his laptop still open on the kitchen table. My hands were shaking when I picked it up. The screen was locked, but I remembered that strange question about the desert. I typed, Desert Dreams. It opened right away. My stomach dropped. There were pages and pages of notes, disorganized and frantic. He'd written about our kids, Emma and Henry, as if they weren't really his. He said they had lizard DNA. That I had passed it to them. That I was some sort of serpent queen. He was convinced we weren't human. That we were impostors wearing human skin. He talked about purging us,

about saving humanity. It was insane. It didn't even sound like him anymore. It was like someone else had taken over his mind. I called the police. My voice was trembling. I could could barely get the words out. They promised they'd look for him, said they'd send someone over. I just kept repeating, he took the kids. He thinks we're not real. He thinks, we're monsters. They found him three days later, in an abandoned ranch house just over the border in Mexico. I got the call while sitting on the floor of Emma's room, holding one of her tiny shoes in my hands. The officer's voice was quiet. Careful. He told me Andrew had been found alive. But the kids. He didn't have to finish the sentence. I dropped the phone. Screamed so loud I swear I felt the walls shake. My body crumpled. My babies. Gone. And Andrew, he was still alive. Later, they showed me the video. His confession. He'd recorded it in the ranch.

right before the police arrived. He looked dead inside. Cold. Hollow. He spoke like he was delivering a message to the world, like he was proud of what he'd done. He said he'd saved humanity from the serpent queen's spawn. Said he had no choice. Emma was two. Just two years old. She had this way of throwing her head back when she laughed, like pure joy couldn't be contained in her tiny body. And Henry, he was only ten months old. He just started standing up on his own, grabbing at everything with those pudgy hands. They were light. They were everything. And he used a spear gun. The word still don't make sense in my head. A spear gun. Something he'd used on fishing trips. Something he once showed Henry how to hold as a joke.

He used it on our babies. I keep playing everything over in my head. Every moment. Every clue I missed. I think about that first time he mentioned reptilians. If I'd pushed back harder. If I'd made him talk to someone, would it have changed anything?

Or was he already lost by then? Now, it's just me. Alone in a house that used to be filled with laughter and messes and bedtime stories. Their toys are still everywhere. I can't bring myself to move them. Emma's favorite stuffed elephant still sits on the couch. Henry's onesies are still folded neatly in the drawer. Sometimes I go into their rooms and just sit on the floor, hoping maybe I'll feel them.

Like maybe if I sit still enough, they'll come back. But they don't. They never do. Everyone tells me I should move. That's staying in this house. is like picking at a wound that won't heal. But I can't. This is where they lived. This is where they smiled and played. If I leave, it'll feel like I'm letting them go. I haven't really talked to anyone about the details. No one wants to hear them. And honestly, I get it. It's too

much. It's too sick. When people ask, I just say it was a tragedy. I don't tell them the part about the lizard people. About how my husband lost his mind and thought his wife and kids were monsters. About how he turned our lives into a horror story. Sometimes I wonder if he was sick all along and I just never noticed.

Or if something online really did mess with his mind that badly. The internet is a dangerous place when you go looking for darkness. And he dove head first into it. The worst part is, I still remember how much I loved him. Before all this. Before the madness.

He was kind. He made me laugh. He brought me flowers on Thursdays just because. He was a good dad. At least, he seemed like one. That's what makes it harder. If he'd always been a monster, maybe I could make sense of it. But he wasn't.

Not until he was. Now I have dreams where I see him standing in the nursery, holding the spear gun. And I scream and scream, but my voice doesn't work. He just stares at me with those empty eyes, like he's already gone. And then I wake up, gasping, clawing at the sheets. I don't know if I'll ever sleep through the night again. People say time heals.

That grief softens. But this kind of grief, it doesn't fade. It burrows. It sinks into your bones and makes a home there. I carry it with me everywhere. In the grocery store when I passed the baby food aisle. In the car when I see a family walking down the street. In the silence that waits for me when I come home.

The silence is the worst part. It's loud. It echoes. I sit in this house and it's like time stopped the day he left. The calendar still shows the month they disappeared. I haven't had the strength to tear the page. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever feel joy again. If I'll ever be able to smile without guilt.

People say I should go to therapy. And maybe one day, I will. But right now, all I can do is survive. One breath at a time. And hope, just a tiny flicker of hope, that maybe, one day, I'll wake up and it won't hurt as much. Maybe the silence won't feel so heavy. Maybe I'll be able to remember Emma's laugh and Henry's chubby little fingers without breaking down. But until then, it's just me.

In this house. With the memories. And the silence. Always, the silence. The end.