Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - I Think My Mom’s a Serial Killer, and I Might Be Her Next Victim If I’m Not Careful #4

Episode Date: July 30, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #familyhorror #serialkiller #psychologicalthriller #darkfamilysecrets #suspense  “I Think My Mom’s a Serial Killer, and I Might Be Her Next Victim If I’m Not Careful”A terrifying and suspenseful story of a child living in fear as they suspect their own mother is a serial killer. Trapped by love and terror, the narrator navigates a dangerous world of dark family secrets and creeping dread. This chilling tale explores paranoia, survival, and the horrifying possibility that danger lurks closest to home.A psychological thriller that dives deep into familial trust shattered by monstrous truths and the fight for survival.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  familyhorror, serialkiller, psychologicalthriller, darkfamilysecrets, suspense,  paranoia, survivalstory, monstroustruths, chillingconfession, darkpsychology,  terrifyingfamily, trustbetrayed, hauntingfear, thrillerstory, homehorrors

All right, so I never thought I'd be typing something like this out. Honestly, it still feels like I'm trapped in some kind of low-budget horror flick that took a sharp turn from boring to bone-chilling real quick. But here we are, and I just got to let it all out before it eats me alive from the inside. It started one random, unimportant afternoon after school. I was home alone, just doing what most nosy teenagers do when they're bored out of their minds, poking around places I probably shouldn't. I wasn't even trying to be a snoop, really. I was just looking for my phone charger that somehow vanished into thin air. My mom's study seemed like a reasonable place to check since she always borrows my stuff and forgets about it.

That's when it happened. While rummaging under her desk, my fingers brushed against a weird bump in the wood, like something didn't quite fit. Turns out, it was a hidden compartment. And yes, my curiosity instantly went from zero. I mean, who even has a hidden compartment anymore, right? That's straight-up spy movie material. Anyway, I managed to pop it open, expecting maybe some old letters or embarrassing diaries, but what I found. Yeah, no.

It was something else entirely. Inside were stacks of old newspaper clippings, all carefully sorted and preserved like some twisted scrapbook. Each one detailed some brutal murder that had happened in different towns and states over the last 15 years or so. At first, I thought it was just... I don't know, research. Maybe she was working on some true crime novel or something. But the more I read, the colder my blood ran.

The dates. The locations. They all lined up eerily well with the times our family moved. I always thought it was because of my dad's job. He used to travel a lot, so every few years, we'd pack up and start fresh somewhere new. But what if that wasn't the whole story? What if the real reason we were constantly moving was because my mom had to stay one step ahead of the law? I started to spiral. Big time. Every night after that, I lay in bed with my brain stuck in

overdrive, trying to make sense of it all. I started noticing things I had never paid attention to before. Like how mom always seemed to know a little too much about criminal investigations. Or how she'd get oddly quiet whenever true crime shows came on. There was this one night, she even smiled while watching a documentary about a guy who buried his victims in his garden. Not a big grin or anything, just this tiny, knowing smirk that sent a chill down my spine. From there, everything started to feel, off. Our house began to feel like it was watching me. Every creak in the floorboards, every flicker of the hallway light, every time the basement door creaked open on its own, it all became fuel for my growing paranoia. And trust me, when your own home turns into a haunted house of your own making, there's no getting away from it.

I tried to convince myself that I was overthinking things. Maybe she just had a weird hobby. Maybe it was all just coincidence. But then the late night phone calls started happening more often. She'd whisper, sometimes in another language, or code maybe. I couldn't make it out, but the tone of her voice was always cold, flat, emotionless. Then there were her mysterious midnight outings. She'd say she was going out for a walk or to pick up something she forgot earlier. At 1 a.m. Come on. One night, I followed her. Yeah, I know.

Classic horror movie mistake, but I couldn't help myself. I stayed back far enough so she wouldn't notice, heart thudding like a war drum. She drove across town to this rundown old warehouse that looked like it hadn't been touched since the 80s. She was inside for almost two hours. I have no clue what she was doing in there, but when she came out, her hands were stained dark. Could have been Greece, or something else. I wanted to confront her. God, I wanted to scream at her and demand the truth. But how do you even start that conversation? Hey, Mom, are you secretly a murderer?

Yeah, that would go over well. So I waited. I kept watching, taking notes, snapping picks when I could. I even took one of the newspaper clippings to school and showed it to my journalism teacher, asking him if he recognized the story. He didn't, but he said it sounded eerily similar to a case in another state a few years ago. The worst part. I started to feel crazy.

Like, really crazy. My friends noticed I was distracted, moody, anxious all the time. I couldn't tell them what was going on, though. Who would believe me? It sounds completely insane. A suburban soccer mom moonlighting as a serial killer. Netflix wouldn't even touch that script. I thought maybe if I just laid low, things would blow over.

Maybe I could convince myself it was all in my head. But then, one night, I heard noises from the basement. I mean real, undeniable noises. Like dragging. Chains rattling. Whispering. I grabbed a flashlight, slipped out of bed, and crept down the stairs, heart hammering like it was about to explode. The basement door was cracked open just a bit.

I pushed it gently and peered down. The air smelled like rust and something, rotten. I didn't go all the way down. I couldn't. Something in my gut screamed at me to turn back. I started sleeping with my door locked. I even slid my dresser in front of it some nights. Then came the day I found the journal.

It was tucked behind some books on her shelf. Leather bound, worn, with pages and pages of handwritten entries. It wasn't even hidden that well. which makes me think she either didn't care if someone found it or assumed I never would. Most of it was ramblings. Disturbing ones. She talked about cleansing people. About how the world was dirty and she was just doing her part to fix it.

She mentioned names. I googled a few. Missing persons. That was the last straw. I packed a bag and left that night, stayed with a friend for a few days while I tried to figure out what to do. I even considered going to the police, but what would I tell them? My mom writes creepy stuff and has old newspapers. They'd laugh me out the building. Or worse, they'd tell her I came by, and then what? I end up as her next project. I created a burner account on Reddit

and shared the gist of it, hoping someone out there might have advice. The responses ranged from get out now to, you need serious help. One person even said their aunt was like this and they turned her in. I don't know if it was true, but it gave me a weird sense of solidarity. So now, here I am. I came back home after a week, pretending like nothing happened. I had to. I couldn't risk her coming after me or anyone I stayed with. She acted normal, like super normal. Too normal. was like she flipped a switch. Dinner on time, hugs, little jokes. But I could see it in her eyes. That cold, dead stare when she thought I wasn't looking. The tension is unbearable now. Every day feels like I'm living inside a pressure cooker that could explode any second. I've been

documenting everything. Taking photos, videos, screenshots of her journal pages. If something happens to me, I need people to know truth. But what is the truth? Is my mama killer? Is she part of something bigger? Some kind of cult? Or am I just losing my grip on reality, seeing patterns where none exist? Maybe I've watched too many crime shows. Maybe this is all just some big misunderstanding and I'm going to end up in therapy for the rest of my life because I couldn't separate fiction from reality. But then I remember the basement. I remember the names in the German. I remember the blood. So what do I do now? That's the million dollar question, right? I'm stuck. Totally, completely stuck. If I go to the cops, she might find out and vanish before they can act.

If I stay quiet, who knows what she'll do next? Maybe I'm on borrowed time already. So I'm writing all this here. Just in case. Just so someone knows. Maybe someone out there has gone through something similar. Maybe someone has the answers I don't. And if you're reading this and thinking I'm nuts? Cool. Maybe I am. But if I disappear, or if something happens to me, please, look into her.

Her name is Angela Carter. Lives in Elmwood, Oregon. If she turns out to be just a weird mom with a creepy hobby, great. But if not, then I'm just a weird mom. I hope this post helps someone uncover the truth. Because the nightmare isn't over. Not even close. It's just getting started. And the truth? It's lurking in the shadows, waiting to come out. I'll update when I can. If I can. Thanks for reading. Stay safe out there. Seriously. Stay safe. The end.