Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - John’s Story When Friendship Isn’t Enough to Save the One You Love the Most #19

Episode Date: July 12, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #toxicfriendship #betrayal #heartbreak #johnsstory #loveandloss  This story explores the painful reality that sometimes friendship fails to save those we love. John faces heartbreaking decisions and tragic outcomes, highlighting the dark side of loyalty and love.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, friendshipdrama, betrayalstory, heartbreak, toxicrelationships, emotionalpain, tragicstory, loveandloss, difficultchoices, loyalty, trustbroken, darktruths, personalstory, lifechanging, emotionaltrauma

I've had a lot of friendships over the years, some deep, some casual, some that fizzled out with time. But none have been quite like the one I had with John. He wasn't just a friend. He was like a brother. Six years ago, when we met, something just clicked. Right from the jump, I could tell this guy was one of a kind. In the best and worst ways possible. At first, John was this insanely extroverted dude, full of jokes,

always smiling, full of life. He had this contagious energy that made people gravitate toward him. He loved animals, went out of his way to help others, and could turn any boring afternoon into an adventure. But beneath that bright, wild exterior was something brewing. Something darker that none of us saw coming, not until it was too late. Back then, we had a tight group. We hung out nearly every weekend, goofed around, played games, when on road-true.

trips. And John. He was the glue that held us together. He was the loudest, the boldest, the life of the party. But over time, something began to change. S subtle at first. A short fuse. A weird glare. Some arguments that ended in shouts instead of laughs. It wasn't anything extreme in the beginning. Just little moments that gave you pause, but you brushed off. Then those moments started stacking up. John would get into fights over the dumbest things. A wrong look, a bad joke, a disagreement, it could set him off. His voice would rise, and when he got angry, his whole demeanor shifted.

You could feel it in the room like electricity before a storm. And being nearly six feet seven inches, when he stood up shouting, people noticed. People got scared. I never was, not really, not. Not at first. I always saw the guy underneath, the friend I'd known for years. But others started keeping their distance. Still, I stayed close.

I never gave up on him. We never fought. Not once. I think he knew I was in his corner no matter what, and maybe that kept him somewhat grounded. Maybe. The thing is, John didn't have an easy life. Not even close. His parents split when he was just a kid, and he ended up living with his mom.

That's when things really started to go sideways. Her new boyfriend. A monster. Mentally and physically abusive. He'd lock John in his room for hours, sometimes days. No food, no explanations, just isolation and fear. The kind of stuff that gets under your skin and stays there, festering. Eventually, John escaped that house and moved in with his dad.

It was better, calmer, safer. But by then, the damage was already done. He barely talked to anyone, even me. There was a heaviness around him that he tried to hide with jokes and bravado. But sometimes, late at night, he'd open up. Just a little. Enough to let me know that the wounds were deep. To cope, he started drinking.

First casually, then not so casually. We'd followed. Soon he was chasing numbness like it was the only thing that could save him. And slowly, the version of John we all knew started to fade. Replaced by someone else. Someone unpredictable. Our group of friends didn't know how to handle it. People started pulling away.

One by one, they stopped showing up, stopped returning messages. I couldn't blame them. John had gotten, intense, paranoid. He thought people were talking behind his back, plotting against him. Everyone but me. I was the only one he trusted. Then came the gun. He bought it illegally, convinced someone in our circle was out to get him.

He confronted one of our old friends, backed him into a corner, waving the weapon, demanding answers to questions that didn't even make sense. That's when I realized something was seriously, dangerously wrong. Soon after, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. He didn't believe it. Said the doctors were lying, that it was all part of some big conspiracy. He was in and out of psych wards, each time coming back a little different. Sometimes better, sometimes worse.

But I never left his side. He tried to get better. I swear he did. He signed up to finish school, but the stress overwhelmed him. So he got a job, something stable. And for a while, he seemed okay. Not great, but functioning. We'd go for walks.

Talk about stupid stuff. Play video games. Laugh. Then the bad days would hit. On his bad days, he wouldn't answer his phone. Would disappear for days. Once, I found him sitting at a train station, staring at the tracks. He didn't say a word.

Just looked at me with this blank expression that still haunts me. He was waiting, he said. Waiting for something to end. I begged him to get help. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn't. But I kept trying. He was my brother.

Then, earlier this year, I got a call I never wanted. wanted to receive. Two of John's relatives were dead. Killed. The suspect? John. My stomach dropped. I didn't believe it at first. I couldn't. This was the guy who used to cry during sad movies. Who rescued stray cats? Who once gave his last $20 to a homeless man without a second thought? But then I remembered all the signs. All the jokes about murder that didn't sound like jokes. All the warnings the doctors had brushed off. I was in shock.

Still am, in a way. I kept telling myself it wasn't real. It couldn't be. But it was. After the incident, I reached out to his family. They were devastated, confused, angry. But they knew me. New I'd been there through it all.

I became the unofficial liaison between them and whatever mess was unfolding in court. The only friend John had left. His trial is still going. They're trying to figure out whether he should be locked up forever or committed to a psychiatric facility. Honestly, I don't know what's worse. The guy who committed those crimes. That wasn't John. Not the John the first knew.

That was the illness, the monster that took him over. And even now, after everything, I still believe there's a sliver of the real John somewhere in there. A tiny flicker buried deep inside all that pain and madness. And if there's even a 1% chance that he can come back from this, that he can fight through the darkness, I'll be waiting. But I don't support the monster. I don't excuse the crimes. I mourn for the victims. I feel guilt, even though I know it's not mine to carry.

I just wish things had gone differently. That someone had listened sooner. That the system hadn't failed him. Sometimes, late at night, I replay it all. From our first meeting to the train station to the courtroom. I ask myself if there was something I missed. Something I could have done. Maybe there wasn't.

Maybe I did all I could. Or maybe I should have done more. I haven't talked to John in a while. I don't even know if he knows what he did. Sometimes I wonder if he wakes up screaming. Or if he's just, gone. Trapped in his own mind. Either way, he'll always be a part of me.

The friend I laughed with, cried with, fought for. My brother. But now, when I think of him, there's a shadow that falls over those memories. A weight that wasn't there before. And I carry that weight every day. The end.