Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Midnight on Kelly Road Cloaked Rituals, Chased Headlights, and a Goat Horn 2025 PART3 #48

Episode Date: December 12, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #paranormal #truecrime #KellyRoadMystery #occultactivity #darkrituals  Part 3 escalates the chilling events on Kelly Road, revealing more sinister rituals, strange symbols, and terrifying encounters witnessed by locals. The presence of cloaked figures and unexplained phenomena like chased headlights and eerie sounds suggests a connection to dark occult practices. This section intensifies the suspense, highlighting the fear, mystery, and danger lurking in the night, and leaves readers questioning what forces might truly be at work.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, KellyRoad, paranormal, occult, ritual, cloakedfigures, superstition, strangeevents, hauntedroad, creepyencounters, mysteriousoccurrences, darkrituals, supernatural, unexplainedphenomena, chillingevents

T'was Christmas in Dublin, and Puss was in boots where he found better than half-priced star gifts on festive favourites, including Yankee Candle Limited Edition gift set, was 80 euro, now only 39 euro 50. Don't miss out. Shop in-store or online. Gift happily ever after. Boots. Selected stores while stocks last offer ends 24th of December. This Christmas on Sky, you can turn a silent night into stoppage time to lights. An old mince pie Into a stunning try And a winter chill

Into an alley-pally thrill With over 50 Premier League games Exclusive Champions Cup and URC rugby And all the darts Turn your Christmas into a sportsmus to remember With Sky Sports and Sports Extra Merry Sportsmas The day I decided to go out hunting in that nasty weather

I was already halfway convinced I was being idiotic The sky was dumping snow like someone had ripped open a bag of cotton balls over the whole county, and the wind was cutting through my jacket like a dull knife. If you know my granddad, you know he hates hunting in that kind of weather, he always says it's not worth freezing to death for a deer that might not even show up. So yeah, I figured he was probably going to stay inside, drink coffee by the window, and complain about the forecast. Which meant if I wanted to go, I was going alone.

I like hunting in the snow sometimes. There's a kind of purity to it, a single-mindedness that strips everything else away. You can see your breath hanging in the air, you can watch animal tracks sketch out like handwriting across the white, and there's a hush, the whole forest becomes a library where every sound is a page turning. But that morning the weather wasn't just cold, it felt like the sky had decided to throw a tantrum. Visibility was shot. Roads were sketchy.

Tires slid. I had to take it slow getting to my granddad's property, which meant I arrived later than I usually would. Normally, by the time I get there, the sun starting to show itself, a pale, polite sort of sunrise that gives the snow a washed gold tint. But this morning the light never really made an entrance. It was an overcast, murky gray that made everything feel slightly unreal. The snow fell in thick clumps rather than the delicate flakes you see in movies, and that gives you a kind of sensory dissonance, it looks medieval, like the world's been redesigned and felt. I parked at the bottom of the little rise behind my granddad's house and trudged up the hill, boots crunching and water seeping into the seams where my laces

weren't tight enough. The path to my stand is only about a hundred yards back from his porch, so it's usually a quick walk. That day it felt longer. My hands were raw from cold and I kept my head down against the wind. Even before I'd fully set my pack down I heard movement, this whispering, soft but present noise, like a bunch of things negotiating with each other in the underbrush. At first I shrugged it off.

Could be a deer, sure. Could be some squirrel that had decided to throw a party. Maybe it was the wind-making branches talk. It was still so dark that I could barely see the outlines of my boots in front of me. Plus, I had work to do, get the stand set up, get the thermos into position, get settled. I wasn't going to lose my head over a rustle unless it actually turned into something. But then I heard footsteps. Not the light, graceless padding of a deer, but deliberate, human steps just over the ridge to my right.

There was enough of a rhythm to them that I could tell they weren't animal. Even in my sleepy, half-awake state I did the sensible thing, I assumed it might be Granddad heading to his usual spot. He likes to be out early and he's not subtle getting his gear together. Except, and this is where things start to feel off, the lights in his house were still off. If Grandpa had gone out, he would have said something. He's old-fashioned that way, he calls ahead. he texts if the weather's bad, he leaves notes about when he plans to go and when he'll be

back. This guy's not the type to show up somewhere without telling anyone. Also, I know the stretches of public land and his private property like the lines on my own hands. The closest public hunting ground is miles away, people don't just wander onto our land unless they've done it on purpose or screwed up badly. So I did what any reasonably cautious, slightly annoyed hunter would do, I turned on my flashlight and gave the direction a couple of flashes. You do that to let people know you're there, it's polite and it's safe. If somebody's trespassing and you're friendly, you don't want to spook them into doing something dumb like firing in your direction.

If they're legit, a flash lets them know this patch of woods isn't empty. After I flashed the light, the noise stopped. Nothing. That might make you think they scurried off, but silence in the woods can mean two things, either they heard you and decided to stop moving, or they're hiding better than you expected. I waited, fingers cold on the metal of my flashlight, listening. An hour went by, maybe two. The horizon started to brighten in the soft, flat way of a winter day where the sun's trying to push through but the clouds won't give it space.

Snow kept coming down in wet, heavy clumps. Visibility improved some, but not enough to relieve the watching feeling that had settled in my scalp. I was fussing with my rifle when I noticed a lump sticking out from a cluster of trees where I'd heard the movement earlier. At first I thought it was a log or some kind of natural mound. Then the light hit it right and I saw the pattern, older style camouflage, the kind that stitched on heavy and smells faintly of turpentine. It was a coat, draped awkwardly over something like it had been forgotten, or in... It was Christmas in Dublin.

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into stoppage time to lights And lots of a never should go An old mince pie into a stunning try. It's stupendous run longstone. And a winter chill into an alley-pally thrill. Luke the new glitla.

With over 50 Premier League games, exclusive Champions Cup and URC rugby and all the darts, turn your Christmas into a sportsmust to remember. With Sky Sports and Sports Extra, Merry Sportsmas. Intentionally placed. The coats color matched the forest in a way

that made it unreadable at first, but once my brain registered it, everything snapped into focus, that lump was a person. Great. A trespasser within what would be, in daylight, a stone's throw of the house. And the kicker. He wasn't wearing blaze orange. Hunting rules around here are careful about orange, not because it's fashionable, because it keeps people alive. Anyone hunting in rifle season is supposed to wear some amount of visible orange. It's for safety. So, seeing Camo out here in the open, in a place where only my granddad and I hunt, set off

every alarm bell I had. I sat still for a second and tried to think straight. If it was grandpa, he'd be able to explain. If it wasn't, if this was some guy sleeping against a tree on purpose, I had to handle it carefully. I didn't want to get into some kind of shouting match with an aggressive person, but I also didn't want to be the person who came back to the truck to find the guy had helped himself to something he shouldn't have. So I pulled out my phone and dialed my granddad. He picked up on the second ring like he always does, voice still thick with sleep.

I told him where I was and what I'd seen. He wasn't more than five minutes away, he said. He told me to keep my head down and don't approach unless it felt safe. Which, to him, is a level-headed instruction. To me in that moment, with the snow pelting and and the wind wrenching at my hood, it felt like a cliff-hanging command. I kept my eyes on the coat and finally, because I'm human and impatient, I decided to whistle. Not the sweet country whistle you do to call someone for dinner, more of a loud, direct call

that says, hey, I know you're there. Show yourself. At first there was no reaction. Then, a shuffle, and the coat began to move like someone trying to make themselves smaller. The man, because eventually I saw his face, scrambled to cover the spot where his coat had been exposed. He looked older than me, older than my granddad even. Scragly beard, that odd, world-weary dirt in the line's face, a grey hat that had seen better winters. For a second, honestly, he looked harmless, the kind of man who might be down on his luck, sleeping rough, trying to get through the cold.

He could have been a veteran, a drifter, someone who'd have been a veteran, someone who'd fallen asleep and woken up in the wrong place. But he also had an unobstructed view of my granddad's house from his spot under the trees, and the angle was too obvious to ignore. It was like sitting in the best seat to watch when someone left the house. The first thing he said when I got within ten yards of him was a string of excuses. Man, I'm sorry, I got lost. I was driving with some other hunters and they took off and I must have wandered off the road and I just fell asleep. He talked fast, voice jittery and a little too loud for the empty woods. I have this weird instinct for truth spotting from being around my

granddad all these years, you learn how people tell little lies when they're cornered. The man's story was loose. He couldn't keep his details straight, and that always makes me suspicious. I asked him his name. He muttered something that could have been a name if you said it differently. I told him to pack up and leave, politely, but firm. My granddad was on his way, and if anyone was supposed to be on the land, it was him. The man shuffled then, like he might bolt. Maybe he thought I'd pull my rifle and things would turn ugly. Maybe he realized he'd been caught and thought he should run before the real owner of the property

showed up. But he didn't run. Not right away. Instead, he kept on talking, a half apology, a few more made-up details, an insistence that he'd just been sleeping off some drinks or waiting for a friend. When you hunt, you get a sense for when someone is steady and when they're rattled, and this guy was rattled enough to be dangerous. His eyes flicked to the path to the road like he'd been weighing weather to make a sprint for

it. While he was talking, two things happened at once that made my stomach drop. First, I realized he'd been sitting in a spot that gave him a clean line of sight to the back porch of the house, not just the windows, but the motion of the door. Second, somewhere in the back of my mind the small voice that says, what if, started to repeat itself like a stuck record. What if he was waiting to see when Grandpa left? What if he'd been there longer than he said? Inflation pushes up building costs, so it's important to review your home insurance cover to make sure you have the right cover for your needs. Under-insurance happens where there's a difference between the value of your cover

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you can turn a silent night into stoppage time to lice. And lots of that. Nickers in goal. An old mince pie into a stunning try. It's stupendous love lunchstone. And a winter chill. to an alley-pally thrill.

Luke the new Glittler. With over 50 Premier League games, exclusive Champions Cup and URC rugby, and all the darts, turn your Christmas into a sportsmas to remember. With Sky Sports and Sports Extra, Merry Sportsmas. What if he planned to follow?

I told him, again, to move on. He fumbled with his hat, face red, and kept insisting he meant no harm. Then, just as my granddad's truck kicked up, across the drive, the man suddenly lurched to his feet and started moving off into the trees. My granddad came around the corner, coffee cup in hand, and saw the man. We both called out, and the man looked back like a creature caught in the act, eyes wild. Where are you going?

My granddad demanded. The man kept walking, faster now, deeper into the trees where visibility would drop and the snow would swallow up his tracks. Grandad's voice hardened. He's the sort to not let people just walk off if they've trespassed. He began to head after him, and I did too, not wanting to leave him alone with some stranger who might come back later for stupid reasons. We followed the faint prince, the man's path sketching through low branches and shallow gullies. He was trying to be stealthy, you could tell by the way he put his feet down. But Snow, as good sniper Snow, betrayed him. The prince

were there like punctuation marks leading into the white. We came to a thicker stand of trees and the prince stopped again, like he'd hunkered down between saplings. This time, when Grandad called out, there was no answer. No Russell. Just the steady breath of winter. For a moment we thought he'd slipped away entirely, vanished into the white. Then a shadow moved and he sprang up in front of us, closer than I'd expected, probably because

he'd circled around to get away. He looked different now. The expression that had been nervous and pleading earlier had shifted to something harder, almost defensive. Maybe he'd been planning something stupid and then abandoned it when he realized we were onto him. Maybe he'd decided his best bet was to stand his ground. Whatever the case, his stance made the hair on the back of my neck prickle

the kind of warning we all get in our bodies when danger's about to take a different shape. Grandad didn't flinch. He has that presence that makes people stop and think twice. He could have called the sheriff right then. Instead, he started asking questions, name, where he was from, why he was on our land. The man's answers were thin and shaky. We kept our distance, rifles low but still at the ready. Nobody wanted a firefight on a morning like that, nobody wanted to have to explain to anyone

why things went wrong. After a few minutes of calling, cajoling, and firm lecturing, the man finally admitted he'd been poaching, or at least scouting. He said something about other people he'd been with, other hunters who promised they'd do a drive, and that he'd been left behind. He said he was sorry. Maybe he was. You'd like to believe someone sorry. But I'd met enough of the kind of people who'd hide under coats to follow them to know that, sorry, waters down into, too late, fast. We walked the man to the driveway and made him sit on a log while granddad called the county game warden. It felt ridiculous, adult and bureaucratic in the middle of a snowstorm, paperwork,

reading someone their rights, the whole nine. A game warden came, a heavyset guy with a radio clip to his jacket and a face that had seen a thousand similar stories. He checked the man's ID, wrote down the license plate of a car that, when we looked later, wasn't anywhere nearby, and told him in no uncertain terms that trespassing and unlawful hunting were serious offences. The man sat there quietly, hands in his pockets, throat working. What I remember most clearly was the quiet between us as the warden did his work. The forest breathed around our little scene, and the snow kept falling like it didn't care about our trouble at all. The man's guilt looked heavy on his shoulders, the snow clung to his hat and beard,

and when the warden finally told him he was going to be escorted off the property and sighted, he nodded without arguing. He walked away with a stiffness I'd seen on men who'd been slapped by the consequences of a small, bad idea. When it was all done and the man had been driven off, my granddad and I walked back up the hill to the house. We shook the snow from our jackets, and he handed me the thermos. You did good, he said, in that gruff voice that's actually praise. He didn't say it loud, because men like us don't need a crowd to validate courage. He just said it, small and real.

Then he took his seat at the kitchen table and looked out at his land like a man keeping count of his things. The rest of the morning we stayed close to the house, hunting none at all. There was no point now, the mood had shifted. Even the deer were likely hiding somewhere where they felt safe enough away from human trouble. We ate cold sandwiches and drank hot coffee, and I tried to shake off a cold that wasn't entirely physical. Part of me had wanted the thrill of being alone in a storm, testing my patience and my aim. Instead I got the adrenaline of confrontation and the creeping knowledge that not all people

are what they appear to be. Weeks later, when I replayed that morning in my head, a few tiny details stuck with me, the way the man's hands trembled when he talked, the way his eyes kept darting to the house, the small lie about being left behind with the other hunters. Little things that, if you squint, tell you a whole story, he wasn't a man down on his luck who'd accidentally slept in the trees. He'd been waiting, he'd been scouting. He'd watched movement and planned.

It made me more cautious for a while. I started checking locks more often, leaving a light on when I knew I'd be out, not taking the easy path home from the stand if it meant crossing somewhere visible. Sometimes paranoia is just wisdom wearing different clothes. What I took away from that morning wasn't merely a story about catching someone trespassing. It was this, that boundary line between ordinary and dangerous is thinner than we like to think. It takes one person's poor choices or someone else's plan to make a familiar place feel foreign.

You can't predict every stupid or wicked thing a stranger might do, but you can pay attention. You can make small choices, a flashlight flash, a phone call, calling the warden, that keep the balance tipped away from harm. And most important, don't let the weather be an excuse to do nothing. That morning, it would have been easy to say, it's cold. It's bad. Let it go. But if I'd left it, who knows?

Maybe that man would have stayed. Maybe he'd have watched and waited. Maybe my granddad would have been alone when he left the house. The worst part about thinking like that is you can always construct a worse scenario in your head. The better part is knowing you did the sensible thing in the moment. We still hunt that land. We still go out in bad weather sometimes because the woods are home to us in a way that's hard to explain.

But the memory of that morning sits somewhere in my chest like a small stone, something I pick up to remember to pay attention, to be deliberate, and to never assume that stories you hear about folks being dangerous are just paranoia. Sometimes they're just facts dressed in a man's old coat. So yeah, snow, wind, and a rogue trespasser. the most cinematic thing in the world, but it's mine. It changed how I went into the woods after that, made me a little less trusting, a little more careful, and a lot more grateful for a granddad who still knows his land like a map in his bones. To be continued.