Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Rock, Paper, Scissors—and Blood When My YouTube Graffiti Game Crossed Into the Horrific #20

Episode Date: September 20, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #urbanlegends #youtubehorror #graffitigonewrong #ritualgonewrong #supernaturalgame  A graffiti YouTuber’s quest to go viral turns into a waking nightmare when a harmless challenge—playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with a street mural—summons something otherworldly. The line between digital content and ancient ritual gets crossed, unleashing a presence that manipulates the game…and the stakes. The more views the video gets, the darker the consequences. What started as a trend-chasing stunt becomes a desperate fight for survival against a force that doesn’t play fair.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  graffitighost, cursedgame, youtubehorrorstory, viralvideohaunting, demonchallenge,  urbanritual, bloodpaintedwall, supernaturalthrill, contentcreep, hauntedchallenge,  ritualsinthecity, deathgame, horrorchannel, darknessinart

Back when I was still chasing some wild dream of being a famous artist, I ran this Scavenger Hunt-style YouTube channel. It wasn't around long, and it didn't exactly blow up or anything. I had to take it down, permanently, because things got way too real, way too fast. Like, Visit from the Cops Reel. The whole idea was to use it as a platform to show off my artwork. My style was loud, kind of cartoonish, dramatic shadows, thick lines, high contrast, stuff that jumped out at you. The gimmick.

Interactive contests. I'd drive around at night, I was doing Uber back then, so I was already out on the streets, and look for cool or weird public spots. Abandoned buildings, bridges, bike paths, weird signage, you name it. I'd spray paint a set of three related images or words. That was the theme, sets of threes. Like one time, I painted good, bad, and ugly, in totally separate areas, then uploaded clues on my channel. First viewer to find them and send proof got a prize. Usually a gift card or a framed art piece of their choosing.

Now, let me just say, I wasn't out there tagging people's cars or breaking into private property. I wasn't an idiot. I kept it mostly legal, graffiti-heavy spots, public structures no one cared about, areas where street art was practically encouraged. One time I even painted the underside of a trash can lid. I tried to make it hard enough to be fun, but easy enough to avoid breaking laws or bones. There were five of these scavenger hunts total. Each one got a bit weirder. After, good, bad, ugly, I did the BLT1, bacon, lettuce, tomato. Then there were colored ducks, Red Duck, Blue Duck, Green Duck. And the classic three monkeys, see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

People loved it. Mostly college students. The winners were always excited, sometimes even posting unboxing vids or selfies with their prize. Last I checked, only the green duck had been covered up. The rest? Might still be there. Then came the fifth one. Rock, paper, scissors. That one changed everything. I went out like usual between midnight and one in the morning. Painted rock on the back of a street sign, paper under a low tree branch on a bike path, and scissors on a flight of stairs leading to the metro. This time, I really leaned into the detail, more shadows, more depth, really made sure the style screamed me. Barely ten minutes after I got home, my phone buzzed. New email. Someone had already found all three. At first, I was impressed. Then I read the message. This person didn't want a gift card or a framed picture. They asked for, a pound of my own flesh. I thought it was some sick joke. Until I saw the attached photos. Each image of my art had red handprints

smeared across it. And I know paint. This wasn't spray or ink. The drips, the way it clung and ran, it was real. Blood. After about ten minutes of sitting there like a deer in headlights, I did what felt logical, I went to the cops. The officer at the front desk listened to my story, looked at the pictures, then immediately arrested me. Turns out someone had been found stabbed, three times, right near that metro staircase. That was about 15 minutes before I showed up. They took me in, started asking questions. The cops were stern, yeah, but weirdly chill considering the circumstances. They confiscated my phone, examined the photos, zoomed in, enhanced stuff. On one of the street sign images, they found a partial reflection in a parked car, a tall dude,

definitely not me. The victim had apparently survived and cleared me entirely. Said he didn't even know me. I was off the hook. The local news ran a short piece on it, a stabbing, stable condition, no suspects. Didn't mention graffiti or any of the weird stuff. I gave the police the email address. They said to keep an eye on my channel in case I got contacted again. A few days later, a detective came by my apartment and strongly advised I take the channel down. For my own safety. So I did. I never found out who did it or why. I never got to talk to the victim. No clue if this was someone targeting me or just some twisted coincidence. But it shook me to my core. This was in spring 2015, somewhere on the East Coast. I'm only writing about it. I'm only writing about

it now out of curiosity, just throwing it out into the void. If anyone out there knows more, or if something similar happened to you, drop a comment. The lack of closure eats at me. Now, totally unrelated, or maybe not, depending on how you look at things, but here's a second story. This one's older. Happened when I was just a reckless teenager growing up in the woods of New Jersey. me and my buddies spent every summer like it was our last. Dirt bikes, booze, pure chaos. One summer between high school and college, both me and one of my best friends ended up with broken right arms.

Why? We got hammered, raced our bikes in the rain, wiped out on the same muddy turn, sikons apart. Broke the same exact bone. Dumb as hell, but it didn't stop us. A week later, we were back. back at it. That night, we were with some other friends spray painting the side of an old barn. No art, no meaning. Just chaos. Vulgar words, crude cartoons, whatever popped into our beer-soaked brains. We were tagging each other's shoes, yelling, being absolute degenerates. Sun was going down,

and of course we didn't bring flashlights. We didn't care. Even in the dark, we figured we'd stumble our way back to the car eventually. Then the vibe shifted. You know that weird chill that slides down your spine. Like something ancient and invisible just decided to stare at you. That happened. I shrugged it off, blamed the booze. But then my friend, the other one with the broken arm, said out loud, dude, something feels wrong. I barked a laugh. It's the beer talking. But I was lying to both of us. That tree line about 40 yards away. One of the trees started shaking like hell. The wind wasn't strong, not enough to move just one tree like that. Just one. And it wasn't just swaying. It was thrashing. I shouted something dumb and crude at it, thinking maybe it was

another drunk idiot messing around. But my friends hissed at me to shut the hell up. Then things got serious. Whatever was in that tree, it wasn't just big. It was aggressive. The way those branches moved. I've climbed trees my whole life, I know how much force it takes to make them shake like that. This wasn't an animal or a person. It felt like the tree itself was alive, or possessed. Then we heard it. A noise so loud it cracked the night in half. Like something leaping, or falling, into another tree. And that next tree? It leaned like a damn storm just smacked it.

I ran. I didn't say a word, didn't wait for anyone. I just bolted. Then the rest of them snapped out of it and followed. One guy tripped, twisted his ankle. We almost left him behind, but went back. Half carried, half dragged him to the car. My buddy floored at the second we were in.

Even over the roar of the engine, we could still hear trees groaning behind us. That same thrashing, angry sound. The mix of spray paint fumes and sweat was overwhelming. My broken arm throbbed. I felt stupid and grateful in equal parts. We never saw what it was. Just the trees moving in ways they shouldn't. Later, when we tried to rationalize it, we all agreed, that thing, whatever it was, was

massive. Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Maybe another joined it. Or maybe it was something dragging prey through the treetops. Something big enough to bend branches and leap tree to tree. Years later, I watched this nature show, a leopard dragging a writhing animal up into a tree. And it hit me. What if what we heard was something killing something else? What if we heard a predator overpowering its prey? Sometimes, for fun, I joke it was the Jersey devil. But only half joking. Because that night never really left me.

That fear, that deep, primal feeling like the woods were watching, it still creeps into my dreams sometimes. I don't know what we ran from. And honestly, I hope I never find out. The end.