Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Shocking Encounters With Stalkers and Strangers That Still Haunt the Survivors PART3 #39

Episode Date: October 12, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #stalkerstories #creepyencounters #realhorrorstories #nightmaretales #hauntingexperiences  This installment dives deeper into real-life terror, focusing on disturbing accounts of relentless stalkers and unpredictable strangers. Survivors share the fear of being followed, the anxiety of feeling unsafe, and the psychological scars that remain long after the encounters ended.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, stalkerstories, creepyencounters, realhorrorstories, terrifyingencounters, nightmarefuel, unsettlingstories, strangerdanger, survivalstories, realnightmares, hauntingexperiences, darktales, realcreepystories, fearstories, chillingaccounts

Horror. Number three, the balcony stranger. Okay, so here's the deal. I'm a woman in my mid-20s, living in what I like to call one of those quiet but not too quiet neighborhoods. If you've ever lived in a mid-sized city, you know what I mean. The place isn't downtown, but it's close enough that you still hear traffic, sirens, and the occasional drunk yelling into the night. It's also just far enough away that you can trick yourself into thinking it's safe. People walk their dogs after dark, kids ride bikes during the day, and most crime you hear about is just petty stuff like car break-ins or porch pirates. Nobody really thinks about anything worse happening here. So, me, I split my time between two jobs. My nine-to-five office gig pays the bills,

but I also work evenings as a matri-dee at this really high-end restaurant in the city, the kind of place where guys propose over champagne and people argue, about wine pairings like it's life or death. Don't get me wrong, it pays well, but it also means late nights, sore feet, and smiling through conversations with people who think they're more important than they really are. Anyway, it was a Sunday night. I just finished a long shift at the restaurant, and by the time I clocked out, it was close to 11 p.m. You know those nights when you're just done?

Like, your brain's mush, your body's tired, but your stomach is screaming at you because you skipped dinner? That was me. The last thing I wanted was to go home and cook something, so I decided to grab a bite across the street. The place across from my apartment is, how do I put this? A dive bar, but one of those dive bars that tries really hard not to admit it's a dive bar. It's cheap, the food is greasy in a comforting way, and the margaritas are actually decent if you're into something cold and strong after a shift. I wasn't dressed for a dive, though. I still had on my restaurant clothes, a fitted but conservative dress, black heels, and my hair pulled back neat because presentation is everything in that line of work. Picture me walking into a dimly lit bar in full

fancy dinner service mode, while everyone else is in jeans, flannels, and band teas. Yeah, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Now, here's something I always forget. Sunday nights at that bar are punk show nights. They have this back room where bands play, and it always draws a rowdy crowd. Think drunk 20-somethings, mosh pits, people spilling beer, and a general vibe of chaos. Normally it doesn't bother me. I've lived across the street for years and seen my fair share of weird, drunk energy. But that night, that night, it mattered. I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered my food and a margarita, and just zoned out. Nothing unusual. People were laughing, yelling, music thumping faintly through the back wall. I was almost done eating when it happened. I felt my

bar stool bump forward, like someone had leaned into it. At first I thought it was just the crowd, maybe someone trying to squeeze through. I turned around and saw this man, maybe 10 or 15 years older than me, standing way too close. He was tall, kind of lanky, wearing a red plaid jacket and one of those old school newsboy caps like he thought he was starring in a period. drama. And he was smiling at me. Not the polite, oops my bad kind of smile. No, it was this weird, too wide grin that instantly made my skin crawl. I brushed it off, drunk guy, crowded bar, whatever, until I felt his hand on my back. Not a tap, not an accidental brush. He rubbed my back, soft, lingering, like we were old friends or something. My whole body went cold. I spun around to face him,

confused and annoyed. He just kept smiling. Now, I was already closing out my tab, so I figured, okay, just leave. I hopped down from the bar stool, but since I was in heels and trying to move fast, I stumbled a little. Immediately he reached out, like he'd been waiting for that moment. You okay? He asked, voice smooth, like he was oh, so concerned. I straightened up quick. Yeah, I'm fine. I only had two drinks. I'm not drunk. He leaned in, still smiling. Oh no, I didn't think you were drunk. You just, you look so sweet, so innocent. I just wanted to make sure you're safe. Now, listen, I've been hit on before, I've dealt with creeps before, but something about this guy was different. Two-four. Two-five. familiar, too focused. Like he wasn't just flirting. He was studying me. I forced a polite laugh. I'm fine, really. Then he hit me with, do you want me to walk you to your car? And here's where I made a mistake I will never make again. I didn't want to deal with him anymore. And without thinking, I said, actually, I live across the street. Big, huge mistake. His grin widened. He put his hands on my

shoulders, gently, like he thought that made it okay, and pulled me into a hug, a bear hug. I resisted, tried to pull away, but he just squeezed and whispered something about wanting me to feel protected. I shoved him off with a forced, whatever, good night, and hurried out. The walk home took maybe a minute, uneventful, thank God. I locked my door, kicked off my heels, and honestly, I forgot about him. Just another drum creep, right? Fast forward two days. It was late again, a little after midnight. I was sitting on my bed reading.

No music, no TV, just me and my book. My room is on the second floor of a duplex, and I've got this balcony that faces the street. The balcony is one of my favorite parts of the apartment. Perfect for coffee in the mornings, perfect for people watching. The only way to get up there, though, is through my bedroom or by climbing up from the street. And climbing up? Not easy. You'd need strength, determination, and a reason. Anyway, my bed is positioned so I can see straight out onto the balcony through a big window.

I usually keep the blinds open because I like the sun waking me up. Plus, the trees out front block most of the view from neighbors. So there I am, reading when I hear it. A muffled thump. At first I thought maybe it was a branch dropping or someone slamming a car door outside. Then I heard the faint creak of footsteps. on my balcony. My head whipped around so fast my neck cracked, and there he was. Plad jacket, newsboy cap, that same wide, unsettling smile. He was standing six feet from my window,

waving at me, like he just dropped by for a casual visit. I froze. For half a second, my brain refused to process what I was seeing. Then survival mode kicked in. I've bolted out of the room, through the back door, phone in hand. My fingers were shaking so bad I could barely dial, but muscle memory took over. I'd been through a home invasion once before. That's a story for another time. And my body knew exactly what to do. The cops showed up in five minutes. He was gone. I told them everything. They gave me the usual spiel, lock your doors, keep pepper spray by the bed instead of your purse, stop telling strangers where you live. lesson learned. Since then, my brain has not stopped spinning. What if he'd been up here before?

Watching me through the window while I read or while I slept? What if that night wasn't the first time? What if he had a gun? He could have shot me through the glass, easy. He could have smashed the window and been in my room in seconds. And here's the part that really messes with me. I've had moments before when I thought I was being watched. Just live. little feelings, a shiver, the urge to grants outside. I always brushed it off as paranoia. Now, I'm not so sure. Needless to say, my blinds stay shut now. The end.