Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Six Real Paranormal Encounters That Forever Changed the Lives of Witnesses PART1 #5

Episode Date: October 8, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #paranormalencounters #hauntedexperiences #truehorrorstories #supernaturalfear #creepyphenomena  “Six Real Paranormal Encounters That Forever Changed the Lives of Witnesses PART 1” explores six chilling real-life experiences where ordinary people were confronted with the unexplainable. From eerie presences to strange, inexplicable phenomena, these encounters left a lasting impact on the witnesses. Each story captures the fear, confusion, and awe that come with facing events that defy logic and reason.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, paranormalencounters, hauntedexperiences, truehorrorstories, supernaturalfear, creepyphenomena, chillingtales, eerieencounters, unexplainedevents, darkparanormal, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, hauntedmoments, realfear, terrifyingmoments

horror. Number one. I'm 26 now, but this happened exactly a year ago to the day, and I still think about it more often than I'd like to admit. Picture it, a house party in rural Connecticut, the kind of place where GPS gives up halfway down the road, and your phone signal turns into no service like it's mocking you. A family friend of ours was throwing this big college graduation bash for their daughter. And when I say big, I mean, it looked like they had invited her entire graduating class, their plus ones, and possibly a few random strangers just for fun. The house itself, unreal. Two stories of polished wood floors, those fancy crown moldings that make you feel like you should be sipping tea with your pinky out, and balconies off every upstairs bedroom like something from a

movie where the main character dramatically stares at the moon. Not only that, two full-sized kitchens because apparently one isn't enough and the whole thing sat on several dozen acres of mostly open land i'm talking wide rolling fields patches of forest at the edges and that soft kind of summer grass you just want to lie down in at the time i was about four months pregnant which meant two things my feet hated me my social battery died faster than an old flip phone so after a couple of hours of smiling, nodding, and pretending I knew who half these people were, I felt the exhaustion creeping in. Not just the, I need to sit, kind of tired, more like, if I don't sit down now, I might actually keel over and become part of the decor. I told my husband I was heading upstairs

to rest, and he came along, probably relieved for an excuse to escape the noise. We ended up in one of the bedrooms facing the backyard. Across the hall, I could hear a group of younger kids, middle school age, maybe, shouting at a video game like their lives depended on it. I laid down on the bed, and my husband sat beside me, rubbing one hand gently over my belly, while sipping from one of several craft beers he had brought up. Since I couldn't drink, he was giving me the play-by-play like some kind of beer commentator. About 10 minutes into our quiet little escape, he started massaging my feet. Let me tell you, when you're pregnant, there is nothing in this world more glorious than someone rubbing your swollen feet. I swear I could have married him all over again in that moment. While I was

melting into the bed, my eyes drifted lazily over the room, and then I saw it. On the table beneath the TV, something caught my attention, a flathead screwdriver. Weird, right? Not just weird, wrong. It wasn't shiny and new, like you might expect in a tidy, upscale home. This thing looked ancient, rusty, with bits of dry dirt clinging to it, like it had been left outside for years. It was perched awkwardly, practically hanging off the edge of the table. Something about it didn't fit. The rest of the room was immaculate, like it had been staged for a magazine photo, and here was this grimy old tool looking like it had crawled in from another world. I didn't say any to my husband, though. Why? Because, well, he was rubbing my feet. You don't interrupt that kind of magic

unless the house is actually on fire. Another ten minutes passed. Then, bang! A massive explosion of sound erupted just outside the balcony door, followed by a shower of red sparks. Fireworks. Someone had decided it was the perfect moment to start a backyard light show. The kids across the hall went from loud to ear splitting, shouting over the noise and dropping curse words like they were in a Tarantino movie. My husband stood, walked to the door and poked his head into the hallway, telling them to keep it down. And that's when it happened. I turned my head toward the balcony and froze. There, just outside, partly hidden around the corner, was half a face. Pale skin, lit by the glow of green fireworks, a shadowy body outlawed.

lined against the night sky. The man, because it was definitely a man, was watching me. I screamed for my husband. In one smooth, silent motion, the man stepped forward, turned the knob, and walked into the bedroom like he owned the place. If you've ever seen Brandon Lee and the crow, you can picture him. Tall, thin, cheekbones so sharp they could probably cut glass, long, greasy black hair falling over his face. He was wearing tattered black clothing and heavy boots that looked like they'd been through a war. Without so much as glancing at me, he strode to the table, grabbed the screwdriver, and stepped back onto the balcony. It happened so fast, maybe four seconds, but it was enough for my husband to turn around, see him, and yell, who the fuck? The man looked over the balcony

railing, then leapt down, two stories, and walked calmly across the yard. My husband bolted outside after him, shouting, but the man disappeared around the side of the house. Sixty people were in the backyard, but their eyes were glued to the fireworks, and the music was so loud they didn't hear us screaming. We ran downstairs and told the homeowners, they were drunk, like happy, sloshy, can't take anything seriously drunk, and brushed it off. When we suggested calling the cops, they waved us off like we were offering them an after-dinner mint. Back upstairs, my husband checked the balcony lock, broken from the outside. We told a few sober friends, then left. To this day, we don't know who he was.

My husband thinks he might have been the daughter's dealer since it was her room. Personally, I don't care who he was. All I know is that he had been out there for at least 20 minutes watching us through the glass. If he'd wanted to, well, the screwdriver was in his hand. We've never gone back to that house. Number two. I grew up in a small town tucked deep in the forest, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone's business,

but somehow still pretends they don't. In second grade, my best friend, let's call her Celia, started telling me strange things about her house. The first thing she showed me was in her unfinished basement, a hole in the wall. The basement walls were made of rough cinder block, cold and dusty, but one section looked wrong. The hole was small at first, just enough to stick a finger into, but the bricks around it looked like they were crumbling outward, as if something was slowly pushing from

the other side. Do your parents know, I asked. They weren't worried, she said, shrugging like it was no big deal. Fast forward to fourth or fifth grade, and the hole had grown deeper. We could stick our arms in almost up to the shoulder, and no matter how far we reached, we couldn't feel the end. It was like it led into nothing, or something. That's when Celia told me about the voices. She swore she could hear whispering from the basement, mostly from that hole. I never heard anything myself, but we were only ten, and when your best friend tells you something creepy, you believe them. Her family was unusual. They had an absurd number of animals. Six cats, multiple dogs, rabbits, lizards, frogs, snails, fish, you name it.

Around the time the voices started, we noticed some of the tats and dogs would vanish, only to be found later in the basement, standing right in front of the hole, staring at it. They had never liked going down there before. Celia became convinced something was living in the walls, using the hole to peek into the house. I wasn't as terrified as she was, yet, but I couldn't deny something was wrong. At school, she was anxious all the time. Teachers noticed, kids noticed, the adults all decided she was just upset because her older sister had gone off to college. Then came the night that changed everything. It was winter break, and I was spending the

weekend at her house. Celia's room was full of stuffed animals, big ones, small ones, the kind you win at a carnival, the kind you buy at gift shops. We fell asleep in her. bed. When we woke up, every stuffed animal in the room was facing us. Even the ones on top of her tall wardrobe. I'm a light sleeper, and there was no way Celia could have moved them without me waking. We put them all back where they belonged and didn't tell her parents. The next night, we woke up in the dark to the sound of creaking, wooden floorboards directly beneath us. In our 10-year-old brilliance, we leaned over the side of the bed to look. Right as a little. we did, one of the floorboards slammed back into place. We shot upright, clutching each other,

sobbing in terror. The next morning, I called my parents to come get me. I never stayed at her house again. That summer, my family moved far away. I saw Celia twice after that. Then nothing. It's been over a decade, and I still wonder. To be continued,