Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Encounters in Haunted Houses and the Secrets They Desperately Hide PART4 #53

Episode Date: October 4, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #hauntedhouses #creepysecrets #paranormalhorror #darkphenomena #truestories  Part 4 continues the terrifying journey through haunted houses, revealing the darkest secrets and most unsettling encounters yet. Unexplained phenomena intensify, showing that some places are haunted not just by spirits, but by the horrors of their hidden pasts.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedhouses, creepyencounters, darksecrets, paranormalhorror, eeriephenomena, truestories, nightterrors, spinechilling, disturbingtruths, suspensefulmoments, mysterioushouses, shadowyfigures, chillingtales, supernaturalencounters

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up into the shadowy second floor, and asked myself the most important question of my life so far, do I really want to go up there? The giggling had stopped, which should have been a relief, but it wasn't. Because now, in that creepy silence, I could hear something else. The faint, steady click-clack of the typewriter from the upstairs office. For a second, I told myself it was probably nothing, just the wind, maybe an old pipe rattling. But then, against my better judgment, I glanced toward the huge foyer mirror again. And there it was.

My reflection, a full second behind me. Not a fraction anymore, a whole beat late, like I was watching a badly synced movie of myself. Somewhere above, the giggling returned, light and childlike, followed by the sound of something small sprinting down the hallway and slamming a bedroom door shut. My instinct screamed at me to leave. To just go, forget the story, forget the paycheck, and save my skin. I yanked the front door open, or tried to. But when I looked out, my stomach sank. My car, which had been halfway down the street earlier, was now parked a good 50 yards away, practically in the shadows.

I swear it had moved on its own. Fine, I thought. I'd walk. Run, even. I was two seconds away from bolting for it when I was two seconds away from bolting for it when I I heard another noise. A stair creak. From the basement door. It wasn't faint anymore. This time, it was close, like whatever was down there was only four or five steps from the top. I shook my head hard, trying to rattle my brain out of the pure animal fear clawing at it.

Every journalist dreams of a story like this, I told myself. You stay, you document, you make your career. The typewriter started up again. Without even thinking, I bolted up the stairs, feet pounding, lungs burning. I slammed into the office doorframe and stopped. Silence. The typewriter sat there like it had been doing nothing at all. I walked over to it, chest heaving, and froze when I saw the paper. It wasn't blank. Jamie Ellis is condemned. written over and over again, filling the page in neat, perfectly aligned rows. Every single line. I pulled out my cannon, snapped a shot, and waited, staring at the keys like they might

spring to life again. Instead, I heard a giggle echo down the hallway. I stepped out of the office into the dim corridor. The child's bedroom door was closed now, but there was shuffling on the other side. I reached for the knob, silently begging for raccoons, cats, anything normal. No such luck. The dolls were all still in place, sitting exactly where they'd been earlier, except every single porcelain head had turned toward me. Hundreds of unblinking eyes locked onto mine. Something moved in my peripheral vision to the right. I slammed the door and staggered back, my spine hitting the

banister. I couldn't do this. I just, couldn't. But I still had to get out. I pushed myself upright, legs shaking. Passing the sewing room, I saw it was open again. Only three mannequins left. I didn't stop to think where the others had gone. I just kept moving, heading for the stairs, and then I heard it. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Something was running. up the staircase from below, hard enough to make the steps grown. I had been wrong. I wasn't going to get my big story. I was going to die here. The front door was locked. The back door was locked. I was trapped. Where you going? Hey. The voice was small, sweet, and it was coming from the living room. I turned and saw it, a single tall black lamp lighting the corner, and in the middle of the

floor sat a doll I didn't recognize. I should have walked away. I should have run. Instead, I picked it up. What did you say to me? I whispered. Nothing. What the hell did you just say to me? I snapped, my voice rising into something desperate. The doll's head lifted slowly. It stitched mouth broke open into a jagged smile. You're never leaving, Jamie, it said. You're going to be just like me soon. I screamed and hurled it against the wall. The lamp went out instantly, plunging the room into darkness.

I heard tiny footsteps, fast, frantic, vanishing into the shadows. The house was draining me. Literally. Every second I stayed, my limbs got heavier, my chest tighter, my vision blurrier. I staggered into the hallway, only to freeze. Fifteen feet ahead was a mannequin. A sheet covered it, stained and sagging. It had feet.

It wasn't a mannequin. It was a human-sized doll. They were all dolls. I raised my camera, hands trembling, and snapped a shot. When I lowered it, it was right in front of me. Something mumbled under the sheet, too muffled to understand. I bolted down the hall. In the mirror, I had no reflection. I didn't even want to think about what that meant. Up the stairs. Two at a time. The thing in the basement took another step,

it had to be right at the top by now. Into the master bedroom. On to the bed. Shaking, sobbing. I looked out the window for my car, it was there, barely visible at the very end of the street. Then blackness. When I woke again, something was holding me down. I sat up and realized I'd been tucked neatly under the covers. And covering the quilt were dolls. Dozens of them, sitting on me, holding me there with their tiny, cold bodies. At the foot of the bed, leaning over the footboard, was a mannequin.

I watched as the sheet slid off it, and I rolled out of bed, hitting the floor hard. Laughter erupted behind me, high-pitched. gleeful, coming from every doll in the room. I crawled. I didn't know where I was going, windows were barred, doors locked. The only option left was the attic. I dragged myself up the narrow stairs, praying I had enough strength to break the door in. It was unlocked. Inside, between me and the small round window, was a sea of dolls and mannequins. Hundreds of them, standing in strange little groups like they'd been mid-conversation. Every single head turned toward me in perfect unison.

I scrambled backward, tripping down the attic stairs and slamming into the second floor landing. The typewriter was going again. I didn't need to check the paper to know what it said. Back down the main stairs, barely able to stand. I faced the mirror. My reflection lagged a half-second again. I leaned in, desperate for any clue. That's when the knocking started, loud, sharp, on the basement door.

It was at the top. I spun around, then froze. My reflection, wasn't following me anymore. It stood still, staring at me, while I turned. I whipped back toward it, and there it was, back to lagging again. I blinked. It didn't. Its eyes stayed open, and then its mouth cut.

curled into a sneer. The fist came from inside the glass, slamming into it so hard it cracked into a spider web. I stumbled back, and the basement door swung open. I fell. Down the stairs, every jolt rattling my bones, until I hit concrete. When I woke, the room was lit. I was lying on a dirty tan sheet, same kind the mannequins wore. Around me, they stood, unmoving. On the wall hung a portrait that looked so real it was almost a mirror. In it was a tall, dark-haired woman in a maroon dress. I knew her. Miss Harmon, from when I was a kid in town. Only now she looked younger, and her eyes burned with anger. The painting blinked. I fell back into a mannequin that caught itself like it was alive. Miss Harmon's painted face shifted into a slow, cold smile. I ran.

pushed through the mannequins as their hands clawed at me, trying to pull me back. Up the stairs. Slammed the door. My reflection stood in the mirror, motionless. The front door was a dead end. The only way out was the mirror itself. I grabbed a chair from the library. Feet pounded, dozens of them, from the basement stairs and down the hall.

Shapes filled my peripheral vision, but I didn't look. I hurled the chair. The mirror shattered. My reflection smiled as the glass gave way to pure blackness. I stumbled into it, running blind. Dulls followed, their giggles echoing. I ran for what felt like hours until I tripped and hit the ground. Silence. I was outside. In the woods, the house standing quiet and perfect in front of me. I didn't wait. I ran until my car came into view. Fell into the seat, started the engine, tore out of Keeling without looking back. Twice, I slammed the brakes, sure I'd seen a sheeted figure in my rearview. I never went back. Not to Keeling, not to Missouri. But even though my body got out, part of me never did. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that

house. The dolls still wait for me. Someday, they'll drag me back. And I don't know what happens after that. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end.