Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Encounters St. Louis Clown Attack, Bloodied Stranger, and Lake Stalker PART3 #62

Episode Date: November 4, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truehorrorstories #creepyclown #bloodiedstranger #lakestalker #stlouishorror  Part 3 concludes the terrifying encounters in St. Louis with shocking developments. The clown attack escalates into a nightmare beyond imagination, the bloodied stranger’s presence reveals its true menace, and the lake stalker pushes the tension to its breaking point. These chilling accounts blur the line between coincidence and calculated danger, showing how horror often hides in plain sight.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truehorrorstories, creepyclownencounter, stlouishorrorstories, bloodiedstranger, lakestalker, stalkerencounter, creepyexperience, chillingtales, unsettlingmoments, survivalencounters, spookystories, realhorrorstories, terrifyingencounters, nightmarestories

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Oh my God. I know. I know. And you can check you on the register on the website so you can phone [phone]. If your test is due today, you can book today or hscccccc. i.e. 4 slash cervical check. The parking lot escape.

I need to back up for a second, because the way things unfolded that night still makes my skin crawl every time I think about it. The memory is tattooed in my mind, frame by frame, like some awful film reel that refuses to burn out no matter how many years pass. It wasn't just the things he said or the way he acted, it was the terrifying realization that the entire time I was being hunted. He placed his hand on the back of my pants as we walked. The weight of it wasn't heavy in a physical sense, but the intention behind it crushed me.

That hand wasn't just resting there, it was claiming territory, asserting dominance, trying to remind me silently that he had control. I remember the cold, too, the sharp sting of air biting at my cheeks, the kind of cold that burned into your skin, the kind that made your breath puff out like smoke. That night, the cold was my ally. It gave me an excuse, a believable one, to resist without triggering his temper. The whole walk back toward the parking lot, I kept praying in my head that maybe, just maybe, there would be someone else there. A jogger cooling down, a couple sitting in their car after a hike, maybe even just some random old sedan driving through.

Anything, anyone, a witness to ground me back into safety. But when we finally stepped into the lot, my heart sank, like a stone in water. My car was still the only one there. My black SUV sat in the corner like a lonely, waiting shadow. Except, it wasn't totally alone anymore. There was another car. Not in a real parking space, though. No, this thing was shoved off to the side like someone didn't care about rules, or didn't want to be seen. The moment I laid eyes on it, I knew. instinct doesn't lie. That was his car. He'd been sitting there in the dark, waiting for me, watching me the whole time like some predator hiding in tall grass. My stomach flipped over,

and for a second, I thought I might throw up. You might wonder, why didn't you call the cops the second you realized something was wrong? Why not whip out your phone on the trail? I've asked myself the same question so many times it could fill a book. The truth is simple, though, he was watching every single move I made. One wrong twitch, one subtle fumble from my pocket, and I had no doubt he would have reacted. I wanted to make it out of that trail alive, not risk becoming a name on a missing poster. So I played along. Survival mode, I guess. My brain flipped a switch and told me to act, to pretend I wasn't as same. I was a single. I was in scared as I was, to string him along until I was close enough to escape. I leaned into excuses,

it's freezing, I can't do this out here. My skin hurts from the cold. Let's just go back to the car where it's warm. I painted lies with my words, promises I had no intention of keeping. And the sick part. He seemed to enjoy the idea of delayed gratification. But there was another problem, one I hadn't considered until we'd. stepped deeper into that lot, the parking area itself was isolated. Too far away from the main highway, tucked behind trees and dark shadows. Passing cars wouldn't see us. No one would hear me if I screamed. If things went bad here, it was game over. I kept telling myself, just get to the SUV. Just get in, slam the door, peel out. That was the finish line. That was freedom. That was freedom.

him. While I tried to stay calm, he continued talking. Not just talking, detailing. Explaining what he wanted to do, in grotesque, vivid language I won't repeat here because it doesn't deserve to exist in writing. The way he described it, almost casual, like he was ordering off a menu, made me realize I wasn't dealing with some guy caught in a bad impulse. No, this was someone rehearsed. Someone who had thought about this before. Someone who enjoyed the idea of terror. I kept my poker face on, nodding at the right times, pretending not to flinch when bile rose in my throat. I tried steering the conversation into something that might give me leverage. What's your name? I asked lightly, like I wasn't choking on fear. He smirked. Doesn't matter.

Okay, well, maybe your number. We can talk later. Another shake of the head. Nah. No reason. Think about that. Who refuses to give even a fake name? Most people in casual conversations, even liars, will blurt out something.

The refusal was telling, it meant he had no interest in ever being found, no interest in leaving behind breadcrumbs. He was darkness, faceless and nameless. We were standing closer to his car now, that pale blue thing sitting crooked. Up close, it looked even more dated, maybe early 90s, with dull paint that almost shimmered under the weak glow of the parking lot light. It reminded me of my great-grandmother's Oldsmobile. Nostalgia should have softened me, but instead it twisted the knife.

This wasn't someone who cared about appearances. This was someone who used old things, broken things, as cover. He leaned against the car casually, like we were about to have some friendly chat. We can just do this here, he suggested, almost cheerful. No, I said quickly. My car's better. More space. I forced a smile, praying he wouldn't catch the tremble in my voice.

He tilted his head, studying me, then shrugged. All right, but wait. Gotta grab something. He leaned into his car. I didn't get a clear view, but I caught the glint of metal. My blood went cold. A handgun. I'd bet my life that's what it was.

My heart thudded so hard it hurt, but I didn't run. wasn't an option. If he had the gun, he could stop me before I got three steps. So, I stayed calm, or at least pretended to. We walked across the gravel lot toward my SUV, and each step sounded like thunder to my ears. My fingers wrapped tight around my keys inside my pocket. I had a plan now, maybe not a perfect one, but it was something. When we reached my SUV, I hit the unlock button once. Just once. That was the trick, one click meant only the driver's door opened. Not the others. He wouldn't be able to slip in. My hand shook, but I managed to pull it off smoothly. Hold on, let me grab something real quick from inside, I said, trying to sound casual.

I yanked the door open, slid inside, and the second I was in, adrenaline exploded. He was reaching for the passenger door, trying to pull it open, but it was locked. I didn't hesitate. I threw the car in reverse, tires screaming against the loose gravel as the SUV fish-tailed. The world blurred, but I slammed it into drive and floored it. I didn't look back. Couldn't. If I saw him, if I locked eyes, I'd freeze.

So I stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel, the world outside whipping past in streaks. The first thing I did was dial 911. My voice cracked, but I forced the words out, painting a picture of him for the dispatcher. Tall, around six feet. Blonde hair. Brown eyes.

Fair skin. Slightly muscular, not bulky but strong looking. He wasn't what you'd expect. Not greasy or hunched or twitchy like the creeper. stereotype in movies. He was handsome. Discerbingly normal. If you passed him on the street, you'd never flinch. He looked like the kind of guy you'd see picking out cereal at Target or holding a latte in line at Starbucks. 25, maybe 30 years old. But that was the most terrifying part. Evil doesn't always come with warning signs. Sometimes it wears a pleasant face.

I couldn't give them a license plate. I never had a clear shot. But I described the car, pale blue, early 90s, like an Oldsmobile. Probably something that had been passed down, forgotten by time. The police took my statement, wrote everything down, promised to follow up. But the days stretched into weeks and no one ever called me back. My words dissolved into silence. Even now, I don't know who he was. I don't know what became of him. Did he try again? Did he find someone less cautious, less lucky? Those thoughts keep me up some nights. What I do know, though, is that on that freezing night, I brushed shoulders with something dark, something rotten.

Not just a man with bad intentions, but something deeper. Evil Pure, deliberate evil. And that's why, no matter where you are, no matter how safe you think the world feels, there's always a reason to be afraid. The end.