Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Encounters with Black-Eyed Children, Haunted Houses, and Night Dread PART1 #40

Episode Date: October 12, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #blackeyedchildren #hauntedhouses #nightdread #creepyencounters #paranormalhorror  Part 1 introduces terrifying stories where the ordinary turns sinister. From eerie visits by black-eyed children to experiences in haunted houses and unsettling nighttime events, each tale captures the fear and anxiety of facing the unknown. These accounts reveal just how terrifying the shadows of reality can be.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, blackeyedchildren, hauntedhouses, nightdread, creepyencounters, paranormalhorror, realhorrorstories, unsettlingstories, frighteningexperiences, darktales, nightmarefuel, survivalstories, chillingaccounts, fearstories, realcreepystories

Horror. Story 1. The Knock at the Door. Okay, so let me start with this one, because it still gives me chills just thinking about it. It all went down only two days after I turned 16. I thought 16 was supposed to be the year where life starts feeling exciting, right? Like, you're finally old enough to kind of feel like an adult, but still young enough to just chill and be carefree? Well, let me tell you, my sweet little new chapter of life, started with something I'll never forget. It was a regular weekday. My parents were both at work and I had the house to myself. My girlfriend had come over to hang out and we weren't doing anything

crazy, just normal teenage stuff. We made some dinner together, put on a movie and ended up curled up on the couch. Somewhere between laughing at dumb parts of the film and trying not to fall asleep, we actually knocked out cold right there on the couch. Next thing I know, it's 7.30 in the evening, and there's this loud knock at the front door. At first, it didn't even register. You know, when you wake up groggy and your brain hasn't fully caught up? That was me, half asleep, stumbling like a zombie toward the sound. I was still rubbing my eyes when I heard it again, but this time, the knock wasn't just a casual, hey, anybody home kind of knock. No, this one was heavy, like whoever was out there was getting annoyed, maybe even angry. I squinted through the

p-hole, expecting maybe a neighbor or a delivery guy, but nope, what I saw made me instantly uneasy. Standing there were three kids. Their heads were bent down, their chins pressed into their chests, like they couldn't or wouldn't look straight at the door. From what I could guess, they were probably between four and nine years old, just little kids, right? But even in that at first glance, something felt off. Then the oldest one, without even lifting his head, mumbled something that I barely caught, almost like he knew I was peeking at them. Can you let us in? We need to call our mother. I froze. My girlfriend, who had shuffled behind me to see what was going on, leaned over and looked through the p-hole too. I'll never

forget how her face changed. She whispered, there's something not right about this. Don't let them in. Now here's the part that really set off alarm bells. From the corner of the room, my dog, Brutus, our big, fearless Rottweiler, started whining. This dog never backed down from anything, not strangers, not other dogs, not even thunderstorms. But right then, he was trembling, whining like a puppy, and backing into the corner as far away from the door as he could get. My girlfriend clutched my arm so tight at hurt. She was shaking already on the verge of tears. I looked back through the peahole just in time to see one of the younger kids slowly tilt his head up.

His face? God, I still see it sometimes in my sleep. His eyes weren't normal. There were no whites, no irises, no pupils, just pitch black voids. Completely empty, like staring into the night sky with no stars. And then, in a whisper, that somehow carried through the solid wood of the door, he said, You have to let us in. We have to call our mom.

You're a bad person if you don't. Something about those words hit me in a way I can't describe. It was like they crawled under my skin, trying to hook into me, pull me closer. For a second, I even found myself stepping back from the door, like I was in some kind of trance. Then came another knock, louder this time. My girlfriend gasped so loud it snapped me out of it. I grabbed her hand and led her back to the couch, telling her not to move while I went back to make sure the deadbolt was locked tight.

From the other side of the door, muffled voices started up again. Let us in. We need to call our mom. I didn't answer. I didn't dare look through the peahole again. Instead, I walked back to where my girlfriend was. She was shaking uncontrollably, and I tried to come. her, wrapping my arms around her, whispering that everything was okay, even though I didn't believe

it myself. And then, bam, bam, the sound of pounding, but not at the front door this time. My stomach dropped. It was coming from the back. Our back door wasn't like the front. It was a sliding glass door, which meant we could see right through it. And standing there, right on the other side of the glass, was a little girl. Her eyes, God, I'd never seen anything blacker than that. Deeper than shadows, darker than the sky at midnight. My girlfriend completely lost it at that point. She yanked out her phone with shaking hands and dialed 911.

Meanwhile, I grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the glass. I didn't want her anywhere near that door. We sprinted upstairs, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I told her to hide under my bed while I rushed into my dad's room and grabbed his pistol. I'm not a gun guy. I'd barely even touched one before. But right then, it felt like the only thing standing between us and whatever the hell those kids were. I ran back downstairs and positioned myself in front of the sliding glass door, holding the gun like I actually knew how to use it. My hands were slick with sweat, my knees shaking, but I was determined to look like I wasn't

afraid. That's when I noticed it. The sliding door wasn't fully shut. It was open, just barely, a crack wide enough to make my stomach lurch. And then, from inside the house, I heard it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps. At that exact moment, faint but growing louder, came the sound of sirens. Relief flooded me, but I didn't lower the gun. I backed into a corner, pressing myself against the wall, my eyes darting between every shadow in the room. I didn't move until cops burst through the front door. The second they were inside, I dropped the gun and raised my hands, babbling about intruders. My girlfriend came rushing down from upstairs, her face streaked with tears. We both tried to explain what we'd seen,

what we'd heard. But after searching every inch of the house, every closet, every room, and even the yard, there was nothing. No kids, no black eyes, no footprints, nothing at all. The cops accused me of making the whole thing up, said maybe we'd been drinking, or maybe it was just some weird dream. But no matter how much they rolled their eyes, I know what I saw. My girlfriend knows what she saw too. To this day, both of us stand by it. Those kids were real. And they weren't normal, not even close. Story 2. The House with History. Now, if that wasn't creepy enough, let me tell you about where I grew up.

Northern New Jersey. And before you start picturing the whole Jersey Shore stereotype, loud people, big hair, fist pumps, just stop. North Jersey is nothing like that. It's actually gorgeous. Rolling hills, big open fields, old trees that have been there longer than anyone can remember. It's the kind of place that feels peaceful and timeless on the surface. We lived in this big old farmhouse, the kind of house that has personality in every creek of the floorboards and smell of the wood. It had history too, built in the 1700s. I always thought it was cool growing up in a place that old. Like, wow, people lived here hundreds of years before me. But the thing about history is, sometimes it leaves behind more than antiques.

Sometimes it leaves shadows. My first experiences started when I was really young, around four. According to my parents, I'd wander into the bathroom and sit there, chatting away like I was having a full conversation. My mom asked me one day, who are you talking to? And my little kid's self just answered like it was obvious. There's an angel in the bathroom. Cute, right? Sweet even. Except it kept happening.

Day after day, until I was about seven. By then, the angel seemed to fade from my stories, but other things started. At dinner, for example, we'd all sit down, and while everyone else was laughing or eating, I'd suddenly freeze and stare at the hallway. Then, without saying much, I'd get up, walk over, and shut the door to the hall. My parents finally asked me why I kept doing that. I looked them dead in the eye and said, Because when I eat dinner, there's a man crawling down the hallway toward me.

Yeah, imagine hearing that from your kid. By the time I hit 10, things got weirder. I started waking up almost every night around three in the morning. Classic creepy hour. I'd shuffle downstairs, not really awake, but not asleep either, and just sit at the kitchen table. No reason, just sitting there, staring, paralyzed with this nameless terror. I'd sit frozen until either I collapsed from exhaustion,

or my parents found me and walked me back to bed. Then my younger sister started having her own experiences. She was about ten when she began sleepwalking into my room. She'd stand there, whispering, Mom, I'm scared, over and over, for minutes before quietly turning around and heading back to her own room. She never remembered it. But that wasn't all. She started waking up at night to the sound of someone rummaging through her dresser drawers. She swore it sounded like a woman. She'd ask our mom in the morning if it had been her. Spoiler, it wasn't. My older brother got his share too. At 16, he'd walk into his room and find a woman sitting on the edge of his bed, her back to him. Other times, he'd roll over at night and see a figure peering into his room.

Too tall to be me or my sister, definitely not our parents. One Christmas, during a family party, he went upstairs to grab something only to