Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Encounters With Human Traffickers, Strangers, and Survival in Texas PART1 #52

Episode Date: November 3, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #humantrafficking #truecrime #Texascrime #survivalstory #dangerousencounters  “Terrifying Encounters With Human Traffickers, Strangers, and Survival in Texas – PART 1” recounts the chilling beginnings of real-life encounters with dangerous individuals. This first part focuses on initial threats, the fear of strangers, and the high-risk situations faced by the protagonist in Texas. It sets the stage for a harrowing journey of survival, awareness, and resilience in the face of extreme danger.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, humantraffickingcase, Texascrime, survivalordeal, dangerousencounters, truecrimeevents, strangerdanger, personalordeal, darktruecrime, crimeandfear, chillingordeal, realcrime, harrowingexperience, victimordeal, survivalstory

My almost kidnapping in Dallas and the road trip from hell. This whole thing went down about two summers ago, right in my hometown, Dallas, Texas. And let me just start by saying, I've always known Dallas has a dark underbelly. I mean, the city has this shiny vibe on the outside, Cowboy Stadium, fancy shopping areas, Tex-Mex joints that make you want to die happy after three margaritas, but anyone who lives here long enough knows there's some shady stuff happening just out of sight. Now, I wasn't naive about human trafficking. I'd actually had a co-worker get pulled out of work by the freaking FBI one day. At first, everyone thought she'd been arrested

or something, but nope, she was being taken into protective custody. Turns out, her own family had been deep in a trafficking operation, and she'd finally decided to rat them out. That shook me. But at the same time, her story made trafficking feel like one of those, organized crime, things, drugs, blackmail, coercion, maybe some cartel involvement. Like, you had to already be tangled in shady circles for it to touch you. I never imagined it could be as simple as riding my bike to the store and almost getting snatched. But life has a twisted sense of humor, and apparently, I was overdue for a reality check. The setup.

So picture this, I was 24 years old, rocking short pink hair, feeling invincible because, well, I had a military background. Not a Navy seal or anything, but enough training to make me walk around with this quiet confidence. The thing is, confidence can sometimes tip over into cockiness, and I think that's where I was at. I genuinely thought, who's going to mess with me? I look like I'd fight back. Except, I tend to forget the math doesn't always add up. I might have been tough, but I was still a five feet two inches, short Caucasian woman.

And at the end of the day, predators don't care if you look a little intimidating. They look at numbers. Two grown men versus one tired woman on a bicycle. Yeah, do that math. Anyway, it was broad daylight, maybe early afternoon, when I set out to cycle. across town to this smoke shop. It wasn't exactly in the nicest neighborhood, but I'd been there before and never had an issue. Daylight gives you this false sense of security, like bad things only happen in the dark. Spoiler, that's a lie. The van. I pull up to a crosswalk, waiting for the light.

That's when I hear it, two guys cat calling me from a white van. And not just any van. I'm talking to talking about the most cliche, stereotypical, unmarked, free candy, than you can imagine. No logos, no bumper stickers, no nothing. Just plain white metal with tinted windows. At first, I roll my eyes because catcalls are basically background noise for women in cities. But then I notice, it's not the usual, hey baby, garbage. It's different. They're talking to each other inside, and they're then yelling things out the cracked window about how they were going to get me, and I was next. Who the hell says that? It wasn't playful. It wasn't drunk idiots being gross. They were too excited, like kids hyping

each other up before a dare, and for some reason, that got under my skin way worse than the words themselves. So what do I do? I flipped them off, of course. Because I'm me, and sarcasm is my coping mechanism. The van drives away, and I think, cool. End of story. Except, not even close. The trap. Up ahead, there's this brick wall with a little alley beside it.

Not a useful alley, though. It's basically a dead end, probably where dumpsters used to sit when that part of the neighborhood had more businesses. As I'm peddling forward, I notice movement. The van. They had circled around and now they were speeding past me just enough to cut me off. Then they pull into the alley. And in that split second, it all clicks. They're trying to funnel me into the dead end.

They want me to turn into that alley where no one can see, and then, who knows? A van with no markings, two grown men, no. witnesses. That's the stuff you don't come back from. This entire setup, me riding, them cutting me off, happened in like seven seconds. That's all it takes for your life to change. The Calm Here's the part that freaks me out the most when I replay it, I didn't panic. Not at all. I didn't even feel fear in that moment. It was like my body handed the steering wheel over to someone else. Someone calm, logical, and detached. Instead of freezing, I veered across the street

without hesitation and started peddling up the other side. It was smooth, fast, almost instinctive, like training had kicked in. But my brain wasn't even processing why I was moving. Only when I looked back did the reality smack me. It was the same van from before, but now it had a magnetic sign slapped on the side. Some half-assed window repair company. But the magnet was so small and generic it screamed fake. No phone number, no website, nothing. Just Dallas window repair.

And then I noticed the worst detail. The driver's seat was empty. Both men had crawled into the back, waiting by the rear doors. They were going to open those doors, grab me off my bike, and haul me in. Right there. In the middle of the damn day. The aftermath of the van. I keep riding, heart hammering, glancing over my shoulder every two seconds. Suddenly, the guys scramble back into the front and peel out so fast the tires screech.

Burnt rubber on the pavement. I make it to the same. smoke shop, but I can barely breathe. My whole body is shaking, and my brain is running through everything that could have happened if I hadn't trusted that gut instinct. And here's the part that still haunts me, I didn't write down the plate number. I was so focused on survival that it didn't even cross my mind. And even if I had, would it have mattered? People in trafficking rings swap plates all the time. Later, when I told the story to a friend from Mexico, she just gave me this sad, knowing look. Yeah, she said, that's how it happens.

She explained that in her city, vans like that are infamous. They drive around in broad daylight, pick up women, and they're gone before anyone even realizes what happened. That's when it hit me. I wasn't too tough or too intimidating. I was just lucky. And the scariest part? Nobody would have noticed. I wasn't close with my roommates. My family wasn't expecting me home. I could have been across the border within 24 hours, or worse,

and it might have taken days before anyone realized I was missing. Flashback, the U-Haul story. Now, here's where the universe decided to double down on teaching me a lesson about trusting my gut. This next part takes us back to 2010, long before. the Dallas van incident, but the connection is important. I was 24, again, apparently that's my cursed age, driving from New Orleans to Eugene, Oregon. Just me, my two-year-old pit bull, and everything I owned shoved into the back of a 14-foot U-Hull. This was pre-smart phone days for me.

I had a flip phone, some spotty service, and a MapQuest printout. That's it. If I got lost, I couldn't just Google Maps my way out of it. So there I was, cruising through Central Texas, when I realized my gas gauge was dipping dangerously low. The road stretched on forever, no exits, no towns, nothing but heat waves on the horizon. Just when panic started bubbling up, I saw a small town in the distance. Relief washed over me, until I realized this town was about to creep me out more than. running out of gas ever could.

The town with no exit. The town was tiny. Maybe six streets total. I pulled into the gas station, filled up, and figured I'd be back on the highway in five minutes. Except I couldn't find my way out. I circled once. Then twice.

Then a third time. I could see the highway in the distance, but every street I took looped me back into town. It was like some weird Twilight Zone trick. Finally, frustrated and a little embarrassed, I went inside the gas station to ask for directions. That's when I met him. The attendant

Skinny guy, long greasy hair covering half his face, flipping through a magazine without looking up. Not scary in the slasher movie sense, but there was something off. Like he existed just outside of normal human rhythm. When I asked how to get back to the highway, he rattled off directions that made zero sense. He told me to take a road 17 miles out of town that,

curved back around. 17 miles. Are you kidding me? I hadn't even driven five miles from the highway to get into this town. Why would it take 17 to get back? I questioned him and he just shrugged, still not meeting my eyes. Then, with this lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured toward the door like he couldn't care less whether I followed his directions or drove straight into hell.

The Fear That Hits Later I walked back to my truck and that's when it slammed into me, full body trembling, heart racing, tears welling up. The fear didn't come inside the gas station. It waited until I was out in the open, alone. Something was wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. I didn't know what exactly, whether this guy was trying to send me into an ambush,

or if he was just screwing with me, but my gut screamed, do not follow his directions. So I didn't. To be continued.