Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Encounters With Strangers and Danger on the Streets of Chicago PART2 #56

Episode Date: November 3, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #ChicagoCrime #streetdanger #urbanhorror #truecrime #survivalordeal  “Terrifying Encounters With Strangers and Danger on the Streets of Chicago – PART 2” continues the harrowing story of navigating a dangerous urban environment. This part details escalating threats from strangers, tense confrontations, and the constant vigilance required to survive. It highlights the psychological and emotional strain of living through real-life street dangers, emphasizing resilience and awareness in the face of uncertainty.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, Chicagocrime, streetdanger, urbanhorrorstory, survivalordeal, truecrimeevents, dangerousencounters, citythreats, highriskordeal, victimordeal, realcrime, chillingexperience, fearandparanoia, personalordeal, harrowingordeal

Stalkton, Chicago, the truck, the stranger, and the park. I've gotten used to saying this more than I'd like, creepy encounters are practically a part of my life. It sounds dramatic, maybe even paranoid, but if you're a young woman, especially someone like me, a 5 feet 2 inches blonde college student living in the Chicago suburbs, you'll know what I mean. There's a certain kind of attention you get just by existing.

Whistles on the street. guys leaning out of cars to say something gross. People following you a little too closely, a little too long. Over time, I've built up my armor. I learned to walk fast, to carry myself like I'm busy and unapproachable, to ignore comments, and to have one earbud in so I could still be alert. I even took some self-defense classes, thinking maybe if the wrong guy ever tried something, I'd at least stand a chance.

But here's the thing, you can prepare all you want, and it still doesn't change that pit of your stomach fear when you realize someone's watching you. And the story I'm about to tell you. That one stuck with me for a long time. The truck At the University of Illinois, I walked everywhere. I liked it. It was exercise, it cleared my head, and even the longest walk to class was only about 20 minutes from my dorm. Every Friday at 11 a.m., I'd take the same route to a lecture hall.

Same streets, same crosswalks, same routine. I could have done it half asleep. Two weeks ago, I was on that walk, earbuds in, humming along to my playlist. The sun was out. It was one of those crisp mornings that makes you feel almost safe, like bad things only happen in shadows. That's when I noticed it. A slightly beat-up pickup truck was rolling along the street next to me.

At first, nothing about it screamed danger. With all the construction going on around campus, trucks were everywhere. This one even had a masonry company logo slapped on the side. Generic looking, something you'd expect to see. But then the driver slowed down. At first, I thought he was pulling into the parking lot up ahead, so I hung back to give him space. except he didn't turn. He just stopped. I glanced at him, and that's when my stomach twisted. He had a paper map unfolded in front of him, like he was pretending to be lost, but I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror.

He wasn't looking at the map. He was looking at me. He was older, maybe around 60, Caucasian, balding a little at the temples. Nothing remarkable and that almost made it scarier. He could have been anyone's grandpa. I walked faster. The truck moved again, matching my pace. I sped up. He sped up. That's when the panic started bubbling.

My brain was doing that split-screen thing, half of me insisting, it's fine, you're imagining it, don't overreact. and the other half screaming, This is bad, this is really, really bad. It was broad daylight. Students were all around, crossing streets, heading to class. Yet somehow, no one seemed to notice this creepy little cat and mouse game happening right next to them. I began to think through my options.

Should I duck into the nearest building? Risk missing class, just to feel safe. Maybe I could outrun him if he'd. tried something, after all, I'd done a few years of track in high school, plus those self-defense classes. But the thought of his truck swerving, blocking my path, made my chest tighten. And then fate intervened. A campus bus came up behind him, blaring its horn over and over. The truck had been crawling along at maybe five miles per hour on a road that should have been 30. The bus driver clearly had zero patience left.

The truck driver hesitated, like he didn't want to give up, but eventually he pulled forward, sped off, and disappeared. I exhaled a breath I didn't even realize I'd been holding. My hands were shaking. My legs felt weak, but I forced myself to keep walking until I made it to class. Afterward, I rushed back to my dorm. I couldn't stop replaying it in my head. Who was he? What did he want?

Why did he have that fake logo on his truck? The research. As soon as I sat down at my desk, I opened my laptop and started searching. I typed in every masonry company in the area, scrolling through websites, Yelp reviews, business listings, everything. hours passed. Nothing matched the logo I'd seen. Not even close. The realization hit me, that company didn't exist. The logo was fake. Which meant that guy wasn't lost. He wasn't looking for a job site. He was looking for me. Or someone like me. When my roommate got back, I told her the whole story. She was instantly freaked out and said I needed to report it. I knew she was

right. So I called the campus police. That turned into a nightmare of transfers and being put on hold. By the time I finally told my story, they immediately bumped me to the actual city police department. Within an hour, an officer came to my dorm. I told him everything, from the fake map to the way he sped, up when I sped up. The officer's expression grew darker with every detail. He said flat out, yeah, you were being followed. Then came the part that made me feel like the dumbest person alive. He asked for the license plate number, and I didn't have it. I hadn't taken a picture. I hadn't written it down. I'd been too busy panicking. I gave him the best description I could, the truck, the man's face, the logo, and even offered to draw it since I'm an art student.

He nodded, said they'd put out patrols in the area, keep an eye out, all the standard stuff. But as he left, his word stuck with me, you might have gotten lucky this time. But that doesn't mean the next person will. The park That whole experience rattled me, but it wasn't my first brush with danger in Chicago. When I was 15, my parents and I came to visit family. We had a couple hours to kill before catching a train home, so we wandered over to Grant Park. It was a sunny afternoon, and the place was buzzing with tourists, joggers, families on picnic blankets.

After a whole day of walking the city, the park felt like a good place to rest. Around the time we had to head back, I hung back a little, maybe 30 feet behind my parents. A mural caught my eye, Martin Luther King Jr. painted across a brick wall in vivid color. I wanted to take a picture of it with my Polaroid camera. Photography had become a hobby, and I was stubborn about capturing the moment. My dad called out, hey, hurry up. I groaned, digging through my bag for film. But his tone sharpened the second time. Come on. Now. That was unusual.

My dad wasn't the panicky type. He'd grown up around here, in Oak Park, spending time with his grandmother on the south side while his dad worked construction jobs in the city. He'd seen enough of Chicago in the 60s and 70s to know when something wasn't right. As I jogged up to him, he leaned down and muttered low, there's a man watching you. I rolled my eyes at first. Being a teenager, I figured he was just being overprotective. But when I glanced back, I froze. There he was.

A man in a tan bomber jacket, bright red converse sneakers on his feet. I remembered those shoes vividly because I'd seen the same style on some TV character I liked. He stood across the street, phone in his hand, staring straight at me. Not blinking. not pretending, just staring. And his stare wasn't casual. It was hungry, predatory, like he'd spotted something he wanted and was already figuring out how to take it. My dad grabbed my arm and said firmly, we're leaving.

We crossed the street. The man crossed two, staying parallel. His eyes never left me. Who is he? Why does he keep staring at me, Dad? My voice trembled. We started weaving through streets, cutting down random blocks, trying to shake him. Each time we thought we'd lost him, there he was again. Same jacket. Same shoes. Same unblinking gaze. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I'd faint. My mom, strangely, didn't seem as alarmed. Maybe she hadn't seen the man's face, hadn't felt the intensity of that stare. But my dad knew.

He walked faster, gripping my hand like a vice. Finally, in desperation, we darted into Macy's on State Street. The rush of crowds and bright lights was like a shield. We scanned every corner, but the bomber jacket man didn't follow us inside. For the first time all day, I felt safe. But the imprint of that stare, the certainty that I'd been singled out, has never left me. I still wonder what would have happened if my dad hadn't been there. If I'd been alone.

If the man had decided to act. There's always a reason someone targets you. And sometimes, not knowing that reason is scarier than the truth. Reflection. Between that day in the park and the incident with the pickup truck years later, I've learned something unsettling, danger doesn't always announce itself. It doesn't come with sirens or flashing lights. Sometimes it comes in the form of an unmarked truck with a fake logo. Sometimes it's a man in bright sneakers standing too still. And sometimes, you don't get to know what they really want it. All you get is the memory.

and the reminder that next time, maybe you won't be so lucky. The end.