Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Sleepovers, Wolf Pursuits, and a Lake House Stranger’s Deadly Secret PART1 #34

Episode Date: October 2, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #sleepoverhorror #wolfencounter #lakehousemystery #stalkerhorror #truehorrortales   In this collection of chilling encounters, we dive into terrifying sleepovers that twist into nightmares, relentless wolf pursuits that blur the line between predator and legend, and the sinister truth hidden within a lake house where a stranger guards a deadly secret. Part 1 sets the stage for a haunting descent into fear and survival.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, sleepoverhorror, wolfpursuit, lakehousemystery, deadlysecret, paranormalencounter, scarynarratives, realhorrorstories, creepyencounters, survivalhorror, supernaturalstories, darktales, stalkerhorror, nightterrors, mysterythriller

Even now, all these years later, it still feels surreal when I think about how long I was down there. Locked up. Cut off from the world. Breathing stale air and staring at the same walls every single day. I didn't know the exact number at the time, hell, I stopped keeping track after the first year, but when it was finally over, when I was finally free, someone told me the truth. A little over ten years. Ten years. I went in as a kid, 12 years old, still figuring out who I was, and I came out as.

I don't even know. Not quite a man, but definitely not a boy. My body grew, my voice dropped, but my mind. My mind was frozen somewhere in that moment when my life got yanked out from under me. I was kidnapped just days before my 13th birthday. I can remember that night in disgusting detail, like a movie scene I've been forced to replay over and over. It was after basketball practice. I was walking home, sweaty and sore, my head still in the game. It was late, but the sky was clear and the full moon was so bright it made the street glow. That light gave me this false sense of safety, like it was enough to keep the shadows at bay.

I thought I knew what fear was back then. Turns out, I didn't know a damn thing. I was humming some stupid song I'd heard on the radio earlier that day. Every few steps, I'd kick a rock down the road, my eyes mostly on the pavement. Every couple seconds I'd glance up, just to make sure I was still going the right way. I hadn't even bothered to change out of my basketball uniform, figured I'd shower as soon as I got home anyway. My ball was tucked under my right arm. I was too tired to dribble.

home was maybe half a mile away when it happened. A van came out of nowhere, roaring past me, then screeched to a stop just ahead. I froze. My brain said this isn't right, but my body didn't listen. I just stood there, watching. Now, looking back, it makes me sick to realize that if I'd just run, if I'd turned around and sprinted like my life depended on it, things might have been different. But no. I just stood there. there like an idiot. Everything adults had ever warned me about, Stranger Danger, not talking to people you don't know, came flooding into my head, but it was like my muscles had turned to stone. The side door of the van slid open and a guy in a dark coat and jeans jumped out. He moved fast,

too fast. By the time my body finally reacted, he was already on me. His hands clamped down on my shoulders, yanking me so hard my feet barely touched the ground. I screamed, but his arm shot around me, pulling me into his chest, and his other hand covered my mouth. The basketball slipped from my arm and hit the ground with a wet smack, rolling through a puddle and bouncing twice. Funny thing is, I still remember the exact sound it made, flat, dull, almost lazy. I don't know why that sticks with me, but it does. Your brain does weird things. You know, in moments like that. Next thing I knew, I was being dragged backward toward the van. My heels scraped the pavement, my heart was pounding so loud it drowned out my own muffled screams.

The man shoved me inside, the panel door slammed shut, and just like that, I was trapped. Even then, I couldn't see his face. And I wouldn't, not for a while. The driver said something, shut him up, I think, and the guy who grabbed me laughed. Then he punched me in the side of the head. Everything went black. When I woke up, I was lying on something hard. It was dark, really dark. The kind of dark that eats up your vision and makes you wonder if your eyes are even open.

My palms slid over the floor, feeling old wooden planks, rough and splintery. They were damp, and the air smelled like mold and dust. If you've ever been in one of those old basements in Seattle, you know the smell, like wet cardboard mixed with earth. I sat up slowly, and that's when I heard it. A faint clinking sound when I moved my leg. My hand traveled down my left leg until it hit cold metal. A thick steel band was locked around my ankle, so tight it dug into my skin. Attached to it was a heavy chain. I picked it up, feeling the cold links. I pulled it hand over hand. until it went taut. The chain was bolted to the wall behind me. I tested the other direction,

10 feet of slack, maybe. That was it. That was my world now. Panic set in fast. My breathing sped up, my chest tightened, and every horrible news story I'd ever heard about kidnapped kids flashed in my mind. I didn't know if anyone else was in the room. I didn't know if someone was coming back. I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't know. if I'd ever see the outside world again. Hours passed, at least it felt like hours. I tried calling out, begging, screaming until my throat hurt. Nothing. Just silence. Then, without warning, the darkness exploded into light. It was so bright it burned my eyes. I dropped to my knees, covering my face, my vision reduced to white spots. When I finally squinted through the pain, I saw

him. He was standing at the top of a wooden staircase about 20 feet in front of me. The stairs led up to a door. He didn't move right away, just stood there, staring at me. His face was pale, unnaturally pale. Black hair slicked straight back. Deep green eyes that didn't blink. A green polo shirt tucked into worn, ripped jeans. And then he started coming down the stairs. Slowly. One step at a time, pausing between each one, dragging it out like he wanted me to feel every second. His boots hit the wood with a heavy thud. When he reached the bottom, I could see his skin better, it wasn't just pale, it looked paper-thin, almost sickly. His eyes never left mine.

I pressed my back against the wall, my heels kicking at the floor as I tried to push myself further away. Hush, child. I'm not going to hurt you. he said. I didn't believe him for a second. There was something in his voice, cold, deliberate, that told me hurting me was exactly what he liked to do. Who are you? My voice cracked. I'm your new owner, he said. My stomach turned. No. Let me out. I shouted, tears spilling down my face. I'm not going to do that. He lunged. In a flash, he was on me. pinning me to the floor. His weight crushed my chest. I tried to kick, but he trapped my legs.

His arm pressed down on me, his other hand free. That's when I saw it, his pinky nail. Long sharp, almost like a claw. He dragged it across my throat, not deep, just enough to make blood well up. I screamed. He lowered his head and licked it away. That first night was bad. But it was nothing compared to what came after. He didn't stick around long that first time. After licking the blood from my neck like some kind of sick animal, he just stared at me for a moment, almost like he was sizing me up, deciding something. Then he got up, brushed his hands off like I was nothing more than a chore he'd just

finished, and climbed the stairs again without another word. The door shut, and I was left in that basement, shaking so hard my teeth hurt from clacking together. I sat there for hours after that, knees pulled up to my chest, trying to process what the hell had just happened. I kept touching my neck like I couldn't believe the cut was real. My fingers came back sticky and warm, and that was enough proof. The silence came back, and with it came that horrible realization, this wasn't a bad dream. I wasn't going to wake up in my bed, sweaty but safe. This was my new reality.

When the door finally opened again, it was maybe two days later, or maybe less. I didn't have any way to tell time down there. But I remember my stomach was already cramping with hunger. He came down the stairs holding a big metal bowl. Steam was coming off it, so at first I thought maybe he was actually bringing me something good. But when he got close enough, I saw what it was, oatmeal. Or something pretending to be oatmeal. Thick, grey, and lumpy. I didn't move. I didn't trust him. When I didn't step forward to take it,

he just set it on the floor and backed away. Don't eat it all at once, he said. That's all you'll be getting for a couple days. Then he left. I just stared at the bowl for a long time, my stomach twisting, my mind telling me it had to be poisoned or drugged. Eventually, though, the hunger started winning. I ate a few mouthfuls. It was even worse than it looked, bland, sticky, like it had been made without a single grain of sugar or salt. I still call it oatmeal in my head, but I'm not convinced that's what it actually was. That night, I curled up in a ball, my face wet with tears. I cried for myself. I cried for my family, imagining them searching for me. I cried for my friends, thinking about how my seat at school was probably already empty. And most of all,

I cried because I knew deep down, he wasn't going to let me go. When I finally ran out of tears, I fell asleep. I woke up to the sound of the door opening again. My eyes flew open, and there he was, already halfway down the stairs. He didn't have the bowl this time. And it wasn't feeding day. I knew right away what was about to happen. I screamed. He didn't laugh this time. Didn't smile. He just lunged at me, fast and heavy, and I was back on the floor with him pinning me down. My voice went raw from yelling. I don't even remember if I tried to fight him that time, it wouldn't have mattered. He was stronger, heavier, and had no problem using force. His nail cut me again, in a different spot. He licked

the blood like before, like it was some sick little ritual. Then he left. That night, I didn't touch the oatmeal at all. My brain kept whispering that maybe it was drugged, that maybe that's why I couldn't stop him. But eventually, hours later, when my stomach felt like it was eating itself, I caved. I ate. After that, I learned the pattern. Every couple days, a big, heaping bowl of that gray sludge. Every couple weeks, and attack, he kept his distance most of the time. He'd come down, drop the food, sometimes glance around, and leave. Once, he noticed the corner where I've been forced to go to the bathroom,

because what else was I supposed to do, and just shook his head. We'll have to get you a bucket for that, won't we? Sure enough, a few hours later, he brought one. Told me to use it. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of obeying, but fear is a hell of a motivator. I used it. Time stopped having meaning. I never knew what day it was. The light only came on when he was there, and it shut off the moment he left. I was living in total darkness, chained to a wall, waiting for the next bowl of food or the next attack. The only sound I ever

heard, other than my own breathing, was his boots on those stairs. And every time I heard them, I never knew which it would be, food or pain. Weeks bled into months. My sense of self started to fade. And the worst part? Somewhere deep down, I started to believe him when he called himself my owner. Because when you're trapped long enough, when every choice is taken away from you, you start to feel like you don't own yourself anymore. And that. That was just the beginning. To be continued.