Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying Travel Encounters Glamping Intruder, Beach Stalker, Market Trap & More PART1 #8

Episode Date: October 28, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #travelhorror #glampingintruder #beachstalker #markettrap #truehorrorstories  Part 1 introduces a series of terrifying travel encounters, including a glamping intruder, a beach stalker, and a market trap. These true stories illustrate how travel adventures can suddenly turn into horrifying situations, where safety is uncertain and danger lurks in unexpected places. The stories combine suspense, fear, and survival instincts in real-life scenarios.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, travelhorror, glampingintruder, beachstalker, markettrap, dangerousencounters, suspenseandterror, realhorrorstories, frighteningexperiences, nearfatalencounters, survivorstories, fearinthedark, chillingencounters, unexpecteddanger, truecrimehorror  

The glamping trip and the creepy summer encounter. So, picture this, last summer, I went a little out of character and booked something that sounded both ridiculous and exciting at the same time, glamping. Yep, you heard that right. Glamping I know it sounds like something made up, like an Instagram trend that doesn't actually exist, but trust me, it's a very real thing. The idea is basically glamorous camping, which sounds like a contradiction in it. but when you're a parent with two kids, a husband who isn't the most enthusiastic camper, and you still want some version of the outdoor experience without totally roughing it,

well, glamping starts to sound less like a joke and more like the perfect compromise. I found this place online after doing one of those late-night rabbit hole searches. You know how it goes, you open your laptop just to check one email and then, three hours later, you're comparing the pros and cons of Geico Yerts versus luxury treehouses in counties you barely knew existed. Anyway, the website looked promising. The photos were stunning, six giant Yerts laid out in a neat little circle just outside a tiny village I'd driven through before.

That village always caught my eye because it's close to this historic castle I like to visit when I need a break from the monotony of suburban life. So, it felt like a good sign. close enough to home to not be a stressful journey, but far enough away that it still counted as an escape. So I booked it. Paid the fee, packed up the car, and off we went, my husband, our two kids, and me. It was one of the last weekends of summer, the weather was stunning, and honestly, I was patting myself on the back for pulling this little trip together. I felt like I was winning at motherhood. The campsite itself was on a gentle hill, almost like a bump rising up from the land.

At the very top was a farmhouse where the couple who owned the land lived. We checked in on a Sunday afternoon for two nights. As we pulled in, we passed a few other families heading out. They were all smiling, looking tanned, happy, and totally at peace, as if they'd just had the perfect weekend. That reassured me. Nothing screams, scam louder than unhappy-looking campers, right? We signed in, and the owners, a sweet couple in their 40s with a couple of playful dogs, showed us to our yurt.

Here's the kicker, though, after walking us over and handing us the keys, they casually mentioned we'd be the only one staying there. Yep. Out of all six yurts, ours was the only one occupied. At first, I was kind of thrilled. I mean, no neighbors to worry about, no kids whining about other kids being loud, and no awkward conversations with strangers at the communal fire pit. Total privacy. We could be as noisy as we wanted and not feel guilty. The owner did point out something that stuck in my head, though. She told us, almost offhandedly, that none of the yurt doors actually locked.

But that's fine, she said with a shrug, you don't really lock a tent, do you? I laughed and nodded, pretending it was no big deal. I mean, it made sense, right? Except this wasn't just a thin tent, it was a yurt, big enough to walk around in, with wooden frames and canvas walls. A little more permanent. Still, I brushed it off. She reassured us that the entire campsite was fenced off, totally safe,

and that the kids could wander around without us worrying. The first night was exactly how I'd imagined it. We had a barbecue, the kids ran around until they wore themselves out, and the sun dipped behind the trees in that golden, dreamy way that makes you wish you could freeze time. By 8 p.m., the kids were snoring, and my husband and I crawled into bed. I couldn't sleep right away, but that's nothing new. Whenever I'm in a new place, my brain insists on staying alert for a few hours, like it's on guard duty. The cell service was awful, but I managed to catch a faint signal long enough to read

a couple chapters on my phone before finally dozing off. Morning rolled around, and I noticed my husband seemed, off. He was quiet, distracted, not his usual chatty self. I asked him if everything was okay, and he just muttered, yeah, I'm fine. I didn't push it. We had plans for the day, and I figured maybe he just hadn't slept well. The weather was scorching that day. Perfect beach weather, even though we weren't at the beach. By late afternoon we were back at the yurt, cooking dinner and letting the kids run around in the fading sun.

That's when the weird feeling hit me. It's hard to explain, but the whole vibe shifted. One minute everything was normal, and the next, the air felt heavy, like someone had flipped a switch. A shadow seemed to fall over the place, even though the sun hadn't gone down yet. I got this horrible, icy sense that I was being watched. The hairs on my arms stood up, and my stomach turned. It wasn't just me being paranoid, this was different.

It was dread, pure and simple, settling deep in my chest. I pulled my husband aside and whispered, I think we should go. He looked at me, surprised, but, but instead of arguing, like he normally would, he just nodded. That, honestly, scared me more. If even he thought something was wrong, then something was really wrong. We packed up as quickly as possible, told the kids we were leaving, and hauled everything up to the farmhouse.

The owners were outside playing with their dogs, looking perfectly at ease. We told them we had to cut our trip short because our youngest wasn't feeling well. They nodded sympathetically and wished us well. But just as we were about to leave, the man called out, Hey, did your husband go outside around three or four this morning? I froze. No, I said, shaking my head. He didn't leave my side all night.

Why? The man frowned. That's odd. The security lights came on, and the dogs went nuts barking. I looked outside and saw a man walking around. He wandered across the property and then headed back toward the yurts. We assumed it was your husband. I swear, my heart stopped.

My husband had walked up by then and confirmed, it wasn't me. We said our polite goodbyes and practically ran to the car. About a quarter mile down the road, my husband turned to me and said, I didn't tell you this morning because I didn't want to freak you out, but, around 3.30, I almost got up to use the bathroom. Right as I was about to, I heard footsteps outside on the decking. Someone was out there, walking around the yurt. I just lay there, frozen, hoping you and the kids wouldn't wake up. Even retelling it now, I get chills.

There was someone out there that night. Someone wandering the campsite, standing right outside. our yurt while we slept. And the owners had seen him too. That thought has never stopped haunting me. The Beach Encounter Every summer, like clockwork, my family makes the same trip, we pack our bags, argue over who forgot what, shove everything into the car like an endless game of Tetris, and drive down to my grandparents' house. Their place is in this coastal region of France called Bremenia. It's the kind of place that sounds like a sleepy postcard, you know, those fishing villages that time seems

to have forgotten. The thing that makes their house so special is its location. It literally sits on the edge of a cliff, with the sea stretching out beneath it like some endless blue carpet. The back door leads straight to the sound of crashing waves and salty wind. For a kid, it was paradise growing up. For a teenager who'd outgrown sandcastles, well, it was a little. It was both Paradise and Boredom rolled into one. Let me explain the setup, because it matters. From the house, you cross a small road and slip between two dense bushes. There's a narrow path, clear enough if you know where to look, that leads to a view of the sea. From there, you've got two options, one, you take a long, winding staircase carved right into the cliffside. It's steep, a little uneven in places,

but sturdy enough if you hold the railing. Option 2 is more adventurous. You scramble across some jagged rocks, hop over a few flat stones, and eventually spill out onto the sand. Either way, the journey makes the destination feel like a reward. The beach itself is bigger than you'd expect for such a hidden spot. Wide enough that, when the tide goes out,

it feels like your own private desert of golden sand, bordered by cliffs on either side. But here's the thing, there are only a couple of ways in or out. Which means, if someone shows up there, you notice. I should also mention that at the time of this particular story, I was 18. The oldest of four siblings. At that age, I had completely retired from the family sport of Sandcastle construction. My younger siblings were still happily digging moats and decorating towers with seashells,

but I was chasing other thrills. For me, that usually meant climbing. The cliffs around the beach were semi-high, partly collapsed in some areas, and just dangerous enough to make them exciting. My mom hated it, of course. She'd shout from below, get down before you break your neck. But I was 18. Invincible.

Or at least, I thought I was. One evening, after dinner, I decided I knew. needed a break from family chaos. Everyone else wanted to stay inside, play cards, and argue about rules no one ever agreed on. Not my thing. So I grabbed my lighter, a joint I'd rolled earlier, and my headphones, and announced, I'm going for a walk. Nobody offered to come, which honestly suited me just fine. The air was warm but with that salty chill that creeps in once the sun starts sinking. I headed down the cliff staircase, earbuds in, music turned up just loud enough to drown out my thoughts. Reaching the sand, I wandered for a bit, kicked at some shells, and eventually

sat down on a large flat stone. Perfect spot. I lit up, took a drag, and let the smoke swirl around me while the music carried me off. It wasn't the smartest idea, smoking alone, at night, in a semi-isolated spot, but when you're 18, you don't think like that. You just want the moment. And for a while, it was perfect. The sky was bleeding into purples and pinks, the waves were soft and rhythmic, and for the first time that day, I felt completely at peace, until I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. At first, I thought nothing of it. Anyone could wander onto the beach. Locals, tourists, fishermen, it wasn't exactly off limits. But then I realized this person wasn't just passing through.

He was heading directly toward me. He looked, odd. His head was shaved, like he'd recently buzzed it down to the skin, and he wore these square-shaped sunglasses even though the sun was almost gone. His skin was tan the way people get when they spend every waking hour outdoors. I couldn't place his age exactly, but if I had to guess, I'd say somewhere between mid-20s and early 30s. Not old, but not a teenager either. Through my music, I could faintly hear him speaking. At first, I ignored it, thinking he was

maybe on the phone. But no, he was talking to me. I reluctantly slid my headphones down and caught what he was saying. Hey, he called out casually. Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar. I blinked. Uh, no, I said, trying to keep my voice calm but firm. I don't think so.

But he didn't back off. He kept walking closer, still smiling in this way that wasn't quite friendly, but not openly hostile either. Nah, I swear I've seen you before. Or. Around here, maybe. On this beach? You come here often. The cliche of that line almost made me laugh, but the way he said it made the hair on the back of my neck rise. My gut was screaming at me that this wasn't some harmless beach chat. Something about him felt wrong. I tried to stand my ground. Pretty sure you've got me mixed up with someone else, I replied, hoping he'd just shrugged off

and move along. But he didn't. He took another slow step closer, his sunglasses reflecting the last light of the setting sun, and repeated, no, no. I know I've seen you before. At that point, my heart was thumping so hard I could hear it over the waves.

I realized how isolated I was. No one else on the beach. No siblings. No parents. just me, this stranger, and the long staircase back to the safety of the house. I forced myself to smile, trying to play it cool. Well, maybe I've got one of those faces. Anyway, I should head back.

I slipped my headphones into my pocket, stubbed out the joint against the rock, and casually brushed the sand off my jeans as if nothing was wrong. Inside, though, panic was rising like a tide. He tilted his head, like he was studying me, and said, you don't need to go yet, do you? We could hang out. Talk for a bit. Every alarm bell in my brain was going off now. This was the part where, if I was in a movie, the audience would be screaming at the screen, run.

To be continued.