Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying True Encounters from Mississippi’s Dark Woods, Roads, and Hidden Past PART2 #15

Episode Date: October 9, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #mississippiencounters #darkwoods #hauntedroads #truehorrorstories #creepyencounters  “Terrifying True Encounters from Mississippi’s Dark Woods, Roads, and Hidden Past PART 2” continues the series of real-life frightening experiences in Mississippi. From eerie woods to abandoned roads and hidden dark histories, these stories highlight the chilling reality of confronting unknown dangers. Each encounter demonstrates how fear can emerge from both nature and human actions, leaving lasting emotional impact on those involved.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, mississippiencounters, darkwoods, hauntedroads, truehorrorstories, creepyencounters, unsettlingstories, terrifyingmoments, nightmarefuel, realfear, darkhistory, mysteriousencounters, hauntingmoments, frighteningexperiences, chillingtales

Horror. Number three, The Stranger by the Lake. When I was around seven years old, my dad made one of those big family adventure decisions. He bought a few hundred acres in southern Mississippi. This was about an hour and a half west of Mobile, Alabama. He said it was going to be our little getaway spot, somewhere to escape city life and live close to the land. On top of a hill, right in the middle of a wide open field, he built a small cabin. And when I say small, I mean it, just enough room for a couple of bedrooms, a kitchen, and a front room where you could sit and look out over the property. From that hill, you could see the woods on every side, a wall of green that looked peaceful in daylight, but turned into a black ocean at night. The nearest paved road was five

miles away. Five miles of dirt, dust, and nothing but the sound of your own tires. About a quarter mile north of the cabin was a little lake, although lake is generous. It was more like an oversized pond, maybe 50 yards across, ringed by reeds and trees that dipped their roots right into the water. Fast forward a few years. I was 10. It was autumn, cooler air, leaves turning, the kind of mornings where you can smell the earth. My parents and my younger sister had decided to drive into town to get ice cream and do some shopping.

That meant I had the place to myself for a couple of hours. And being a kid who loved fishing more than breathing, I grabbed my rod, called for my Airdale Terrier, Bailey, and headed to the lake. About five minutes after I cast my first line,

it happened, that creeping, skin-pickling sensation like you've just been dropped under a spotlight. I didn't hear anything, I didn't see anything, but I knew something, or someone, was watching me. Bailey felt it too. His growl started low, like the rumble of a far-off truck, and then deepened. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the lake, west side, where the trees crowded right up to the water's edge.

At first I thought it was nothing, maybe a deer. But then I spotted it. Between two trunks, just far enough away that the details were blurry, there was the dark outline of a person, big, definitely an adult, standing still, half hidden behind the tree. If you've never been alone in a place that empty and suddenly realized someone staring at you, it's hard to describe. It's not like bumping into a stranger in the grocery store. It's worse. It's like being on stage in a giant empty stadium with just one. person way up in the stands, staring straight at you. After a moment, the silhouette slipped out of sight.

But Bailey didn't relax. He kept growling, the fur along his back standing straight up. Over the next 20 minutes, I caught glimpses of movement. The figure was moving from tree to tree, always keeping something between us. Every so often they'd peek out, slowly, like they were trying to be playful about it. I didn't know what to do. My parents were gone, the cabin was empty, and I wasn't about to lead this person straight to my house. So I stayed put, pretending to focus on my fishing line, even though my hands were shaking. I figured maybe, just maybe, if I ignored him, he'd go away. But he didn't. Instead, he kept making his way around the lake, still using the trees for cover. He could have walked straight

toward me in any point, but he didn't. It was like he was enjoying the size. slow build-up, like he was daring me to react. Another five minutes, and he was close, close enough that I could see he was tall, with broad shoulders. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. That was it. I couldn't sit there anymore. I reeled in my line, grabbed my tackle box, and started walking, slowly, back toward the cabin. Forcing myself not to look over my shoulder was the hardest thing I've ever done. And that's a little. saying something, because later in life I spent 11 years in the army as a military police officer. Even in combat zones, I never felt that same raw animal-level fear. In my head, I pictured the man

sprinting silently after me, arms outstretched, mouth twisted into a wide, wrong smile. The second I hit the tree line, I broke into a run. Bailey took off ahead, then stopped, turned, and faced back toward the lake until I caught up. Then he'd sprint forward again, repeating the process, leap ahead, stop, turn, watch my back, wait for me. Looking back now, I think that was incredible. At the time, though, I was so scared I felt physically sick. Even at 10 years old, I knew, this wasn't some random hunter or friendly neighbor. Whoever that was, they meant me harm. When I finally reached the cabin, I slammed the door, locked it, and went straight from my dad's 38 revolver. Then I sat by the big front window, eyes locked on the trail that led from the lake to the yard.

My family got home a little while later, and here's the weird part. I didn't tell them. Not that day, not ever. I don't know why. Maybe I was afraid they wouldn't believe me. But I never felt safe there again. If my sister or my friends wanted to explore anywhere past the cabin's yard, I made sure my parents were with us. A few years later, my dad sold the land. I never went back. Bailey lived a long, happy life, and when his time came, we put him to sleep surrounded by love.

I think about him a lot. I'm pretty sure he saved my life that day. Even now, as a grown man with military training, I sometimes wish I could go back to that exact moment, not as the scared 10-year-old I was, but as the person I am now, just to see who or what was watching me from the trees, and maybe get some answers. Number four, the bicycle man. I grew up in southern Mississippi, and like a lot of kids around here, my parents were young when they had me. Too young. My mom was deep into alcoholism, and my dad worked constantly just to keep us afloat. That meant most of the time it was just me, my little sister, and my mom. When she needed a break from us, or, more accurately, when she wanted to go drink without worrying,

she'd drop us off with my great-aunt. My great-aunt was 98 years old, 98, and slipping into senility. Her property bordered the state mental hospital. Yeah, that's not a setup for a horror story at all. My grandmother used to tell us about times when patients would wander away from the hospital and just show up at my great aunt's front door. Sometimes they'd still be in hospital gowns, sometimes they'd ask to use the phone. I was eight the night this happened. My mom dropped us off on a Friday afternoon. My sister, who was five, went straight to the living room to play with her toy horses next to my great aunt, who was wrapped in a blanket and knitting while the TV murmured in the background.

A timer went off in the kitchen, and my aunt asked me to take the biscuits out of the oven. The kitchen window looked out at a big gnarled willow tree in the front yard. As I passed it, something caught my eye, a figure standing under the branches. I froze. Was it just the shadows? I called my great aunt over. She adjusted her glasses, peered out, then chuckled. Oh, silly me, she whispered, checking her watch. It's that time. Then she said something that made my stomach drop. The bicycle man is hungry.

She shuffled off toward the back room and I followed. She switched on a lamp next to an old black leather couch, torn with stuffing poking out in one corner. On the couch was a pillow and a blanket. On the table beside it, two half-empty glasses of water. She started fluffing the pillow and straightening the blanket, talking the whole time. She told me the bicycle man came every. night. They had dinner, drank coffee, and then she put him to bed. In the morning, he rode off again. Eight-year-old me was officially freaked out. I backed away, moving slowly, then crawled into

a spare bedroom with my sister. I dragged the house phone in with me and locked the door. I tried calling my mom, no answer. Dad didn't have a cell phone yet, and I didn't know his work number. That's when I heard the front door open. A deep male voice. coughing. He and my great-aunt started talking. I couldn't make out everything, but I remember his laugh, loud and ugly. And one word stuck with me, blood stains. He drew it out, almost singing it. We didn't come out for supper. We stayed locked in that room sharing a bed. Every time I thought I heard footsteps, I held my breath. At some point, heavy steps stopped outside our door. The knob rattled. he wouldn't find the key. After a few seconds, he made this long, disappointed noise, like a kid

who just dropped their ice cream cone, then walked away. I don't remember falling asleep, just waking up to the sound of my mom in the kitchen the next morning. I told her everything. She looked concerned and asked my great-aunt, who gave her the exact same bicycle man's story. We went to check the couch. The bed spread was messy, and there was another half-empty glass of water on the table. Mom called her friend at the sheriff's office. A few days later, he told her they'd picked up a guy on a bicycle trying to break into a nearby house. He had a knife, rope, and several biscuits. Apparently, he'd been responsible for multiple break-ins and had been staying at my aunts. I've tried finding his name in newspapers, but nothing came up. My great-aunt passed away a

couple of years later. I don't remember his face clearly, but I'll never forget the feeling he gave me, the worst night of my life. And it taught me something, there's always a reason to be afraid. The end.