Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrifying True Stories of Stalkers, Strangers, and Kidnapping Attempts That Still Haunt PART5 #49

Episode Date: September 24, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #realencounterstories #kidnappingattempts #stalkersinreallife #truestoryhorror #escapedtheworst  "Terrifying True Stories of Stalkers, Strangers, and Kidnapping Attempts That Still Haunt – PART 5" reveals even more spine-chilling true encounters that blur the line between paranoia and reality. In this chapter, people recount being hunted by strangers, followed by vehicles, or targeted by someone pretending to be harmless. Each story is a reminder that horror doesn’t just happen in the movies—it hides in grocery store parking lots, quiet neighborhoods, and lonely highways. Survival came down to instinct, luck... and timing.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, realstalkingcases, kidnappedandescaped, truestorysuspense, realworldterror, strangerthreattales, neighborhoodnightmares, escapedpredators, stalkersamongus, truestalkernightmares, horrifyingencounters, chasedbyevil, survivorconfessions, fearinreallife, realnightterrors

I don't even know how to put this into words without sounding like I'm making it up, but here goes. This whole thing started with something so simple, so small, but it spiraled into this dark pit of guilt and nightmares that stayed with me for decades. Even now, as I'm writing this, I can still hear that sound, those faint, desperate screams that I brushed off when I was a teenager. I didn't know back then how deeply I'd come to regret it. It's funny how we never think about these moments when they're happening.

You know, those times when you choose to ignore something because you don't want to get involved. You just tell yourself, someone else will handle it, or it's none of my business. That's what I told myself. But now, I know better. Life in the woods. Growing up, I lived in this heavily wooded area that most people would probably describe as peaceful, maybe even picturesque. But when you live somewhere long enough, the mystery wears off, and the trees just become, trees. They weren't magical or calming, they were just there, surrounding our house like a wall.

And deep in those trees, just beyond our backyard, was this old house. That house has been seared into my memory forever. It wasn't one of those creepy, Gothic mansions you see in horror movies, but it had its own quiet eerieness. It was a single-story place, simple but charming in an old-fashioned way. The front porch was wide, stretching across, most of the house, and there was this little overhang where I imagine someone used to park their car before the garage was converted into storage or whatever. When I was a kid, that house wasn't abandoned. It belonged to a man named Mr. Fisher. Mr. Fisher. Mr. Fisher was, well, different. He was a Vietnam vet, and it showed. He had this weathered, sunken face that told a thousand

untold stories, the kind of face that had seen more than its fair share of pain. He was partially blind in one eye, sometimes wearing glasses, other times an eye patch that gave him this almost pirate-like appearance. We didn't see him much. He kept to himself. No parties, no visitors, no family stopping by. My parents would occasionally exchange a wave or a quick hello if they saw him checking his mailbox, but that was about it. To me, as a kid, he was just the guy in the woods. Someone you knew existed but didn't really know. The night everything changed. Fast forward to about 20 years ago. I was in high school, home alone on a rainy day, playing my Nintendo and probably being as bitter and dramatic as only a grounded teenager can be. I can't even

remember what I did to get grounded, something stupid, I'm sure, but I do remember sitting in my room, sulking, mashing buttons, and pretending the world outside my game didn't exist. And then, I heard it. At first, it didn't register. A faint noise coming from behind the house. I paused the game and cracked open my window. Rain was pouring hard, but there it was again, a scream. It wasn't constant. It came in waves. Screaming. Pausing. Screaming again. It was coming from Mr. Fisher's house. Curiosity over concern. Here's the part where I hate myself, I didn't react. Not really. God, just typing that makes me sick. After a few minutes, I got bored, bored, and shut the window. I went right back to my game, as if nothing was happening.

The second night. That night, when my parents came home, I didn't even mention it. Not a word. And then, lying in bed, I heard it again. This time, it was worse, ragged, labored, desperate. The kind of scream that drills into your bones if you really listen. But I didn't really listen. Not the way I should have. Instead, I rolled over in bed, annoyed, wishing whoever it was would just shut up. didn't tell my parents. I didn't do anything. A week later, it wasn't until about a week later that Mr. Fisher even crossed my mind again. I was outside with my dad, throwing a football, when the mailman pulled up. He asked us if we'd seen Mr. Fisher lately because he hadn't been picking up his mail. My dad said he hadn't seen his car for a few days. I stayed silent.

The mailman and my dad walked down the driveway to knock on his door. And then everything happened so fast, sirens, flashing lights, police cars, an ambulance, a fire engine. I climbed up a tree like some nosy kid, watching the scene unfold at Mr. Fisher's house, my stomach twisting. What they found. My dad had found the front door unlocked. Mr. Fisher was at the bottom of the basement stairs, crumpled like a ragdoll. He had fallen and broken both of his legs.

But that wasn't what killed him. It was the rats. Even now, I can barely stomach those words. According to what my dad eventually told me, the coroner said Mr. Fisher had been alive, alive, while the rats devoured him. They found defensive wounds all over his hands, proof that he'd been swatting them away as they tore into him. There were dead rats scattered nearby,

but there were too many of them for him to fight off. The worst damage was to his face. There was almost nothing left. And the coroner believed he'd been alive for most of it. The guilt, when I heard that, I felt like someone had stabbed me right in the gut. Those screams I ignored. Those were his last desperate cries for help. And I did nothing.

I wanted to tell my parents. I wanted to confess that I'd heard him. But I couldn't. I felt like a criminal, like I was somehow complicit in his death. For weeks, I couldn't shake it. I'd look over my shoulder constantly, convinced the police were going to come for me. Not that I'd committed a crime, but it felt like I had. I was haunted, by his screams, by my inaction, by the image of what his final moments must have been like.

Coping badly, I didn't deal with it in healthy ways. I started drinking. Experimenting with drugs. Doing whatever I could to numb the guilt. It's a miracle I graduated high school without crows. crashing a car or overdosing. But nothing really worked. The guilt stayed. The return. Fast forward a few years. I was about 20. My friends and I, three other idiots as reckless as me, decided to go back to the house. By now, it had been repossessed by the bank and sat condemned.

To us, it was just another spot to drink and smoke. We sat on the front porch, passing around a bottle of bourbon, talking crap, lying about girls we'd been with, stupid, meaningless banter to fill the silence. At one point, I got up to take a leak around the back of the house. The face in the window, that's when I saw it. I crouched down near one of those small basement windows, low to the ground, covered in cobwebs, and glanced inside. At first, I saw nothing but crack cement and shadows. But then I felt it, this chilling sensation that someone was. watching me. And when I looked again, there it was, a face. An older, bearded face with one good eye, staring right at me. I froze. It wasn't just a glance, it felt like he was lifting himself

up, angling his head so he could peer out at me. Our eye contact lasted maybe ten seconds, maybe more. I can't even describe what I felt. It wasn't fear exactly. It was, not. It was, numbness. Like my brain just shut off. And then I turned and walked away, back to my friends, saying nothing except that I was going home. The nightmare. That night, I had the worst nightmare of my life. I was trapped in a pitch-black room, rats crawling over me, gnawing at my face as I screamed, helpless. I woke up shaking, drenched in sweat. The realization, it wasn't until years later, around age 30, that I finally made peace with what I'd seen. That face in the basement window. It wasn't a squatter. It wasn't my imagination. It was Mr. Fisher. His spirit. Still trapped,

still in pain, still staring at me with that same confusion and distress he must have felt in his final moments. And that's where I'll leave this, for now. But trust me, this isn't over. Coming to terms, sort of. It took me nearly a decade to even admit to myself what I'd seen that night at the basement window. For years, I kept telling myself it was a squatter. That's what made the most sense, right? Maybe some drifter found an abandoned house and made it his temporary home. That was easier to believe than the truth. But deep down, I knew that I, that I, that single, cloudy eye, it was the same one I remembered from Mr. Fisher. I could still see it in my head even if I tried not to.

And the way he looked at me. It wasn't just staring. It was pleading. That's what haunted me more than anything. It wasn't some terrifying, horror movie monster glare. It was pain. Confusion. Like he was silently asking me, why didn't you help me?

And that question stuck with me. It still does. does. My parents sell the house. When I was about 30, my parents decided to sell our family home. I ended up buying it from them because, despite all the bad memories, it was still home. And maybe, in some twisted way, I thought owning it would help me confront what had happened. Of course, that meant the abandoned house in the woods was now my problem too. It was still condemned, falling apart more every year. My dad used to mow the lawn around it every now and then just to keep the place from looking like a total jungle. But every time I'd

walk past it, that same heavy feeling would creep up my spine. The activity starts. It didn't take long for weird stuff to start happening. At first, it was small. I'd hear creaking coming from the woods late at night, like footsteps crunching through leaves. Sometimes, I'd swear I heard faint scratching, like claws on concrete, coming from that direction. Then it escalated. One night, I woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of someone pounding, pounding, on my back door. When I turned on the porch light, no one was there. Another time, I was in the garage working on my car, and I heard what sounded like muffled screaming in the distance. Just like when I was a teenager. And that's when I knew, he wasn't gone. Talking to the neighbors.

I started asking around. I didn't want to sound crazy, so I kept it casual, just asking if anyone had ever heard or seen anything weird coming from that old house. To my surprise, a few of the neighbors admitted they had. One older woman swore she'd seen a man standing on the porch late at night, just staring into the trees. Another said her dog refused to walk anywhere near the place. So it wasn't just me. The basement. Finally, one evening, I was a little.

I decided I had to see the inside for myself. It had been over a decade since I'd last been that close to it, but I couldn't shake the pull. I needed to go in. I grabbed a flashlight, took a deep breath, and made my way to the house. The front door was still unlocked. The smell hit me first, that musty, stale odor of a place long forgotten. Cobweb stretched across every corner, dust thick enough to coat my shoes as I walked. The inside was bare. No furniture. No signs of life. Just decay. And then, the basement door. It creaked when I opened it. Each step down felt heavier than the last. My flashlight beam danced over the cracked cement floor, the old support beams, the piles of debris. And then I saw it, a dark stain at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't need to guess what it was.

That's where they found him. The shadow, as I stood there, frozen, I felt it again. That sensation of being watched. I slowly turned, and there it was, a shadow in the corner. Not shaped like furniture, not some trick of the light. It was a man. I couldn't see his face, but I didn't need to. Mr. Fisher, I don't even know why I said it out loud. The shadow didn't move. And then, just like that, it was gone. Escalation. After that night, things really kicked up. I'd wake up to scratching sounds at my windows. My lights would flicker for no reason.

One time, I came home from work to find my back door wide open, no sign of forced entry, nothing missing. And the dreams came back. The same ones. Me, trapped in darkness. Rats crawling over me, a lot of me, biting, chewing, as I screamed and screamed. Sometimes, I'd wake up with phantom pains on my hands, like I'd been swatting at something

in my sleep. The breaking point, I couldn't take it anymore. I reached out to a paranormal investigator, yeah, I know how that sounds. But I didn't know what else to do. They came out, did their whole routine with cameras and EVP recorders. And they got something. On one of the recordings, right after one of them, asked, who are you? A low, raspy voice answered, help me. I don't care what anyone says.

I know that was him. Where I am now. That's where things stand today. I still live in that house. I still hear him sometimes, faint screams carried through the trees, just like when I was a teenager. And I don't know if I'll ever be free of him. But now, now I wonder if that's what I deserve. To be continued.