Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Terrors in the Woods Cabin Intruders, Serial Killers, and the Keddie Resort Massacre PART1 #71

Episode Date: November 5, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #woodsHorrorstories #cabinterror #serialkillerstories #KeddieResortMassacre #truecrimestories  Part 1 explores terrifying real-life encounters in the woods, from cabin intrusions to serial killers and the infamous Keddie Resort Massacre. These chilling true stories reveal the dangers lurking in remote areas, where isolation intensifies fear, and the ordinary becomes horrifying. Readers are plunged into suspenseful, dark narratives that blend mystery, terror, and real-life horror.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truehorrorstories, cabinintruders, woodscreepystories, serialkillerencounters, KeddieResortMassacre, chillingencounters, creepyexperiences, terrifyingmoments, realhorrorstories, nightmarestories, spookytales, darkwoods, unsettlingstories, survivalstories

cabin in the pines. I'll start this story by saying something that's been on my mind for years. I'm not even sure it all really happened the way I remember. Honestly, maybe it was just in my head. The human brain is a messed up little machine. It can twist things, stretch moments, throw shadows where there aren't any, and make you believe in monsters that aren't there. But the thing is, sometimes those shadows stick around. They dig their claws into your memory. and no matter how many years pass, they still feel fresh. When I was a kid, I was the kind of boy who scared easy. My imagination was like a spark and dry grass, just the slightest hint of something spooky,

and I'd have an entire wildfire of fear inside me. My dad used to laugh at me when I freaked out about noises at night. He'd pat me on the back and say, Ghosts can't hurt you, son. People can. Fear the living. The dead are just stories. I held on to that for years.

I wanted to believe him. But there's a difference between repeating words and actually believing them at three in the morning when the woods outside sound alive. By the time I hit my late teens, life had taken a nasty turn. My dad, he killed himself. It wasn't something anyone saw coming, though maybe in hindsight there were signs. People always say that, right? That if you replay the conversations, the moods, the silences, you can stitch together the warnings you missed. But at the time, all I knew was one day he was alive, and the next day I had an inheritance

and a hole in my chest where my father used to be. Part of that inheritance included his car and a share in a cabin my parents had owned up in Oregon, near Mount Bachelor. Beautiful place, really, like something from a park. postcard, tall pine stretching into the sky, air so crisp it hurt your lungs, snow that made the whole forest look like it had been powdered with sugar. The cabin wasn't some rustic shack either, it was modern enough to have electricity, heating, and even a decent TV. My parents mostly rented it out, but when they weren't using it themselves, it was managed by some rental company.

After my dad died, my mom couldn't keep up with the payments, so she put the cabin up for sale. The paperwork was already in motion, the realtor lined up, the lawyers doing their thing. Basically, the place was in limbo for a few weeks, not yet sold, not being rented out, just, waiting. And me? I was falling apart. I'd quit my job because showing up every morning felt pointless. I couldn't stand being in the house where I'd grown up with every corner reminding me of Dad. I needed space.

I needed quiet. So, I packed up the car he'd left me, threw in my snowboarding gear, loaded a week's worth of food and booze, grabbed my dog, his name was midnight, by the way, a big black mutt with more energy than sense, and I headed north to the cabin. I didn't even bother telling the rental company. I had the keys. I had the alarm code. It was mine, at least for now. The first couple of days were, fine. More than fine, actually. They were peaceful. Exactly what I needed. I spent hours outside tossing sticks for midnight, watching him bound through snow that came up to his chest.

I hit the slopes with my board, carving lines in fresh powder. Evenings were lazy, music on the stereo, PlayStation hooked up to the TV, a bottle cracked open, sometimes a joint lit out on the balcony with the cold mountain air burning my cheeks. The cabin was two stories. Downstairs was cozy, a living room with a stone fireplace, a guest bedroom, and a small but functional kitchen. Upstairs was the master bedroom, another spare room, and the balcony that looked out over the trees.

I didn't bother with the unused bedrooms. I always kept their doors shut. Something about open doors leading into dark and used spaces creeps me out. I don't care how old you are. So yeah, life felt calm for a while. Like maybe I'd made the right call coming out there. Then the third day rolled around. That morning, snow was falling heavy, big flakes tumbling down,

the kind of storm where the whole world goes white. I didn't feel like driving anywhere, so I decided it'd be a stay-in day. Played with midnight, watched some movies, zoned out on video games. Simple. Relaxing. But around midday, I went outside with the dog and noticed something strange. Footprints They circled the cabin. Not mine, not midnights.

different tread, deeper than mine. Fresh, too, the snow was still falling, but these hadn't been filled in yet. Whoever had made them had been there maybe half an hour earlier, tops. The thing is, the nearest cabins were maybe a block away in either direction, and both of them were empty. I knew because I checked when I first arrived, curious if I had neighbors. After that, the next houses were over a mile away. So whose footprints were these? They led away from the cabin and into the woods, toward the thickest cluster of pines. The forest back there was dense, the kind of place you didn't just wander into unless you knew it well.

I stared after them for a while, my dog sniffing at the snow, before I shrugged it off. Maybe one of the cabins wasn't empty after all. Maybe someone was staying quiet, a shut-in like me. It wasn't impossible. I went back inside. That night, everything changed. I was in bed, drifting towards sleep with midnight curled beside me, when suddenly his ears perked. He lifted his head, stiff as a statue.

A second later, he leapt off the bed and bolted downstairs, nails clicking against the wooden steps. I froze. My heart thudded in my chest. Midnight wasn't the type to spook easily. He barked at squirrels, sure, but this was different. This was purposeful. I listened. Downstairs, I could hear him moving back and forth.

Not barking, not whining. Just, pacing. Almost like he was tracking something. Five minutes passed. like that. Then he came racing back up the stairs, straight into the bedroom. He did his little, I need to pee, dance by the door, spinning in circles, paused tapping the floor. Seriously. I muttered, groggy. But I couldn't deny him. So I threw on my boots, clipped on his leash, and we headed outside. Only he didn't pee. The moment we stepped out,

midnight yanked hard, trying to pull me toward the tree line. His head was low, nose working overtime, every muscle taut. He kept glancing at the forest, then back at the roof of the cabin, then at the walls, like he couldn't decide where the smell was strongest. I dug my heels in. Nope. Whatever's out there, not tonight. Finally, when he realized I wasn't letting him drag me into the woods, he just sat down and stared into the darkness. Completely silent. Not panting, not whining. Just watching.

That unsettled me more than the pulling hat. Midnight wasn't a silent dog. He always had some sound to make. I hauled him back inside. We went upstairs, I shut the door, and I told myself it was just an animal. A deer. maybe a fox

something small half an hour later lying in bed I heard it Thump Thump Thump On the roof At first I thought it could be pine cones falling

Or snow sliding off That happened But then I realized it was rhythmic steady, like footsteps. And not close together, quick steps. No, these were spaced apart. Heavy. Too far for a raccoon, too deliberate for a falling branch. It sounded like hooves.

But not the rapid clatter of a deer. These were slow, purposeful. As if something, or someone, was walking. in circles up there. My skin crawled. I held my breath, straining to listen. Midnight sat upright on the bed beside me, ears stiff, eyes glued to the ceiling. He didn't bark. He didn't growl. And that silence from him was scarier than any noise could have been. The steps continued. Around and around. Then, just as suddenly as they began, they stopped. and the silence that followed was heavier than the snow outside.

To be continued.