Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Black Stag A Camcorder Confession That Unleashed a Nightmare No One Can Escape PART1 #17

Episode Date: September 20, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #blackstaglegend #foundfootagehorror #unexplainedterror #nightmarishcreature #camcorderconfession  In Part 1 of this chilling saga, a discarded camcorder reveals a terrifying confession that was never meant to be seen. What begins as a simple story of curiosity quickly descends into a nightmare involving an ancient creature known only as The Black Stag. The footage captures the first eerie signs that something unexplainable is watching—and once seen, it cannot be unseen.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  blackstag, camcorderconfession, foundfootagehorror, hauntedwoods, mysteriouscreature,  urbanlegend, supernaturalhunt, terrorunleashed, eerieencounter, unescapablenightmare,  videotapehorror, cursedrecording, chillingtruth, fearintheforest, darkpresence

Kiwi Carver skated down the cracked sidewalk, her wheels making soft clattering sounds on the uneven concrete. The slope was gentle, the drizzle barely noticeable, and the flickering street lamps above her sputtered out weak warnings to a world that didn't care. No cars passed. No voices called. It was just her, her skateboard, and the hum of late-night emptiness. She didn't flinch when she passed through the empty intersection. The traffic light blinked yellow in its useless rhythm, like it was trying to keep up appearances despite being utterly irrelevant. She tilted her head up, just long enough to toss her long dreadlocks back beneath the hood of her oversized jacket, shielding them from the damp.

Kiwi hated when they got wet, took forever to dry, smelled weird afterward, and just felt, gross. And tonight, the last thing she needed was one more discomfort. This far down the cul-de-sac, she hadn't been before. Ever. She'd always avoided this stretch, partly because the houses down here were collapsing into the earth, and partly because it just had a, vibe. The kind that made the hairs on your arms stand up and whisper, not worth it. But here she was anyway. Because life didn't always offer choices, sometimes it just shoved you forward, headfirst

into whatever darkness was waiting. Her old man had stumbled in the night before reeking of dollar store whiskey, poker losses written all over his sagging face. His paycheck. Gone. Blown again in one night like it always was. That meant no food in the house, no lights by the end of the week, and no clean clothes for her or her little brother unless she found a way to hustle something, fast. She hadn't wanted this to become routine. But it had. What started off as a one-time fix had become part of her life. Stealing, not for kicks or thrills, but out of necessity. At first, it was small stuff. Open garages with footballs, tools, or camping gear lying around. Backyards with unattended lawnmowers or portable grills. Stuff people wouldn't miss right away.

No breaking in. No hurting anyone. Just opportunistic scavenging. Kiwi drew lines for herself and stuck to them. No cars, too risky. No houses with dogs, didn't matter if it was a Chihuahua or a Rottweiler, barking was a dead giveaway. And definitely nothing that looked like it might actually matter to someone. She didn't need cops sniffing around because she grabbed something traceable or sentimental.

But the neighborhood had dried up. She'd worked her own street and the two next to it so well that they were basically barren now. Everyone had locked up tight, or the stuff worth taking was already gone. So she pushed out farther, one block at a time, on her board with her hoodie pulled tight, always looking like just another tired teenager coming home too late. The deeper she went, the more daring she got. Garden sheds, pool houses, even a basement walk in one day.

time. Never caught. Almost caught twice, but she had good instincts, and she was fast. Now, she was down to the last cul-de-sac. A rotten, weedy, haunted-looking string of structures barely clinging to the idea of being homes. Windows boarded up, grass taller than the mailboxes, roofs sagging like tired shoulders. Most of the people still living here were squatters, or folks even more down on their luck than she was. The only reason she even bothered coming back was because on her last trip she'd scored a decent set of leather boots and a working stereo that still had some base left in it.

But tonight, she had to dig deeper. She slowed to a stop as she reached the final house. This one looked even worse than the rest. The porch had caved in completely, its jagged skeleton jutting out at weird angles like broken ribs. The front door was sealed up with one. warped wooden planks, rust bleeding from the ancient hinges. The driveway was a mess of weeds and cracked pavement, nature slowly devouring it from below. Kiwi let out a low curse under her

breath. Total waste of time, she muttered. Still, she was here now. Might as well see it through. She tucked her board under one arm and flipped open the blade she always carried. Not for threatening, just protection. She wasn't about hurting. anyone. She was a scavenger, not a predator. The lawn was soggy under her boots as she walked around the side of the house. She kept her eyes peeled for any signs of life, flickers of light, rustling curtains, movement through a broken blind. Nothing. All dead quiet. The back door groaned in protest as she pushed it. With a little force, the swollen wood gave way, and she stepped inside, setting her board against the wall and flicking on her penlight.

The tiny beam cut through the gloom, aimed low so she didn't trip over any junk. The air smelled like mildew and forgotten years, wet wood, decaying paper, and something that made her think of rats. The kitchen was a mess. Cabinet doors hung open like yawning mouths, appliances smashed or stolen. The sink was rusted out, a twisted fork still sitting in the drain like some of the room. long-abandoned Sentinel. Kiwi moved cautiously, her boots crunching on scattered bits of plaster and glass. The living room was worse. A moldy, sagging couch slumped near the wall, and beside it stood the skeletal remains of what might have once been a recliner. She nudged a lamp with her toe. It tipped, then fell, shattering into dust. She crept through the hall,

opening doors slowly, wary of hidden piles of junk that might collapse on her. Every sound seemed too loud, her breathing, her footsteps, the squeak of a floorboard. When she found the basement door, she didn't even consider going down. The air pouring up from below was cold and wrong, heavy with something she didn't have a name for. The stairs were caked in cobwebs and darkness. Hard pass. The staircase to the second floor didn't look much safer. The bottom steps were completely gone, and she spotted a shrivelled mouse.

corpse on the fifth one up. Yeah. Also not happening. The last room on the main floor was the den. Compared to the rest of the house, it was practically luxurious. A desk. Two chairs. A full bookshelf against the far wall, crammed with hard covers that hadn't rotted to mush. Jackpot, maybe. She figured she'd checked the desk drawers first, people loved hiding weird valuables in desks, then maybe look through the books. If nothing was stashed between the pages, some of the books themselves might still be worth something at the pawn shop. But then she saw it. Her light caught something that shouldn't have been there. Something that made her heart slammed to a stop in her chest. On the chair behind the desk, resting right in the center like it belonged there,

was a camcorder. Brand new. Christine. Not a speck of dust. Not a scratch. The kind you'd see in a tech store window, not a crumbling corpse of a house. Kiwi froze. She didn't breathe. 10 seconds. 20. She counted each heartbeat in her ears. This made no sense.

Who the hell brought a $1,000 camera into this place? And why would they just leave it? Had someone been filming something in the area? illegal. Something creepy. Ghost hunters. Drug dealers. Psychopurves. Or worse, were they still here? Her fingers tightened around her knife. She backed up three slow steps, moved behind the door, and shut off her light. Darkness swallowed her. She stayed there, silent, counting. One to a hundred. Then one to two hundred. Every creek of that, house, every groan of wind outside had her straining to listen, every muscle wound tight.

Nothing. At last, she turned her light back on and moved slowly to the desk. Her hand shook slightly as she set the knife down. Then, placing the light between her teeth, she reached out and picked up the cancorder like it might explode. She sat. Opened the screen. The battery was still charged, about two-thirds full.

She swallowed hard, glancing around again. Empty. Her gut screamed at her to run. Just grab it and go. But curiosity nodded her. She needed to know what was on this thing. Where it came from? Why it was there?

What kind of person brought a high-end recording device into a rotting house and didn't take it with them? She clicked through the files. One video. Just one. It was time. timestamped only five days ago. Her blood ran cold. Five days. Not five years. Not five months. Someone had been here. Recently. And they'd left behind a perfectly functional camera like it was trash. Her thumb hovered over the play button. She stared at it. Then pressed. The screen flickered

to life, shaky footage showing the same den she was sitting in, same desk. same bookshelf. The camera had clearly been set up on the desk, recording straight ahead. And then, a voice. Soft. Raspi. I hope whoever finds this knows. I didn't mean for it to happen. Kiwi's heart hammered. The camera view shifted, whoever was behind it moved out of frame for a moment, then came back, dragging something. A body-shaped something wrapped in a tarp. The voice came again, quieter. I didn't know they'd come back. The footage cut suddenly, static, then black. Kiwi slammed the screen shut, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her throat was dry. Her hands were cold. Whatever this was, whatever she had just stumbled into, was bigger than stealing an old

radio or a set of boots. She stood, shoving the camera into her backpack. She didn't want to be there anymore. Not even for another second. As she walked quickly to the back door, she heard it. A soft click. Somewhere upstairs. Kiwi didn't look back. She ran. Skateboard in hand. Knife gripped tight. And behind her, the house watched. Waiting. To be continued.