Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Black Stag A Camcorder Confession That Unleashed a Nightmare No One Can Escape PART2 #18

Episode Date: September 20, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales  #darkentity #staghorror #losttapes #paranormalinvestigation #unspeakablefear  In Part 2, the mystery deepens as the footage uncovers more than just a single confession. Whispers in the background become voices, and shadows start to take form. The group that found the camcorder realizes they’ve unearthed something ancient and malignant. The Black Stag is no longer just a myth—it’s stalking them, and their reality begins to blur with the cursed memories on the tape. Each revelation pushes them further into a terrifying spiral they can’t escape.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales,  blackstag, paranormalfootage, foundtapehorror, cursedvideo, mysteriousforest,  legendawakens, camcordernightmare, hauntedtruth, eldritchhorror, spectralstalker,  creatureinshadows, unholyrevelation, huntedbydarkness, realhorrorstory

Kiwi didn't want to rush home just yet. Not with that camcorder burning a hole in her backpack like it held a live bomb. Something about it, the way it was just sitting there, fully charged, like someone had just stepped away for a second, didn't sit right. She needed answers. Needed to understand what she was holding before she brought it anywhere near her brother. Or her life. So she crawled under the desk with the camera in hand, flicked off her penlight, and let the cancorders screen light up the little hollow of space around her.

Way too much light. Enough to draw attention through the dusty, grimy window panes if a cruiser just happened to roll down this forgotten street. Not likely, but still. She wasn't stupid. She moved the creaky old chair out of the way, folded herself up like a pretzel, and tucked in beneath the desk like a kid hiding during a game of hide-and-seek. The camera rested on her knees, the screen tilted up.

She nudged the volume up to just above a whisper and hit play. She expected shaky footage, maybe some night vision nonsense, kids playing ghost hunters through the ruins. But nope. Instead, the screen showed a perfectly still shot. A man, middle-aged, sitting exactly where she was now, right at this desk. Daylight pouring in beside him, soft and orange, probably late afternoon sun. His eyes locked straight on the camera like he knew. knew someone would be watching this later. Watching like she was now. He didn't speak right away.

Just sat there, silent, eyes twitching with some mix of exhaustion and fear, lips pressed into a line. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat. When he finally spoke, it was quiet but steady, like someone delivering their own obituary. My name is Dr. Anthony Hudson. I'm a neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Kiwi blinked. A doctor. I'm recording this in case I disappear, permanently. So someone, anyone, might know why I did what I did. Why I felt like I had to.

The guy looked around the room briefly, probably just like she had, and sighed. This is my childhood home. Or what's left of it? I didn't realize how far gone it was. If I had, I might not be bothered coming back. But I'm tired of running. And maybe the decay fits the story I'm about to tell. Kiwi leaned in a little closer.

I'm not a religious man. Never have been. I worship facts. I've always clung to what could be measured, tested, proven. But now, now I've seen things that science can't explain. Things I used to laugh at. Things that make me question everything I ever believed in. And I hate that.

He paused, took a shaky breath. His next words were slower. He looked like someone walking into traffic. It started when I was a kid, right here in this house. This was the first one built on the street. Just trees all around. My sister and I used to play outside all the time. But I had nightmares, awful ones.

Not the kind other kids have. Not falling or monsters under the bed. No. These were something else. He rubbed his hands together. They trembled slightly. Picture a centaur. Half man, half horse.

Got it? Now make it pitch black. Like it was dipped in tar. Add antlers, giant, gnarled ones, like a moose's rack but twisted. Sharp enough to gore a man. man in one blow. Its eyes, they were this dead, icy blue. Like, like something that's already been dead a long time, Kiwi felt the hairs on her neck rise. It didn't have a human face. More like, a deer's, but wrong. If deer were carnivores. Like it was built for tearing things

apart. But the worst part. Its hands. Its palms had mouths. Fanged mouths. Like it didn't need to lift anything to its face to eat, it could just grab and start feeding. He shuddered. Kiwi realized her mouth had gone dry. I called it the dear monster when I was little. Later, I started calling it the black stag. It showed up in my dreams at least once a week from the time I was six. It always came from the trees out back, always around sunset.

Always angry. It would stomp through the yard, howling and thursday. furious, then find someone, anyone, outside and dragged them away, back into the woods. And I'd hear. I'd hear things. Screaming. Tearing. Mutilation. He looked away, eyes shining now. Sometimes, it was people I recognized. Our mailman. Our babysitter. My grandparents, Kiwi, We swallowed hard. No doctor could explain it. The nightmares were too specific, too consistent.

By the time I was twelve, I told everyone they'd stopped. I lied. They never did. When I was fourteen, my sister went out back to climb a tree around sunset. She never came back. He looked down, holding something back. Then, that night, I dreamed of the stag taking her. I dreamed it raped her, tortured her, and devoured her, piece by piece.

She screamed my name. I'll never forget it, Kiwi's fingers curled tighter around the camcorder. Police said it was a kidnapping. No evidence. No clues. Just, gone. A year later, my parents divorced. We left this house behind.

But I never escaped that thing. He sighed again. In my adult life, I kept having the dreams. Always in this house. Always in my old room. I got good at pretending they didn't bother me. But they did. They made relationships impossible.

One girlfriend, Laura, stayed with me three years. Woke up too many times to me screaming, drenched in sweat. I never knew how to explain it in a way that didn't sound insane. She left, and I don't blame her. His voice cracked for the first time. If you're watching this, Laura. I never stopped loving you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you this before.

Kiwi wanted to look away, but couldn't. The first time I saw the stag while I was awake, I was 21. Florida Beach Party Bonfire, Friends, middle of the night. I'd stopped drinking hours earlier, I was the designated driver. One of the girls pointed up at the bluff above us. Something was watching us. Silhouetted by the moon.

Most people thought it was a big deer or a guy on horseback. He rubbed his temples. I couldn't breathe. Panic attack. Next day, nobody even remembered it clearly. But I knew. The screen jumped slightly, time skip. I saw it again at 25.

Leaving my girlfriend's apartment at dawn. Dreamed about it the night before. Then, there it was. Across the street. Holding something, a dog, I think. My girlfriend saw it too. Asked what it was. I pulled her inside, locked every door.

She went to get a camera, it was gone. More jumps. Quick flashes. At 40, it found me in a parker. garage. Midnight. Most of the lights were out. I was heading to my car, phone light guiding me. Then I saw them, those pale, dead eyes. It charged. I ran up the stairwell. It hit a car, smashed it, flipped it, totaled it, Kiwi's eyes widened. She'd heard of a crash like that, not too far from her neighborhood. There was one witness. Retired cop told investigators it looked

like a buffalo slammed the car. But no cameras worked. They said it was a hit and run. That night, I dreamed of him, being taken by the stag. The doctor leaned forward now, voice growing more desperate. I've spent years researching this creature. Nothing. Not in myth. Not in folklore. Not in folklore. Nothing matches. The only consistency is that I'm not the only one who can see it. Others do see it. But it follows me. It wants me. And I don't know why, he wiped his eyes. After the parking garage, I couldn't deny it anymore. I reached out to a woman, Deborah Berrish, said she was a spiritual medium. I didn't believe in that crap, but I was desperate. Kiwi found herself nodded. She would have done the same. She was kind. Professional. No crystal ball nonsense. Just, listened. Asked about my family. Religion. Ancestry. And she told me something I wish I never heard. He looked up again. She said the stag wasn't random. It was tied to a ritual. A demonic one. Something done by my great I'm

a man I barely knew. A Klansman. A monster in his own right, Kiwi felt a chill crawl across her skin. She said the stag was a being beyond her power. Told me to bless my house. Where a cross? Maybe keep it at bay. But she didn't think I'd ever truly escape it. He swallowed hard. His final words barely above a whisper. I broke down. I begged her to help me sleep again. Just one night. One night without the dreams. She couldn't promise anything. The screen dimmed.

And then, the video ended. Kiwi sat frozen, breath caught in her throat, knees numb under the weight of the camcorder. She was still under the desk, still hidden in the shadows of a decaying house, the same house where a terrified man had recorded a desperate message. Not a ghost story. Not a prank. A confession. A warning. She reached for her penlight and paused. A creak came from upstairs. Soft, deliberate. Something had moved. Kiwi killed the screen, stuffed the camera in her bag,

and slid out from under the desk in one fluid motion. Her knife was already in her hand. She didn't run, but she didn't sneak either. She moved like someone who had to get out. The back door yawned open behind her, and from somewhere inside the house, behind the creaking and the walls and the dreams. She swore she heard antlers scraping wood. To be continued.