Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Camcorder, the Black Stag, and the Night Kiwi Learned Some Stories Hunt Back PART1 #67

Episode Date: July 8, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #blackstag #nightkiwi #foundfootage #supernaturalencounters #cursedobjects   Part 1 introduces a mysterious camcorder found deep in the wilderness, recording strange phenomena centered around a legendary Black Stag. The story follows Kiwi, an amateur investigator, who learns that some old stories are not just myths—they actively hunt those who seek them. As the night unfolds, reality blurs and danger closes in.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, blackstaglegend, nightkiwinightmare, cursedfootage, wildernesshorror, supernaturalcreatures, folkloreterror, darkwoods, paranormalinvestigation, foundfootagestory, hauntedwilderness, huntingstories, mysteriouscreatures, terrorinthedark, eerieencounters

Kiwi Carver rolled her skateboard along the rough concrete, the worn wheels clacking rhythmically over cracks and dips in the sidewalk. She barely noticed the flickering streetlights above or the misty drizzle beginning to coat the air. The streets were mostly empty, as usual. Not many people wandered around this side of town after dark, especially not when it was raining. But Kiwi wasn't most people. She didn't stop when she hit the intersection, even though the blinking yellow traffic light over head signaled caution. There was nobody driving around here at this hour anyway, and the light was more of a formality than anything else. She reached up to shove her long dreadlocks back under the hood of her

coat, trying to keep them dry. She hated when they got soaked. She'd never actually skated this far down the street before. This cul-de-sac was the end of the line, the spot she'd always avoided. It wasn't fear that had kept her away, more like a gut feeling. But gut feelings didn't fill your stomach, and her dad sure as hell wasn't going to. Once again, he'd stumbled home reeking of booze, pockets empty, paycheck vanished. Cards and cheap whiskey. That's where it all went. Every single week.

So here she was, headed for the last untouched strip of houses. She wasn't doing this for fun. She was doing this because her little brother needed to eat. Groceries didn't buy themselves. Her first few forays into scavenging, as she liked to call it, had been small. A hammer here, a football there, stuff from open garages while the owners were too distracted with Netflix and dinner to notice. Never from cars, too risky.

Never from houses with dogs. Barking dogs were attention magnets. Eventually, she'd hit every good spot within skating distance. The easy targets dried up fast. Still, she had a knack for it, a kind of sixth sense for what could be taken and what would get you busted. That knack had kept her out of trouble so far. She gradually started leaving later at night, pushing deeper into neighborhoods she'd never dared approach before. Unlocked sheds.

Forgotten pool houses. One time she'd even gotten into a walk-in basement, though that had felt sketchy as hell. Tonight, though, was different. This street, this decaying, crumbling dead end, was her last option. The houses were rotting. Windows boarded up. Yards overtaken with weeds. The few people who still lived here looked worse off than her family, which was saying something.

She'd already taken a couple lawn gnomes, a busted old sands. stereo, and, score of the week, a pair of nearly new leather boots someone had left out to dry. But she needed more. Rent was due in four days, and her brother needed more than just ramen and tap water. The rain was picking up. Keeley hopped off her board and picked it up, stepping cautiously onto the lawn of the last house on the street. The porch had collapsed in on itself like a dying lung, and the front door was boarded up so tightly it looked like it hadn't opened in years. Grass sprouted from cracks in the driveway like nature was reclaiming it. Total waste, she muttered. Still, she had come this far. Might as well check.

She gripped her skateboard in one hand and slipped her switchblade into the other. It wasn't for attacking people, just for defense. She'd never hurt anyone. That was her one rule. She crept around the side of the house, eyes scanning the windows for light. Nothing. She pressed on the back door. It groaned open with some pressure. Inside, the air hit her like a slap, musty, damp, reeking of mold and something, decaying. She leaned her board against the wall and switched on her penlight, keeping the beam low.

The kitchen was trashed. Coards hung open like broken jaws. Appliances gone. Looted long ago. The living room was worse. Just a sagging sofa and the frame of what used to be a recliner. She moved carefully, opening doors with slow, calculated movements, listening for anything out of the ordinary.

Then she saw the basement door. Nope. Immediate nope. Cold air wafted up from it like something had exhaled from below. Cobwebs everywhere. Keeley wasn't scared of much, but the basement looked like a direct portal to hell. The stairs to the second floor weren't better. Missing steps.

Dead mouse on one of them. So she turned to the last room on the main floor, the den. It was weirdly clean. Not pristine, but compared to the rest of the house, it was like a time capsule. A desk. Two chairs. A bookshelf packed with dusty old horse. hardcovers. She started with the desk. Maybe there were coins, watches, anything she could hawk.

But then she saw it. Her light landed on something sitting in one of the chairs. Her heart froze. A camcorder. Brand new. Not dusty. No scratches. Sitting there like someone had just left it. Her first instinct was to bolt. Someone had been here. Recently. You don't just leave a $700 camcorder in a wreck like this. What if they were still here? What if she was being watched? But the money she could get for that thing. Still, she wasn't stupid. She stepped back, shut off her penlight, and stood silently in the dark, back pressed to the wall. She counted to 100. Then 200. Nothing. Just the dripping of water from some of the water from some of the wall. She counted to 100. Then 200. Nothing. Just the dripping of water from some of the and the creaks of an old house. Light back on. She tiptoed forward, grabbed the camera like it was a bomb. Set her knife down. Penlight between her teeth. She sat in the chair and powered it on. Battery was two-thirds full. She checked the playback. There was no shaky home video. No wandering shots of creepy corners. Just a man. Middle-aged.

thin glasses sitting at the same desk she was at now daylight streaming in the window behind him he looked into the camera eyes full of exhaustion and something deeper resignation maybe he took a breath my name is dr anthony hudson he said voice low and steady i'm a neurosurgeon at johns hopkins hospital in baltimore i'm making this recording in case i disappear So someone knows why, Kiwi stared at the screen, blinking. This had just gone from weird to full-on insane. Dr. Hudson went on, said he was in his childhood home, said it had been abandoned for years, said he regretted coming back.

He explained he had never believed in ghosts. Spirits. The supernatural. But then he said something that made Kiwi's blood go cold. I've seen things. Heard them. Things that shouldn't exist. He talked about patience.

About strange neural anomalies. People who dreamed of the same shadowy figure. People who vanished. One woman said she woke up in a house she didn't recognize, covered in mud, three states away. Another tried to claw her own eyes out after a vision. I think the mind can be breached, he said. Not by people. By, something else, Kiwi's breath hitched.

He said he found records. Patterns. He said the more he dug, the more things went wrong. Phones stopped working. Friends disappeared. His lab partner turned up dead in his bathtub, even though he lived in a third-floor apartment. I'm not safe, he said. But maybe someone else will find this.

Maybe someone will believe me, the video ended. Kiwi sat in silence, the cancorder warm in her hands. She didn't know what was worse, that it could be a prank or that it might not be. She turned off the screen and peeked through the window. Still dark. Still alone. She slipped the cancorder into her backpack, grabbed her skateboard, and made her way back through the house, heart pounding with every step.

Out into the rain. On to the street. She didn't know what was waiting at home or what might follow her back there. But she knew one thing for sure. Some stories find you, even when you're not looking for them. And sometimes, they don't want to be forgotten. To be continued.