Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Crimson Protector’s Misadventure Dangling on a Broken Lift Above the City #80

Episode Date: July 19, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #CrimsonProtector #UrbanHorror #LiftFromHell #SuperheroGoneWrong #HighRiseNightmare  He was supposed to be a symbol of justice, fearlessly guarding the city. But one mission went terribly wrong. Trapped in a broken lift hundreds of feet above ground, the Crimson Protector finds himself not in a battle with criminals—but with something far worse. A twisted tale of fear, failure, and what happens when the hero becomes the victim.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, CrimsonProtector, brokenlift, urbanterror, stuckabovecity, nightgonewrong, superherohorror, psychologicalfear, verticalnightmare, trappedinair, rooftophorror, cityparanoia, hauntedhighrise, vigilantefear, horrorwithacape

The rain had finally stopped, but the city still glistened like someone had smeared Vaseline all over it. From the edge of the monarch building's roof, it looked like the whole place had been dipped in neon and tossed into a blender. The crimson protector stood tall at the ledge, his red leather suit clinging to him like a second, very dramatic skin. The horns on his mask twitched slightly in the wind, which he pretended was just the universe giving him a wind machine moment. Another night, another ridiculous chase, he grumbled under his breath. Crime never sleeps, and apparently, neither do emotionally damaged vigilantes with a flare for leather and sarcasm. His target tonight. A tech genius turned financial bandit who was skimming retirement accounts and funneling the money into fake charities, fronts for arms deals, most likely.

The police? Totally outmatched. Every trace of evidence evaporated like. a magician's trick. But the Crimson Protector didn't need subpoenas. He needed a good reason to punch someone in the face. And maybe therapy, but he'd get to that later. 20 floors below, a shadow moved where no shadow should have been. Bingo! The guy was in the next building over, skulking around like a rookie. Seriously? Nighttime crime in the financial district. Could you be any more cliche. No more waiting. He leapt. And man, that leap was majestic. Wind roared past his ears,

city light streaking by like laser beams. His target, the maintenance lift hanging from the next building side. Because what screams justice more than a superhero landing on janitorial equipment? Perfect trajectory. He landed like a pro. Not so perfect. The mechanical brain is a on the lift. It gave out with a groan that sounded suspiciously like it was laughing at him. A cable snapped, and now the platform hung at a stomach-turning angle, swaying gently 70 floors up. Wellp, this is how it ends. Not in a blaze of glory, but dangling like a weird Christmas ornament, he muttered. He grabbed the railing, his boots slipping slightly on the slick metal. Should have called myself the slightly imbalanced Avenger. He reached for his grappling hook.

Empty. Great. Must have dropped it mid-stunt. Time for plan B. He tapped his earpiece. Dispatch, this is crimson. We got a situation. Nothing but static. Because of course his super expensive communication system couldn't survive one bad fall. I see. Swear, if I survive this, I'm buying a burner phone and duct-taping it to my leg. No crowd below yet, thank whatever God watches over crime-fighting idiots. He didn't need a bunch of rubberneckers posting videos of him on TikTok. No grappling hook. No comms.

No phone. Just leather, attitude, and bad luck. He sighed, pulled a small notebook and pen from a secret pocket, because yes, he had spent. for office supplies but not a phone, and started writing. Day 1, Window Lift Prison. It's been about two hours since I became a literal cautionary tale. Nobody knows I'm up here. This building has mirrored windows.

Great for sneak attacks. Terrible for screaming for help. I'm thinking maybe leather isn't the best crime-fighting material. It squeaks when you move. It sticks when it rains. And right now, every time I shift, it feels like my thighs are trying to file for divorce. Fun fact, being a vigilante isn't all high-flying action. Sometimes, it's just you, your regrets, and a rickety platform dangling above traffic.

I feel like a cat that climbed too far up a tree. Except cats don't usually have to worry about becoming memes. If the liquidator saw me now. Oh, he'd love this. He'd be somewhere in his evil lair, sipping wine, petting an evil cat, and laughing at my expense. By sunrise, the platform had shifted again. Now it tilted in a way that made his stomach do gymnastics. Morning like made things visible.

Very visible. Bad news, visibility worked both ways. Day two, public spectacle, people saw me. Took photos. I'm trending online. Hashtags include hashtag dangling devil and hashtag crimson calamity. The internet is undefeated. A guy named Miguel, Window Washer, spotted me around 8 a.m.

Couldn't stop laughing. Eventually offered me half a sandwich. I accepted because hunger a pride. He promised not to tell anyone. Then I heard him say, this'll go viral, into his phone. So much for secrecy. The rescue crews apparently devising a plan. Translation, they're figuring out the funniest way to get me down.

I can practically hear them laughing down there. Still no phone. Still stuck. At least I have a pen. I might die up here, but at least my final words will be grammatically correct. Afternoon brought more helicopters. Not rescue. News

as in full-blown news at 11 stuff he looked up shielding his eyes from the sun day two afternoon peak humiliation the mayor said rescuing me is a top priority same guy who called me a menace in a Halloween costume last month amazing how quickly opinions shift when there's cameras involved Miguel came back with another sandwich and a water bottle his daughter wants an autograph I signed his hard hat. He asked why I always carry a pen but not a phone. Told him it was for dramatic effect. Truth is, I spent the phone budget on customizing the horns on my mask.

Priorities, right? As the sun began to set, the sound of a real rescue chopper grew closer. The real deal. Finally. Crimson tucked his notebook away like it was some kind of sacred scroll. Because honestly, after this ordeal, it kind of was. He didn't say anything as they lowered the harness. Just nodded solemnly, let them hoist him up, and avoided eye contact with the dozens of people filming from the rooftops.

Epilogue, three weeks later, back on the Monarch building. Same ledge. Same city. But different gear. The new suit. Less leather. More utility pockets. Backup phone. Check. Grappling hook. Check. Zippers. Everywhere. Because apparently zippers are the unsung heroes of costume design. And the notebook. Still there. Waterproof pocket this time. Those pages. A reminder that even heroes eat humble pie now and then. Especially when served from 70 floors up. He spotted.

something in an alley. Movement. Sketchy. Possibly crime why. Round two, he whispered. And he jumped. But like, with slightly more caution. No need to go viral again. The end.