Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Face in the Window and the Truck Behind Me A Life Marked by Close Calls PART1 #73

Episode Date: July 9, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #closecalls #nearfatal #urbanhorror #creepynight #survivorstories  This story shares the first part of a harrowing tale about a person whose life is shadowed by several terrifying close calls. The narrator describes unsettling encounters—a face watching from a window and a truck trailing behind—each incident fraught with tension and fear. It’s a vivid dive into how moments of danger can alter the course of a life forever.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, urbanhorror, nearfatalencounters, survivalstory, creepyencounters, scaryevents, closecalls, truehorrorstory, nighttimefear, stalkingexperience, suspensefultale, terrorinstreets, unsettlingmoments, realhorrorstories, thrillerstory

Moving from North Carolina to Michigan was like flipping a switch on our whole life. The warm, humid air we were used to was gone, replaced by the brutal slap of Midwest winters. It wasn't just the cold that took us by surprise, though, we were also jumping headfirst into new schools, new friends, and new routines. Honestly, it felt like we had been dropped into a different world, and none of us were really ready for the shift. When we first got to Michigan, my parents bought a one-story house. Originally, it only had two bedrooms, but since there were three of us girls, mom and dad remodeled and added another room. Even with that third room, though, we didn't always use it. My sisters and I were thick as thieves back then, super close, so we usually ended up piled into one room anyway, talking, laughing, and roughhousing late into the night.

Our neighborhood seemed perfect too. There were tons of kids around our age, and we spent a lot of our free time outside playing games, riding bikes, and just being kids. For a while, life was sweet. I was only five when we moved, so my memories of those early days are a little fuzzy. But I do remember feeling safe, loved, and happy. That was true for the first two years at least. But then something happened that completely shableness. our sense of safety. It started on a night like any other. We were all huddled together

in my older sister's room, watching an episode of Ghost Hunters. At some point, I got up to use the bathroom. On my way back, something made me pause near the window. I don't know what it was, maybe a feeling like someone was watching us. Whatever it was, I looked out, and froze. There was a face, just staring at me. A man's face. No emotion, no smile, just these cold, dead eyes locked on mine. It was like my entire body turned to stone. I couldn't breathe.

Couldn't scream. It was like being in a nightmare where you're paralyzed, just watching something terrible unfold. Eventually, I found the strength to whisper, there's someone at the window. Of course, my self. sisters didn't believe me at first. They thought I was joking. I kept staring, terrified that if I looked away, he'd vanish, and they'd never believe me. After enough begging, I finally convinced them to look. The second they did, they both screamed. My oldest sister bolted to get our

dad, while the middle one stood frozen next to me. Dad came running, our big black lab Susie right behind him. He didn't waste time, he went straight outside with the dog, and they managed to scare the guy off. Dad called the police, but they said since the man hadn't actually tried to break in or hurt us, there wasn't much they could do. That didn't sit right with anyone. We started asking neighbors if they'd seen anything or knew anything about the guy. Turns out, they did. Everyone said the same thing. There was a house down the street with a fence around it, and the family living there had an adult son who was mentally ill. He had a habit of wandering around at night,

peeking into windows, especially ones where young girls lived. One neighbor had even made a bat with nails in it and threatened to use it if the man came back. Yeah, it was that bad. My parents didn't mess around after that. They put locks on all the inside windows and bought thick, dark curtains to block out any views from the outside. For a while, it worked. We didn't see him again. We thought maybe he got the message. But then, a few weeks later, he came back. This time, it was worse. My oldest sister had just gotten out of the shower. She was still wrapped in a towel, getting ready to change, when she heard a noise at her window. Curious, she peeked out, and there he was. Just standing there, staring. She screamed and ran out. She screamed and ran out. out of the room. My dad, who always kept a baseball bat near his bed, sprang into action.

Susie was already on high alert. They went after him. The guy tried to run, but Susie caught up to him and bit into his ankle, bringing him down. Dad got to him right after that and held him down until the cops arrived. Meanwhile, Mom was already on the phone with 911. They arrested the guy, but the very next day, he was released because of his mental condition. My parents were furious. We couldn't understand how someone could be caught red-handed trespassing and still be let go. The neighborhood was done being passive. Everyone got together and formed a neighborhood watch.

We were sick of being scared, sick of feeling unsafe in our own homes. From that point on, the neighborhood watch made sure every home with kids was being looked after around the clock. One thing that helped us sleep a little easier was knowing that Dad, a former Marine with PTSD, barely slept at night anyway. His insomnia made him the perfect unofficial watchman. He patrolled the yard constantly, making sure nothing and no one could get close without him knowing. That became part of our routine. Dad watched over the house. We kept the windows covered.

Susie slept near the door. We were always alert. But then, less than two weeks later, it happened again. It was a school night, and my middle sister and I had gone to bed early. My parents were hanging out in the living room with a friend. Everything felt normal, until we heard noises at the window. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But the sound of someone trying to pry the window open was unmistakable.

I froze. My sister, being braver, leapt out of bed and ran to tell the adults. I couldn't move. I stayed under the covers, praying he wouldn't get in. The grown-ups rushed in. My mom held me while Dad and our friend inspected the window. They found footprints in the snow, leading right up to the glass. Handprints smudged the pain.

Dad was fuming. He told Mom to call the police, and then stormed down the street to the guy's house. He confronted his parents directly, told them what their son had. had done, and warned them that this time he was pressing charges. And he did. After that night, we never saw the man again. Maybe the charges stuck. Maybe his parents finally did something. We don't know. But he never came back. Still, the fear stayed with us. Even now, years later, we all triple check that our windows are locked. We never leave them uncovered. Doors are double-bolted. That kind of fear doesn't just fade.

And that wasn't even the last time something scary happened to me. Flash forward a few years. By 2019, I was in college in Grand Rapids. I was 19, almost 20, and had the kind of look that human traffickers in that area seemed to target, young, fair-skinned, brown hair, blue eyes. The city is unfortunately known for being a hotspot for trafficking, which was always in the back of my mom. mind. On February 26, 2019, I had just finished my classes for the day. I walked to my car, transferred some money onto my student card so I could leave the parking garage and headed out. Normally I'd just drive home, which was about 25 minutes outside the city, but that day I had

made plans to stop by and help one of my favorite former teachers. And thank God I did. As I was driving, I noticed a white pickup truck behind me. I didn't think anything of it at first. But after I passed my exit and headed toward my old school, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The truck was still behind me. To be continued.