Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Legend of the Headless Woman Who Haunts the Park Demanding Money from Hikers PART3 #3

Episode Date: October 28, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #headlesswoman #hauntedpark #ghosthorror #urbanlegend #paranormalencounters  Part 3 concludes the terrifying legend of the headless woman who haunts the park. Witnesses recount the most frightening encounters, including near-misses and chilling apparitions. This final part emphasizes the enduring fear surrounding the legend, blending suspense, supernatural horror, and the unsettling idea that some places remain cursed and dangerous for those who dare to enter.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, headlesswoman, hauntedpark, ghostencounters, urbanlegend, supernaturalhorror, chillinglegend, paranormalactivity, eerieencounters, fearinthepark, creepyhiking, hauntedplaces, unexplainedphenomena, scaryfolklore, terrifyinglegend

The basement, the tapping, and the door. When I was younger, that side door in the basement was like a promise. A promise I made to myself. I used to stare at it during the long hours of late-night gaming or when I was lying on the couch with the TV humming low, and I'd think, one day, when I'm older, that door's going to be my escape route. Not escape in the tragic way, nothing like that. I just mean, escape into grown-up stuff.

You know, sneaking out, doing things my parents would never approve of. Parties. Drinking. Maybe even kissing a girl in the middle of the night under the streetlights. That kind of thing. That side door symbolized freedom to me back then. Freedom from parents who always seemed to watch me too closely. Freedom from school and bullies and the suffocating feeling of being trapped in a small town.

I begged my parents for years to let me move into the guest room down there. The room was empty, collecting dust, and I wanted so badly to make it mine. It wasn't about luxury, it was about privacy. I craved my own space like a starving kid craves food. But they kept saying no. You won't sleep down there, they told me. Too dark, too cold, you'll just end up back upstairs. Which was laughable, honestly, because I wasn't sleeping much upstairs anyway.

Insomnia had already sunk its claws into me, and most nights I was awake until dawn, either staring at the ceiling or glued to a controller. But parents don't listen to that kind of logic. Still, when I turned 13, something changed. Maybe they were tired of fighting me. Maybe they thought I'd grow out of my bad sleep habits if I had more independence. Whatever the reason, they caved. And for a while, it was awesome. Finally, I had privacy. My own spot, away from the constant supervision. No more tiptoeing around the

creaky upstairs hallway. I could stay up as late as I wanted, watch TV without headphones, blast my games until my eyes burned. For a teenager, that was freedom. But the honeymoon phase didn't last. The longer I stayed in that basement room, the more I realized there was something, off about it. It wasn't just dark, it was unsettling. Oppressive. The kind of dark that doesn't just fill a room but seems to swallow it whole. The guest room itself had one tiny window, but the TV room, the room I had to walk through to get to the bathroom or the stairs, had none.

Not a single one. So if I needed the bathroom at night, I had two choices, stumble blindly through the pitch black TV room, or used the thin sliver of moonlight that sometimes spilled through the back door window at the top of the stairs. I always chose the moonlight. But that little dash from my bedroom, through the black TV room, and toward the bathroom, it was always terrifying. Three seconds of sprinting that stretched into an eternity in my head,

My imagination never gave me a break. I'd picture something standing in the moonlit stairwell, its head tilted unnatally far back, its mouth hanging wide open. Sharp teeth, jagged and hungry, catching the light just enough to gleam. Or worse, something peering at me through the back door window. A pale face with hollow eyes staring down, waiting for me to look up. And here's the kicker, my bedroom door did. didn't even have a lock. So if something did come shambling down those stairs one night, what the hell was I supposed to do? Hide under the covers. Pray. There was no safety.

No, sanctuary. And that side door I used to dream about sneaking through? Yeah. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being a symbol of freedom. It became something else entirely. Because if I could sneak out through that door, then something else could just as easily sneak in. It dawned on me one night when I was playing late and the TV screen went black between levels. I saw my reflection in the glass, and behind it, the dark outline of the side door. I thought, what if someone is out there right now? What if they're watching me? What if they decide to slip inside while I'm distracted?

And just like that, the door that once promised rebellion and independence now symbolized something darker, robbery, invasion, danger. But as unsettling as those thoughts were, none of it compared to what really started stealing my sleep. The tapping It didn't happen every night. Some weeks, nothing at all. But every few days, usually when I was already restless, it would begin. It always started at the far end of the wall, near the closet under the stairs. A dull, controlled tap.

Seconds later, another tap would answer from the opposite wall. Then back again. Back and forth. Ping-ponging around the room. It wasn't rhythmic. Not random either. Systematic, but not something an animal could pull off. Then, after a few,

rounds, it would move to the ceiling, directly above my bed. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. After three or four cycles around the room, it would stop. The noise itself was creepy enough, but what really made it unbearable was the way the world around me reacted to it. Every other sound seemed to disappear whenever the tapping started.

The hum of the TV. of the TV. The faint buzz of electricity. Even the normal creaks of the house settling. It was like the entire room held its breath, waiting. And with each knock, my skin erupted in goosebumps. The air turned colder, heavy. Like something unseen was sucking all the warmth out of the space. Even when the tapping finally stopped, that feeling of dread clung to me. The silence afterward was suffocating. I tried telling my parents. It's probably just squirrels in the walls, they said.

Or mice. Or maybe even a bird that got trapped. But I insisted. It wasn't skittering or scratching like claws. It was deliberate, controlled, like knuckles wrapping on drywall. Eventually, they called an exterminator. He checked everything, walls, crawl spaces, even the attic.

No droppings, no nests, no evidence of pests at all. When nothing turned up, my complaints became routine. The tapping again, I'd tell them. And they'd roll their eyes, chalk it up to my imagination, or too much caffeine, or late-night video games. But I knew. I knew. And then, one night in mid-February, everything came to a head.

That day, I'd gone to bed earlier than usual, worn out and too tired to game. Outside, snow had fallen, blanketing everything in quiet. My tiny window framed the soft glow of moonlight reflecting off the drifts. But the unease in my chest that night was worse than usual. Heavier. Like something was sitting. on me, waiting. And then, tap. My body jolted upright instantly. I slammed my hand against the bedside lamp switch, flooding the room with weak yellow light. My ears were ringing even though

the room was silent. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs. I braced myself, waiting for the next sound. And it came. Not a tap. A slam. Something crashed against my door, rattling the frame violently. Once. Twice. Then again, harder. The wall shook with the force of the blows, like a heavyweight body was throwing itself against it. Not scratching. Not knocking. Full-on rage. I froze. My mind raced.

If it was a person, a burglar, some massive 300-pound guy, they would have been inside already. My door didn't lock. It wouldn't take much to bust it open. But whatever it was, it didn't come in. The pounding continued, relentless, like it wanted me to know it could. That it chose not to. And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The silence that followed was even worse. The birds outside started singing, way too early, far before dawn.

But their songs warped into something harsh, twisted, like a mocking soundtrack to my fear. I pressed my ear against the door as carefully as I could, barely breathing, straining to hear anything. Nothing. Minutes crawled by. My legs trembled. My hand hovered near the light switch. Finally, in a burst of desperation, I flung the door open and sprinted into the TV room,

slamming my hand against the overhead light switch. The room flooded with light. No one was there. No footprints in the dust by the door. No sign of forced entry. Just empty space. And yet, I knew something had been there. Something still was.

To be continued.