Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Legend of the Headless Woman Who Haunts the Park Demanding Money from Hikers PART4 #4

Episode Date: October 28, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #headlesswoman #hauntedpark #ghosthorror #urbanlegend #paranormalencounters  Part 4 deepens the terrifying legend of the headless woman haunting the park. Hikers and witnesses describe increasingly intense encounters, including terrifying demands and eerie manifestations. This part explores the ongoing fear and suspense surrounding the park, highlighting how some legends persist over time, continuing to frighten those who dare to wander too close.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, headlesswoman, hauntedpark, ghostencounters, urbanlegend, supernaturalhorror, chillinglegend, paranormalactivity, eerieencounters, fearinthepark, creepyhiking, hauntedplaces, unexplainedphenomena, scaryfolklore, terrifyinglegend

There's so much rugby on Sports Exter from Sky. They've asked me to read the whole lad at the same speed I usually use for the legal bit at the end. Here goes. This winter Sports Extra is jam-packed with rugby. For the first time we've got every Champions Cup match exclusively live, plus action from the URC, the Challenge Cup, and much more. Thus the URC and all the best European rugby all in the same place.

Get more exclusively live tournaments than ever before on Sports Extra. Jampact with rugby. Phew, that is a lot of rugby. Get Sports Extra on Sky for 15 euro a month for 12 months. Search Sports Extra. New Sports Extra customers only. Standard Pressing applies after 12 months for the terms apply. On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee.

A visit filled with festivity. Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with breathtaking views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness. Live entertainment, great memories and the gravity bar. My goodness, it's Christmas at the Guinness Storehouse. Book now at Guinness Storehouse.com. Get the facts. Be Drinkaware. Visit drinkaware.com.

I don't know if it was pure teenage recklessness, sleep deprivation, or just the way my brain was wired back then, but somehow I convinced myself that sprinting across a pitch-black basement in the middle of the night was a perfectly fine idea. Looking back, I can see how ridiculous it was. But at that age, my brain had a way of shrugging off potential danger with this, eh, it'll probably be fine attitude. You know how when you're a teenager, you're basically convinced you're indestructible. Yeah, that was me. So there I was, standing in the TV room with the lights finally flicked on, my heart pounding in my chest like I just outrun a serial killer. My eyes darted around every corner of the room, checking the back wall, the side door, the windows. Nothing. Just the pale glow of the snow falling outside and that eerie kind of silence that only seems to exist at three in the morning.

For a moment, I tried to convince myself that it was all in my head, that maybe I had dreamed the pounding on my door, the violent rattling, the sound of something enormous slamming against the frame. But my body told a different story. My pulse was still racing, my palms were sweaty, and my whole body felt like it was vibrating with leftover adrenaline. I peeked out the window, expecting to see footprints in the snow or, I don't know, some shadowy figure. darting away. But nope. Just the empty yard, the garage off in the corner, and a thin layer of fresh snow falling like nothing had ever happened. That almost made it worse. At least if I'd found tracks, I could have told myself, okay, yeah, someone was out there messing with me. But no evidence. No proof. That left me with nothing but the gnawing thought that something had been there, but it wasn't leaving signs the way a human would. And if it wasn't human, well,

then what the hell had it been? Eventually, too tired to keep watch but way too shaken to actually sleep, I dragged myself back to my room. I lay there staring at the ceiling, keeping my eyes open until the first gray light of dawn finally started seeping through that tiny basement window. The next morning, I walked the yard like a detective working a crime scene. I checked the snow around the side door, the back door, even the garage. Nothing. No bootprints, no animal tracks, not even the scuffle of a squirrel. It was as if the night had been completely ordinary. And maybe that should have comforted me, but it didn't.

The emptiness of it, the way reality erased every shred of what I'd experienced, left me feeling more disturbed than if I'd found claw marks carved into the wood. For the rest of the time I lived in that house, the tapping never returned. No more pounding on the door. No more mysterious noises bouncing around the walls like some unseen entity was circling me. But that night stuck with me. Even now, decades later, I can swear on my life I wasn't dreaming. I was awake. I was fully aware. Something happened. I just don't know what. Fast forward a few years. By 1982 I was 21, old enough to pretend I had life figured out but still clueless in a lot of ways. That was the year

I joined a rock band. For me, music wasn't just a hobby, it was a lifeline. I played guitar and sang lead vocals, while my brother Quinn handled the bass and our buddy Brad absolutely crushed it on the drums. We weren't trying to be soft or subtle. We were loud, like, blow the windows out loud. Hard rock was our thing, and we leaned into it with everything we had. The problem was finding a place where we could practice without driving every neighbor within a five-block radius insane.

By the summer of 87, I was 25, still living at my parents' house, and Brad's apartment lease was about to expire. That's when we hit on what we thought was the perfect solution, rent an entire house where we could set up our gear and play as loud as we wanted. The place we found was, well, let's just say it was cheap for a reason. The house must have been about 50 years old at the time. It's one major flaw. No air conditioning. And considering we were in Sacramento, where summers felt like stepping into an oven, that was kind of a big deal. But the location was perfect. It sat in this weird little pocket of the neighborhood, set back about a hundred feet from the nearest homes and surrounded by these massive eucalyptus trees. Most of the other houses nearby

were newer, like 25 years newer, but this one stuck out like the creepy older cousin at a family reunion. We didn't care. To us, it was heaven, isolated enough that we could crank up There's so much rugby on Sports Extra from Sky They've asked me to read the whole lad at the same speed I usually use for the legal bit at the end Here goes. This winter sports extra is jam-packed with rugby For the first time we've been every Champions Cup match exclusively live

Plus action from the URC, the Challenge Cup and much more Thus the URC and all the best European rugby all in the same place Get more exclusively live tournaments than ever before on Sports Extra Jampack with rugby Phew, that is a lot of rugby Get Sports Extra on Sky for 15 euro a month for 12 months Search Sports Extra New Sports Extra customers only

Standard Pressing applies after 12 months for the terms apply On the many days of Christmas, the Guinness Storehouse brings to thee. A visit filled with festivity. Experience a story of Ireland's most iconic beer in a stunning Christmas setting at the Guinness Storehouse. Enjoy seven floors of interactive exhibitions and finish your visit with breathtaking views of Dublin City from the home of Guinness. Live entertainment, great memories and the gravity bar. My goodness, it's Christmas at the Guinness Storehouse. Book now at Guinness Storehouse.com.

Get the facts. Be Drinkaware. Visit drinkaware. amps and blast away without anyone banging on the walls to shut us up. So Brad and I moved in, along with a friend named Steve. Now, this house, it had personality. And by personality, I mean it looked like an architect had designed it after three shots of tequila and a bad dream. The ceilings jutted out at these weird angles, like two slopes meeting at the wrong height, then splitting again in random directions.

The living room and kitchen felt like puzzles someone had started but never finished. The landlord had sealed all the windows shut, and for some reason, he put up these heavy curtains that couldn't be moved, which meant no sunlight in, no view out. It was like living inside a shoebox. The very first night I spent there, I heard scratching in the closet. Small, quick, almost like claws. I figured mice, because, what else would it be? The next day I bought traps, set them up, and waited.

But here's the weird part, we never caught anything. Not one mouse. Not even a nibble. Yet the scratching kept happening. Not every night, but enough that it started to feel like the house itself was alive. A couple of days later, I came home from work one afternoon and noticed Steve's car was a already in the driveway. I walked inside, calling out, hey, Steve, but got no response. I wandered through the living room, past the dining area, and into the hallway. That's when I

saw him. Steve was standing there in the middle of the hall, perfectly still, staring up at the attic door in the ceiling. It wasn't just casual staring, either. It was like he was transfixed, as if the square piece of wood up there was calling to him. Uh, dude? I asked. What are you doing? Without looking at me, without even flinching, he said, for some reason, I feel like I want to go up there. His voice was weirdly calm, almost detached, and it sent a chill down my spine. I tried to laugh it off.

Yeah, have fun with that, I said, brushing past him on my wrist. way to my room. But in the back of my mind, the image stuck, Steve, frozen in that hallway, staring at the attic like something was waiting for him up there. We got our band gear set up in the living room not long after that, amps, PA system, drum kit, the whole deal, and started practicing four or five days a week. And let me tell you, it was brutal. Mill A.C., middle of a Sacramento summer, heat baking us alive inside this old shoebox house. We'd be drenched in sweat by the end of one song, but we kept going. Here's the kicker, though, despite the insane heat, some of our friends who came to listen said they felt cold. Not just a little cool breeze either.

I'm talking cold air, coming from one specific corner of the room. And it wasn't just one person saying it. Multiple friends, at different times, all pointed it out independently. Man, it's freezing over here, one of them said, shivering even though the rest of us were melting. I brushed it off, too busy worrying about tightening our sound and keeping us in sync. But looking back now, yeah, it was weird. Even beyond the temperature thing, people often told us the house felt off. Creepy. Wrong somehow. And maybe I should have paid more attention, but at the time, I chalked it up to the house being old and ugly. One Friday night, it was just me and Steve at home. Brad was out on a date, so I had the living room mostly to myself. I'd been working on a new song,

and for whatever reason, the music came together fast. Normally it took me an hour or two to get a decent chord progression and riff, but that night it just poured out of me. Twenty minutes later, I had the entire music part down. Usually, I'd leave the lyrics for later, let the music sit with me a day or two, see what emotions it stirred up. But I was feeling so energized, so pumped, that I thought, screw it, let's try lyrics now. Steve was sitting on the other end of the room watching TV, but when I asked him to turn it down, he went one better, he switched it off entirely. He sat there quietly, listening as I started humming and scribbling words. Now here's the crazy part.

Steve, our goofy, never serious Steve, started throwing out lyric suggestions. And not his usual corny nonsense either. These were good. Perfect, even. Every line he suggested fit seamlessly. into what I was already writing. This had never happened before. I mean, I loved the guy, but his past, contributions were laughable at best.

Yet here we were, knocking out lyrics in record time, 15 minutes, tops. By the end, we had a full song. And Steve had contributed maybe a quarter of it. We titled it if I had a chance. Strange Nights, Stranger Song. songs. So, there I was, staring down at the scribbled lyrics on my notebook, my hand still shaking a little from the adrenaline of how quickly everything had poured out. Normally, it took me forever to finish lyrics. I'd overthink every line, rewrite a verse ten times, crumple

pages into little paper balls, and tossed them across the room. But that night, it was like the words were falling out of me faster than I could even process them. and the strangest part. Steve, goofy, awkward, never serious Steve, was actually, helpful. His suggestions weren't dumb this time. They weren't about dragons, or aliens, or fart jokes, yes, he had suggested all of those in the past. No, these lines actually worked.

They were dark, poetic, almost too perfect, like he had been waiting his whole life to drop them into that moment. I remember looking at him, halfway through writing the chorus, and asking, Dude, where the hell did that come from? He just shrugged. I don't know. It just, came into my head. Now, if this were a movie, this is the point where the soundtrack would change.

You'd hear the low ominous hum, something that lets you know things are about to get creepy. Because in hindsight, that moment should have been my first major red flag. But of course, I didn't notice it then. I was too excited, too wrapped up in how cool it felt to have the words and music line up so perfectly. We played through the song right there in the living room, just me on acoustic guitar and Steve keeping beat with his hands slapping against his thighs. And it sounded good, like really good. When we finished, Steve leaned back on the couch with this weird little smirk on his face and said, that wasn't all me, you know.

I think the house helped. I laughed. The house. Dude, what are you even talking about? He shrugged again, looking more serious this time. I don't know. I just, feel like it's alive somehow. Like it's pushing stuff into my head.

That was classic Steve, always leaning into the weird, the supernatural, the X-Files side of life. Normally, I would have rolled my eyes, maybe thrown a pillow at him. But for some reason, that night, I didn't. Something about the way he said it, the quietness in his voice, made me pause. I brushed it off, of course, but the thought stayed with me longer than I care to admit. The weeks rolled on, and the band started practicing that song regularly. If I had a chance, quickly became our strongest track, the one everybody who came over wanted us to play again and again.

People would sit there on the stained old couch in that boiling hot living room, sweating bullets in the Sacramento heat, and still demand we run through it three or four times in a row. Something about it grabbed them. But here's the weird thing, every time we played it, I got this nagging, almost sick feeling in my stomach. Not like stage fright, that was long gone by then, but like the song was pulling something out of me. Each chorus felt heavier, darker, like it wasn't even mine anymore. One night, after a long practice session, Brad mentioned something that made my blood run cold. Hey man, he said, chugging the last of his beer, you ever notice how when we play that new song, the temperature in here actually drops.

like, for real. I don't even sweat as bad. I hadn't noticed it in the moment, probably because I was too focused on not screwing up. But when he said it, I realized he was right. Every single time we played if I had a chance, that unbearable, suffocating heat seemed to ease off. Not disappear completely, but shift. Like the air itself was, different. cooler heavier i looked at steve who was grinning like an idiot and suddenly remembered what he had said

that first night the house helped a few nights later it got worse brad was out again this time with his girlfriend who he swore was the one spoiler she wasn't that left me and steve alone in the house i was in my room trying to crash early when I heard it, faint music coming from the living room. At first, I thought it was just Steve messing around, maybe strumming one of my guitars. But when I sat up and really listened, I froze. It was our song. Not just random chords, not just humming, but the full, complete melody of, if I had a chance.

The problem was, it wasn't Steve's voice singing. It wasn't my guitar either. It sounded warped, distant, like a recording being played on a broken tape deck. I got out of bed, heart hammering in my chest, and crept down the hallway. The living room light was off. Pitch black, except for the faint glow of the streetlight leaking through a gap in the curtains. And yet, the music kept playing. Steve, I whispered.

No answer. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. The closer I got to the living room, the clearer the sound became, my own lyrics, sung in a voice that wasn't mine, wasn't Steve's, wasn't anybody I recognized. It was low, raspy, almost whispering. And then, just as I reached the doorway, it stopped. Dead Silence I flipped on the light, expecting, praying, to see Steve. sitting there with my guitar, laughing at me for being paranoid.

But the room was empty. The guitar was in its case. The amp was unplugged. Steve's bedroom door was closed. I didn't sleep a single second that night. Over the next few weeks, things escalated. Scratching noises in the walls. Cold drafts that would come out of nowhere, even in the dead middle of summer.

The attic cover in the hallway shifting ever so slightly, like someone, or something, was pushing down on it from the other side. And the song. Always the song. Whenever we played it, people would act strange. One girl who came over to hangout started crying uncontrollably halfway through and had to leave. Another guy said he saw shadows moving across the wall even though no one was standing near the light source. And then there was Steve, my goofy, harmless, always joking buddy, who began to change. He got quieter, more intense. He'd sit in the corner of the living room, staring at the ceiling for hours.

He started keeping a notebook, scribbling furiously, and when I finally got a look at one of the pages, my stomach dropped. They were lyrics. Dozens of them. But not in Steve's handwriting. The letters were jagged, uneven, almost carved into the page. And the words, they didn't make sense. Phrases like, they wait above, and the song opens the way and, don't let him in unless he sings. When I confronted him about it, he just smiled and said, it's not me writing it.

It's the house. That was the breaking point for me. I told myself it was just Steve being Steve, made me. Steve, maybe taking too many late-night trips to whatever sketchy gas station sold cheap beer and off-brand weed. But deep down, I knew. Something was wrong with that house. Something was feeding on us, pushing through our music, using Steve as its mouthpiece. And the worst part, I couldn't stop playing the song. No matter how hard I tried, it was like my hands wouldn't let me forget the chords. To be continued.