Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Night Evil Followed Me Home and Changed My Life Forever in a Summer Encounter PART2 #12

Episode Date: September 29, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truehorrorstories #creepyencounters #nightmarefuel #paranormalexperiences #summereveninghorror  Part 2 of The Night Evil Followed Me Home continues the terrifying summer encounter that left a permanent mark. From unnerving shadows to frightening close calls, these true experiences showcase the fear of being watched and pursued by an unknown force. Each story intensifies suspense and horror, leaving readers on edge as the nightmare unfolds.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truehorrorstories, creepyencounters, nightmarefuel, paranormalexperiences, summereveninghorror, scaryencounters, chillingtales, unsettlingmoments, realnightmares, disturbingstories, stalkerstories, survivalstories, mysteriousoccurrences, truestoryhorror

The door that wouldn't stay shut, the first time the sliding glass door opened, my sister told herself it had to be her fault. Sure, it was massive, the kind of heavy, thick pain thing that took a bit of muscle to move, but her brain still latched onto the most harmless explanation it could find. Maybe she'd left it unlocked when she let the dogs out earlier. Maybe the beeping she thought she'd heard from the house alarm had just been something on the TV, or the treadmill's weird startup chime. She closed it, locked it, and stood there a moment longer than she needed to, palm flat against

the cool glass, trying to convince herself she wasn't just standing in front of a huge invitation for someone outside to see her. The dogs didn't seem alarmed, and that was enough to settle her nerves for now. Samson, the gentle old golden retriever, had barely lifted his head from his nap. Sadie, the, Psycho Husky, hadn't gone into one of her Stranger-Danger barking fits. If someone had come in, Sadie would have gone off like a siren, she hated strangers, couldn't tolerate even the mailman. So my sister hit play on her workout playlist again, climbed back onto the treadmill, and started jogging. But a few minutes later, she got that feeling. You know the one, the invisible prickling along your skin, like someone's eyes are crawling over you from somewhere you can't pinpoint.

She slowed to a walk, scanning the workout room. Nothing. The basement was quiet except for the dull hum of the TV in the corner. Outside the giant glass door, the patio was just a black rectangle surrounded by the vague shapes of trees. No movement, no sound. She told herself she was imagining things and powered through the rest of her run, though every glance at the glass brought that prickling sensation back. When she was done, she headed upstairs, ready to just shower, crash, and put the weird feeling behind her. She did her usual pre-bed routine, checked the doors, all locked, closed the blinds, and shut herself into the guest bedroom with both dogs. She even locked

the bedroom door, something she never usually bothered with, because she couldn't shake that quiet unease. She fell asleep with the sound of the TV still faintly echoing in her head. Sometime after midnight, she woke to a low, rumbling growl. Her eyes snapped open in the dark. She The sound was coming from the foot of the bed, both dogs were up, ears rigid, facing the bedroom door. Now, Sadie growling. Totally normal. Sadie growled at dust moats if she was in a mood. But Samson.

Samson was a sweet, silent giant who never barked unless it was serious. Her stomach dropped. She whispered, it's probably just an animal outside, but her voice didn't sound convinced. And then, like a scene ripped from her earlier paranoia, the sharp beep of the house alarm echoed through the hall, the sound it made when a door opened. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped her phone as she dialed our dad. She was crying before he even picked up. Between sobs, she told him someone was in the house.

He told her to hang up immediately and call the police. He was already grabbing his keys. She dialed 911, voice trembling as she explained the situation. The dispatcher kept her calm, told her to stay locked in the room until officers arrived. Meanwhile, Dad was making what should have been a 15-minute drive in under five. When he finally pounded on the front door, she nearly tripped over both dogs trying to get to him. As soon as she cracked open the bedroom door, Samson and Sadie bolted, claws scrabbling on the hardwood as they tore through the house toward the basement. She sprinted down the hall, not even looking into the other rooms, just running full tilt

until she reached the front door and let Dad in. He had his gun drawn, his expression sharp in a way I'd never seen before. They moved quickly through the house together. Nothing seemed out of place at first. Then the police arrived and did their own sweep. That's when they found the back gate hanging wide open, and the sliding glass door in the basement open again. Not wide open, but just enough to slip a hand through. The lock had been tampered with. The officer said whoever it was hadn't taken anything and hadn't tried to harm the dogs,

which was strange. My dad asked why someone would break into a house just to leave again. That's when the lead officer mentioned something the homeowners had apparently forgotten to tell my sister. The husband had received a death threat just weeks earlier after making a business decision at his job that put a lot of people out of work. They'd reported it to police but decided not to, alarm my sister while she was dog-sitting. We never went back to that house again. Within a few months, the couple had moved out of state after the husband lost his job, which, according to my sister, was carmic justice at its finest. The night with Stacy, fast forward a few years. I'm in my first, and, as it turned out, only, semester of college.

My best friend Jake, who I'd known since high school, had started dating this girl named Stacy. Here's the thing about Stacy, she had a reputation. And not the good kind. Back in high school, everyone knew she was a pathological liar, the kind who couldn't even keep her own story straight. She'd contradict herself within minutes, and if you called her out, she'd just double down.

She claimed she hated drama, but somehow always managed to be the the human epicenter of it. She cycled through relationships faster than some people changed their phone wallpaper, and each time one ended, she'd smear her ex's name like it was an Olympic sport. She lived for the sympathy points, the whispers, the attention. I'll never forget prom night, she was dancing with her boyfriend at the time, and he accidentally stepped on her foot. Instead of brushing it off, she staged a full meltdown in the middle of the dance floor, accusing him of physically abusing her. The music didn't even drown out her screaming.

Oh, and Stacey also had a drug problem. She tried to keep it hidden, but people talked. And, unfortunately, Jake either didn't hear the rumors or didn't believe them. When they first started talking, Jake brought up her bad reputation. Stacey launched into this sob story about how she'd been messed up because her ex-boyfriend had raped her, but she was working on herself now. Jake, being insecure about being single and way too trusting for his own good, bought it. Within weeks, they were a couple. Within weeks, the emotional manipulation began.

The part of their relationship that stuck out to me most, aside from the constant fighting, was the money thing. Stacey was always asking Jake for cash. small amounts at first, 10 or 20 bucks here and there. He didn't mind, he thought she was just struggling financially. Then one day she asked for $500 for rent. When he refused, she went nuclear, silent treatment all day, then a drunken call at night where she admitted she was doing drugs, blamed her, terrible life, and accused him of not helping her.

If it were me, that would have been the end of it. But Jake? He forgave her. Two months into this disaster of a relationship, it was a Friday night, about 10.30 p.m. I was at home with another friend, just hanging out, when Jake called. Stacey was at a friend's house on the outskirts of town and wanted a ride home around midnight. The buses stopped running at 8 p.m., and she had worked the next morning. Jake agreed.

But as midnight crept closer, Jake's mom called him from work, she was stuck on overtime. and had the car. He asked if I could drive him. I didn't want to. But Jake had always been there for me, so I sighed, told him to walk over to my place, and I'd take him. He showed up 40 minutes later, my other friend went home, and we hopped in my car. He texted Stacy to say I was driving him, and all she replied was the dreaded single letter, K. Her friend's house was in a sketchy neighborhood, the kind where the streetlights flicker or don't work at all. The one in front of her friend's place was out, so I parked three houses down under a working one. Jake texted her, Hey, we're here.

No answer. As we sat there, a truck rolled by. Four men inside. I figured they were just lost, until the truck came back. Slower this time. The guy in the passenger seat stared straight at me as they passed. My skin prickled. I told Jake something was off and to call Stacy so we could get moving.

He agreed, dialing her on speaker. Hey, where are you? he asked. We're down the block, come outside, she said. I looked, no sign of her. We're in my friend's car. It's a gray Subaru, she added. Jake was about to answer when the line went dead. He stared at his phone, confused.

Meanwhile, my nerves were screaming. Between the truck circling and Stacey's vague answers, this felt wrong. I put the car in gear, pulling out of the space to drive closer to the house. That's when I heard it, a vehicle roaring up behind us, loud and fast. My sister froze for a second, just staring at that sliding glass door like it was about to answer for itself. You know that feeling when your brain is desperately trying to convince you there's a totally normal explanation for something, but every inch of your body is screaming, nope, this is bad. This is very bad. Yeah, that's where she was. She reached down and locked it without even stepping outside. Her heart was already pounding because she knew, knew, that it hadn't been left open earlier. She'd been

through that door earlier to let the dogs out and had locked it right after. Speaking of the dogs, this is where it got even creepier. Neither of them, not massive, gentle Samson, and definitely not Psycho Sadie, had made a single sound. No barking, no growling, nothing. They were just standing in the living room, staring toward the glass door like they'd been hypnotized. Sadie wasn't snarling or pacing like she normally would with a stranger, she was completely still, her ears back and eyes locked on the door. Now, anyone who's been around animals knows, silence like that is almost worse than barking.

Barking means, I'm making a lot of noise and drawing attention to the threat. Silence means, I'm watching it. I'm tracking it. I'm not sure if I should attack yet. My sister decided she wasn't going to stand there waiting for whatever was making them act that way, so she grabbed her phone, locked herself in the upstairs bedroom, and called the couple who owned the house. The wife answered, and when my sister explained what had happened, her voice got this sharp, worried edge. She told my sister to double-check that all the other doors and windows

were locked, keep the dogs upstairs with her, and wait for a neighbor to come by. Here's where the goosebumps really kick in, while she was still on the phone, my sister heard the sound of footsteps, slow, deliberate footsteps, coming from the patio outside the glass door. She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound, but Sadie must have heard it too because that's when she finally went ballistic, barking so aggressively she sounded like she was ready to break through the door. The neighbor arrived within a few minutes, but by then, whoever had been there was long gone. They checked around and found a single wet footprint on the patio, bare foot, no shoe tread, just one, right next to the glass door. No sign of forced entry, no sign of

anyone hiding nearby, just that one eerie print leading toward the edge of the patio, where the forest started. When the homeowners got back, they were freaked out but not exactly surprised. Turns out, a few months before, something similar had happened, except that time, it was in the middle of the night and they'd woken up to the sound of someone tapping on the glass. They never saw who it was, but the husband had called the police, and they found nothing but more bare footprints in the dirt. After that night, my sister refused to ever dog sit there alone again. I can't even blame her. But here's the wild thing, a few years later, we learned about another incident in almost the same area, and it tied right back into that whole creepy figure lurking

in the forest theme. It came from another girl we knew, and her story was, well, it made my skin crawl in the exact same way. She'd been driving late at night, much like, like Jane from the first part of the story, and saw what looked like a person lying on the side of the road. At first, she thought it might be someone who'd been hit by a car, so she slowed down. But something in her gut told her not to stop. She drove past and, in her rearview mirror, swore she saw the figure sit up and start walking toward the woods. It didn't take long for word to get around that there'd been a string of strange incidents in our area involving people trying to lure drivers out of their cars at night. Some used fake injuries, others used things like

that creepy baby on the road trick. That's what got me thinking, maybe it was the same person, or people, behind both Jane's close call and my sister's glass door encounter. The forest made it easy for someone to hide, to watch, to wait. And that's the part that sticks with me the most, the thought that someone could be standing just beyond the tree line, watching you through the window, and you'd have no clue. To be continued.