Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Night I Discovered My Father While My Mother Tried to Let Him Drown in the Bathtub #74

Episode Date: August 18, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #psychologicalhorror #familysecrets #traumatales #domesticterror #bathroomhorror  The Night I Discovered My Father While My Mother Tried to Let Him Drown in the BathtubThis disturbing psychological horror story unravels the traumatic moment a child walks in on a chilling scene: their mother calmly watching as their father sinks beneath the water in the bathtub. As truth begins to surface, questions of trust, control, and darkness in the family begin to twist reality. A haunting tale of betrayal, silence, and the thin line between love and cruelty.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, drowning, domesticabuse, psychologicalthriller, childhoodtrauma, horrorfiction, toxicfamily, betrayal, realhorrorstories, darkmemories, horrorflashback, twistedtruths, terrifyingmoments, emotionalabuse, bathtubterror

It hit me like a sucker punch to the gut while I was lying there in bed, staring at a cracked ceiling and listening to the water filling up the tub down the hall. That was the exact moment it clicked in my head, my mother had just tried to kill her older cousin. And that cousin? He was my father. Yeah. Let that sink in for a second. Now let me set the scene for you, because it wasn't like I was watching some cheap soap opera or reading the plot of some trashy paperback you find at the airport. This was my life.

This was my reality. And it wasn't pretty. So there's Bud. Sixty-one years old, though he does everything in his power to look forty. To be fair, he sort of pulls it off. He's got that bull-shouldered frame, that smooth bald head with just the faintest sheen, and those stale blue eyes that could probably bore through concrete if he stared long enough. He's been awake since Friday, riding a wild cocktail of vogue.

vodka and cocaine, enough coke to kill a horse, honestly. I'm talking maybe 15 grams or more. So this man, vibrating with toxic energy and teetering on the edge of full body collapse, stumbles upstairs and finds the bath running. That bath, by the way, that was my doing. I'd started it and walked off, my body now sprawled on the bed as I waited for it to fill. He doesn't hesitate. He just turns off the tap and climbs in like he owns the place. Within seconds, buds out cold, snoring loud enough to rattle the pipes, his naked body slumped in the warm water. He's immersed up to his chest, the water lapping gently against him. One wrong move, one little slide forward, and his face would

dip under, and it'd all be over. From my vantage point, lying in bed with the door cracked open and a mirror angled perfectly, I could see everything. I kept watch like some creepy guardian angel, tracking that grating, erratic snore that assured me he wasn't dead yet. And then Angela showed up. Angela, my mother. Fifty-four years old, carrying the same hard partying energy she's had all her life. She had vodka and cocaine coursing through her veins too, though it barely touched her at this point. She's built different. One night of drinking and drugs isn't enough to even take the edge off anymore. She's sharp and as attack when she floats up those stairs to use the toilet. She sees bud. Her eyes land on his

paralyzed form in the tub. And here's the part that freezes me solid, she doesn't do a damn thing. She doesn't nudge him awake. Doesn't pull the plug to drain the water. Doesn't even shout his name. Instead, Angela eases the door shut so carefully, so quietly, it doesn't even click. Her steps on the way down are surgical, deliberate, avoiding every squeaky floorboard. And me? I'm lying there in bed, watching it all. My blood's gone cold. My heart's hammering so loud I'm sure she's going to hear it echoing off the walls. But she doesn't. She's too busy heading back downstairs, her hands clean, her conscience, maybe not so much. I keep staring at Bud's still form, gripping the blanket tight enough to rip it.

The snoring stops suddenly. My breath hitches. I'm waiting for the splash, for the silence, for the moment his body slides fully underwater. But no. A few seconds later, there's movement. Bud stirs, sputters, and hauls himself out of the bath, dripping and shivering. He fumbles into his clothes and makes his way downstairs. The next sound I hear is his voice,

surprised, almost cheerful. Angela, you won't believe this. I just woke up in the damn bathtub. Her reaction. Pure theater. She gasps, claps her hands over her mouth, and bursts into laughter. You fell asleep in the bath.

Bud, are you serious? That's hilarious. You could have drowned, you idiot. Her tone is light, teasing, full of fake astonishment. Bud's oblivious. He doesn't know she saw him. He doesn't know she shut that door and walked away like it was nothing.

He doesn't know how close he came to slipping under and never coming back up. And Angela? Angela doesn't know I saw the whole thing. Doesn't know I witnessed every second through that narrow crack in the door and the reflection in my mirror. If you'd been there, if you'd seen what I saw, your blood would have run cold, too. Your muscles would have locked up, your breath caught in your throat. You would have felt the horror creep up your spine as you realized exactly what she was trying to do, or at least what

she was willing to let happen. In that moment, a thousand memories exploded in my mind like fireworks. Things I'd seen, things I hadn't understood as a kid, suddenly snapped into sharp focus. The way Angela looked at Bud sometimes, that hard glint in her eyes. The venom in her voice when she talked about mistakes and ruined chances. It wasn't just a near-death accident I'd witnessed. It was something darker, something older. That kind of hatred. It doesn't come out of nowhere. It's forged over decades. The kind of hate that only exists when it's born out of a love so intense it burned everything else to ashes. A teenage love that went sideways, an unexpected pregnancy, a lifetime of regret that fermented into something poisonous and bitter.

And me? I was the result. The mistake. The unwanted child that tied them together like an anchor around both their necks. That's how I learned the truth. That's how I figured out Bud wasn't just my mom's cousin. He was my father. And here's the kicker, neither of them knows I know.

They keep playing their parts, drinking, snorting, laughing, fighting. But me? I'm sitting on this secret like it's a ticking time bomb. Every time I look at them, it feels heavier, like it's pressing down on my chest. Sometimes I wonder if I should confront them. Demand answers. Scream the truth in their faces and watch them squirm. Other times, I think about walking away and never looking back. Leaving them both to drown in their own mess, the way Angela almost let Bud drown in that bathtub. But for now, I'm here. Watching. Waiting. Remembering every detail. Because once you see something like that, you can't unsee it. And now. Now I know exactly who I am. The end.