Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Night I Outran a Van My Chilling Brush with Danger as a 90s Teenage Paperboy #53

Episode Date: August 5, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #90skid #childhooddanger #papersurvival #vanchase #nostalgichorror  While delivering newspapers one night, the narrator experiences a close encounter with a menacing van. The quick thinking and adrenaline-fueled escape mark a chilling brush with danger that still haunts to this day. This story captures the vulnerability and courage of youth in a threatening world.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, childhoodfear, 90shorror, papersurvival, vanescape, trueencounter, adrenaline, youngsurvivor, urbanlegend, tenseencounter, streetdanger, comingofage, childhoodtrauma, scaryexperience, nightescape

All right, so here's the deal. This story kicks off in the early 90s, give or take a year or two, back when life still had that analog flavor, and we were all blissfully ignorant of smartphones and social media drama. Picture it, post-Ragan era, Midwest America, where steel towns were getting gut-punched by factory closures and layoffs like a bad hangover from the 80s. My family. We were part of the fallout. We packed up our lives in a sleepy Ohio village, complete with a.

single traffic light and enough cornfields to lose a small dog and relocated to Connecticut. December of 1988, snow on the ground, and me, just 10 years old, suddenly tossed into a whole different world. Fast forward a few years. I'd settled into our new life in Connecticut, even if it felt like I'd been dropped into a different planet. We lived in this mid-sized northeastern town with a two-lane road cutting through the neighborhood, speed limit set at 45 miles per hour, which basically meant 55 if you didn't care about your insurance premiums. Each house had its own plot of land, not huge, but enough to separate you from your neighbor's arguments or overly ambitious barbecues.

Quite the contrast from my tiny Ohio village where everyone knew your grandma's maiden name and your dog's favorite chew toy. Now, all my new suburban friends had paper routes. It was practically a rite of passage back then. I turned 13 and decided, hey, why not me too? So I rang up the local paper company and asked if they had anything open. They did, on my very own street. Sounded perfect until they hit me with the catch, it was a six-mile stretch, end-to-end, usually done by car.

But I didn't care. I had my trusty general hustler BMX bike, yes, that Gloria. Croman Purple Beast straight out of a 90s fever dream, and I was feeling ambitious. I was your typical latchkey kid, raised on microwave dinners and afternoon cartoons. My parents both worked long hours, gone from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m., so I had a lot of independence. Probably more than was healthy, but hey, different times. I took the route. For six months, everything was chill. I'd hit the streets after school, bag full of new. newspapers slung over my shoulder, cruising up and down my six-mile kingdom like a pint-sized

town crier. Sure, it was tiring and sure, some dogs had it out for me, but I was making decent money for a 13-year-old. The real gold mine, though, came during the holidays. That's when people tipped big. I'm talking five-dollar bills and candy cane stuffed into envelopes. So naturally, I was hyped when November rolled around. This one day, probably a Tuesday, I was finishing up the route later than usual.

I'd spent extra time collecting payments from customers who somehow always forgot they owed me money. The sun was doing its slow fade behind the trees, and I had maybe ten minutes of daylight left. I hit the last stretch, which meant two brutal hills stood between me and dinner. At the top of the first hill was this little plaza with a barber shop and a liquor store, called a package store if you're from New England, which sounds weirdly fancy for a place that sells boxed wine. Anyway, I stopped at the top of that hill because my brakes were acting up. There I was, twisted halfway around like a Cirque du Soleil contortionist, trying to fix the rear brake while still straddling the seat. Then I hear it. Hey, Paperboy. The voice came from

the road. I turned my head and saw a white panel then idling like it had nothing better. to do. It looked like the kind of van your mom warned you about. No windows in the back, no logos, just blank white metal. If it had free candy scrawled on the side, I wouldn't have been surprised. Two guys were in the front. The one in the passenger seat had the window down and was leaning out, staring at me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Hey, Paperboy, what's in the bag? He asked again, nodding toward my newspaper satchel. At that exact moment, I heard the rear doors of the van swing open with a metal thunk. My heart dropped into my stomach.

Every survival instinct I had lit up like Christmas lights. I looked back in time to see two more guys stepping out from behind the van. One of them was holding a length of rope. I didn't think. I just moved. Slanned my feet down on the petals and took off like my life depended on it, because I'm pretty sure it did. I didn't even look back. My brain went into full escape mode.

There weren't many houses on this stretch, and definitely none close enough that I could scream for help. I knew I wouldn't make it up the next hill to our rental house in time. No way I could outrun a van, especially not uphill. But then I saw it. One house on the corner had its porch light on. A beacon of hope in an otherwise darkening nightmare. I swerved into the driveway like a man possessed, jumped off my bike mid-roll, and bolted up the front steps.

I didn't even bother with the doorbell. I just started pounding on the door and yanking the handle, praying someone was home. By some miracle, the owners were right near the door. They opened it almost immediately, probably expecting a neighbor or a package. Instead, they got me, sweaty, gasping for breath, wide-eyed and pointing frantic. back toward the road. I managed to blurt out a panicked, help, as the two guys from the van made it to the edge of the lawn. They stopped when they saw me disappear inside the house. The family slammed the door shut and locked it with a satisfying click. We all stood there in tense silence.

Then we heard it, one of the men outside shouted, loud and clear, we'll see you tomorrow, Paperboy. And then the van peeled off into the night. Police were called. Of course they were. I gave them every detail I could through chattering teeth and adrenaline-fueled rambling. A report was filed, but let's be real, for guys in an unmarked van with no plates visible. They weren't getting caught. An officer drove me and my bike home. It was less than a quarter mile away, but there was no way in hell I was walking it alone. My parents were actually home by the time I arrived, which was rare. The officer explained what happened while I sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and trying not to cry. That was it. That was the end of my paperboy career.

My parents, understandably, lost their minds and shut the whole thing down. I didn't fight them on it. I never wanted to see another rolled-up newspaper again. I never figured out what those guys wanted. Maybe they thought I had cash in the bag and it was just a botched robbery. Maybe it was something worse, something I don't even want to imagine. Back in those days, kids who went missing ended up on milk cartons. Real talk. That could have been me. But I got lucky. I was on a downhill slope. I saw the one house with the lights on. And most importantly, someone answered the door. To this day, I don't know their names. I probably should have written them a thank you note or something, but at the time I was too shaken to think clearly.

I owe them more than I can put into words. So yeah, that's my paperboy horror story. People think the 90s were all tomogachies and flannel shirts, but it had its dark moments too. I think about that night more often than I'd like to admit. Sometimes when I drive past old neighborhoods or see a kid. on a bike delivering papers, it comes back. That chill. That panic. That van. I'm older now, obviously. But if there's one thing I learn from that whole mess, it's that trusting your gut might just save your life. That, and never trust a white van parked in the middle of the road.

The end, but man, what a ride it was.