Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Night I Tried to Stop a Hit A Son’s Desperate Fight to Save His Father’s Life #38

Episode Date: August 3, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #crimefight #familydrama #desperation #survivalstory #hitman  Faced with the chilling knowledge that his father is marked for death, a son takes matters into his own hands. Racing against time, he confronts deadly threats and hidden enemies in a desperate bid to protect his family. This story blends raw emotion, suspense, and the harsh realities of crime, exploring how far one will go to save the people they love.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, familyfight, hitmanstory, desperationstory, survivalthriller, emotionaldrama, crimeanddanger, tensefight, protectorfamily, darkthriller, rawemotion, suspensefiction, crimefamily, lifesaving

Keith's getting his gun ready, palming it in his gloved right hand as he pulls the Ford escape into an empty parking lot of an abandoned church near my father's house. Keith, dressed in black and with a dark stubble growing on his round face, is a hired gun of a mutual friend of ours. Keith's a person I vaguely know as he sits next to a young accomplice, Greg, at his passenger side, someone I have never met although I figure from his appearance that he is a young recruit, his stubble barely noticeable. Greg is coming along for his first hit under the watchful guidance of Keith. They are here to kill my father. Keith parks the car as I say, please, like I said before, do this quick and harmlessly. I'm angry at the news that this young-looking apprentice, or accomplice, or whatever in the hell he is, will end my father's life. I stir uneasily in the backseat for the duration of the ride to the church, clawing at the upholstery under me as I try to release the tension I feel.

It is unfair for my father to die under the hand of a rookie. What do these gang idiots expect, that he is going to run in and expertly shoot a moving target through the head like some marksmen? But they don't even care. This is just another hit, a practice run for a rookie. Keith will tackle and pin my father against the floor or wall while the gun, in the nervous, shaking hand of Greg, will approach my father's skull ever slowly, teasing my father as he cries out in terror. This is what a cheap connection from a friend of a friend will get you even with the promise of a nice payout once my father's insurance death benefits get transferred to me. I foolishly decide to go along with them, hoping that my presence will drill in the fact that I don't want my father to be subjected to such treatment.

It is foolish to be so close to the crime scene since I will be a suspect, the cops will question my whereabouts during this time, but that's not too hard to get away with. They begin to exit the car, taking their face masks with them. I try to warn them again, but I missed the chance as both their doors close shut before I get the chance. I get out of the backseat and stand on the asphalt next to them, with the moonless night almost darkening their appearances completely. Keith spins around, glaring at me. He motions for me to get back into the back seat. Please, I, I begin, but Keith quickly interjects. What are you doing? Get back in the car, he whispers as we both step back inside of the car.

He swings around his seat to face me, What's up, man? I don't know why you are here with us when you should be elsewhere. I didn't want them upset with me. It is worse enough to continue annoying them when I have made this request, when they can just do as they wish, angry with me for nagging them. All they need from me is some general information, when and where my father would be. Ever since childhood my father follows the same routine on a workday, coming home around 6 p.m., eating supper at 7 p.m. and then sitting on his couch, watching television until around 10 p.m., then he sleeps until he gets up in the morning to go to work. It was easy enough to set up the hit on this random Tuesday night, when everyone in this neighborhood is inside getting ready for sleep.

It was the best method to pinpointing him out for Keith. Calling my father to ensure he was at home was not a viable solution, as I haven't given him a call in over five years. He has not given me a call either during that span. It might raise suspicions if police afterwards check his phone records and notice my call just before the incident. Keith opens the door and steps outside, giving me a look of confusion, as I don't utter a word, sitting in the back seat. Something about his expression upsets me further, triggering more unpleasant thoughts. in my head. I know for sure they're going to use my father as a test dummy. The fumbling amateur will extend my father's dread to an unbearable length, while Keith will look on and guide him along.

No, no, you fool, he will say. Here, as he takes the gun from Greg's hand and shows him how to grip it properly, all the while my father will look on in horror. Or maybe they will replace the gun for fists, feet and blunt objects, punishing my father for minutes instead of seconds. They won't risk the attention the commotion might raise. I think this over for a while as I watched them leave and head towards the house. I notice how spread apart the houses are from each other, at least 15 meters. It doesn't matter though, they will duct tape or somehow seal off my father's mouth if they choose the longer method. As they trail off, my continuing ticks and nervous shuffling grows more intense with each second that passes.

The large interior of the SUV provides little comfort for me as my thoughts and nervous tics make me uncomfortable, claustrophobic. Fast food bags, filled with old fries and crusted ketchup, are strewn all over the floor of the car, remnants of past hits, of countless hours of waiting around in parking spots, hungrily waiting to pounce on their victims. I noticed the two of them getting out of my immediate sight, so out of the discomfort I feel, however foolishly, I step out of the car and look down. the street to try and locate them. They are about halfway to the house, seconds from storming in, and the pressure of the situation almost chokes me. I realize that standing here, exposing myself to any roaming eye in the surrounding houses can pose a problem. I begin to pace by the car, walking the length of the car back and forth. This does little to comfort me as it exposes me even further as a suspicious figure. But I don't care, all I care about now is getting out of this cluster,

I better get away from this parking lot and avoid any problems it may cause me. I start to walk down the sidewalk towards my father's home. I walk slowly to not catch the eye of either one of the thugs, but as I venture down I realize that they have already made it into my father's house. Waves of shock and fear reverberate throughout my nerves. If only there's a bit more time. A bit more time. For what? What was I doing here? here. I realize that I'm desperate for more time to think this over. But what was there to think about? There's no way to go back on this hit, unless I go inside and tell them to stop, if there's even anything to stop anymore. I'm shaking at this point, nervous over my inability to comprehend

the situation. I came as close to the house as I can, trying to make out the sounds omitting from inside. I hear barely anything, just a sound every couple of seconds of feet whistling along the hardwood floor. No commotion, not even a thud or gasp. They must be searching for him, he must be in bed early. They are scouring the house for him, probably going to go upstairs in a few moments once they have the main floor clear. My shaking becomes intolerable, my thoughts confusing. This is the time I want, I need, but again, for what? It's too late, I repeat to myself over and over again. Irrational with fear and nervousness, I take off running across the street down a hydro field adjacent to my father's house. I don't know why I'm running, all I can rationalize now is

my desire to block out my thoughts. But it's hard to block them out, and even harder to relax my ears as they prick up every time I hear a distant sound. I'm dreadfully waiting for the first cry to come howling out of the house, or a gunshot to ring out, or even the thud of my father's body as the savages pounce on him. I run, all the while waiting, hoping for it to be over soon. No, fuck him, let it happen. I need this to happen.

My memories take over my thoughts. Father standing tall, inducing fear into me with his cold, heartless stare, his mocking eyes undressing me, making me feel vulnerable and afraid, father belting me, screaming indecifrable slurs and orders at me. I clench both fists as I bowing. sway them side to side in my running stance, bitterly angry, just entering the hydro field as I do. You won't amount to shit, you know. My father's favorite slogan, father scowling in the car as we

drive, making my ears ring with his high-pitched wailing, returning home with a good report card. He doesn't care, drunken in a stupor, lying on the couch, walking home from my first job interview after the parking spot he occupies becomes vacant, no congratulatory coffee and donuts to share, drunkenly throwing garbage around him at me, calling me a piece of shit. Fuck you! I screamed savagely into the hydro towers above my head. The palms of my clenching fists begin to perspire from the pressure. Laughing at me, scolding me, oh mom, why can't you be here with me now,

destroying my room after accusing me of stealing his money, grabbing me by the collar, slapping me across the face, you little fucking punk, you should be in prison, the only fucking place for you. I stop running about nine meters into the hydro field. I clasp my hands over my ears and yell, kill him already. For fuck's sakes, kill him now. A single tear of anger slides down my cheek and I put down my hands to my side, clenching them more bitterly than before. Why did I block out my hearing when I want to hear it all? My memories turn. yelling endless yelling violence hatred calm father guiding me along as i ride my first bicycle playing soccer with him after my friends bail on me the disappoint i feel at having two-faced friends withers away as i look upon my father in a new light as a friend he advises me on how to boost my battery in my first car

i release the pressure in my hands letting them sway comfortably by my sides but only slightly he laughs at my car when i first buy it telling me the pressure in my hands letting them sway comfortably by my sides but only slightly he laughs at my car when i first buy it telling me I'll never get anything better, infuriating me when I brought my first girlfriend home, why are you with this loser? He asks my girlfriend as she laughs half-heartedly, with no glint of humor in his expression. He visits me in the hospital every day after I injured myself severely. His seat is empty, with his name tag taped on the seat, at my high school graduation. He rejoices at my acceptance letter from university. His seat is empty. This time with no name tag over a seat, at my university graduation. He hugs me at my high school. He hugs me at my mom's funeral, coaches me on proper fighting maneuvers, listens to my problems, empathizes with me.

The pressure is gone from my hands. I relax. A thud sound is audible behind me, the sound of a body falling. Not just a single fall, but multiple drops like that of a body falling down a set of stairs. They found him. My heart palpitates uncontrollably. The sweat pours from my forehead, armpits, back, chest, palms. I start to run again deeper into the field, trying to shut out the noises. My thoughts become more emotionally charged. A worried look on his face as he looks over me as I lay in a hospital bed, questioning whether I'm hungry, urging me to go to the doctor to make sure I'm healthy, after I refuse, letting me go off on my own to hang with friends, trusting that I can look after myself, making jokes with me around the television. Running doesn't help me block me

out the noises. I hear further thudding sounds, with a low, indecipherable cry. My blood boils. My testicles shrivel as shivers go down my spine. Tears of sadness flood down my face. I quickly turn and dash back, crying out, Dad, for the first time in my life. I want to make it back in time, hoping it's not too late. I run as fast as I can, perspiration and tears flying off my body. Desperate seconds tick away as my thoughts continue to plague me. Going to work every morning, no matter how he feels, sick or not, lending me money and when I try to reimburse him, he declines, in pain from a broken foot, still getting up for work, 20 minutes early to give himself time to walk to the car, crying when I take years to do something he requests, the neglect he feels at those moments make me shudder. Running through the open door of my childhood home, crying uncontrollably, I lunging quickly, like a predator, trying to locate them.

I rush through the living room, trying to get to the staircase leading upstairs but no one's around there. I rush back into the kitchen to get to the basement staircase. I run to the open doorway of the staircase and find them inside the basement. Keith and Greg stare up at me, hearing my feet scraping on the hardwood main floor but having little time to react as it took me only a few seconds to rush through the front door, across the living room to the basement doorway. Keith is there holding my father's head, duct tape covering his mouth, trying to hold his head still as Greg holds the bloody but end of his gun

near his side. They are still now, staring up at me, with Keith yelling up towards me, what the fuck. I step down a few stairs and then leap onto Greg, driving his head into the concrete floor with my extended forearm. It instantly crumbles under my weight, my forearm cracking into his skull as I brace my fall, bone splinters from his skull penetrating my forearm. I quickly try and locate the gun, ignoring the pain shooting through my forearm. Seeing Keith going after it as he let go of my father, I managed to locate the gun and snag it from the floor before he does, pointing it directly at his temple and letting the trigger go. He drops back and falls on top of my father, dead. I get up to brush Keith off of my father. As I look down and

observe my father, I realize it is too late. He is dead. I fall on my knees next to him. No more tears, thoughts, ticks, or feelings. Just silence. The end.