Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Silent Stranger in the Suit A Childhood Encounter with a Dark Mystery #56

Episode Date: July 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #silentstranger #childhoodhorror #darkfigure #mysteriousman #unexplainedevents  When I was a child, I used to see a man in a black suit standing silently at the edge of our backyard—never moving, never speaking, always watching. No one else believed me. But he was real. And as I grew older, I learned he wasn’t just a dream… he was waiting. “The Silent Stranger in the Suit” is a haunting account of a childhood shadow that never truly faded—and may never leave.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, childhoodtrauma, silentwatcher, suitedstranger, backyardfear, mysteriousfigure, darkmemory, ghostencounter, childhoodparanormal, recurringnightmare, eeriepresence, hauntingpast, shadowman, strangeencounter, childhoodhorror

This happened a long time ago, when I was a kid. My hometown, well, it wasn't the kind of place people wrote postcards about. It was small, tucked away, and chronically underdeveloped. The kind of town where the biggest news was usually the mill-threatening layoffs again, or the high school football team losing another game. We were in a slow decline, and everyone knew it, even if they didn't say it out loud. Hope was a scarce commodity, something people clung to in whatever first. they could find it. And that's where the disappearances came in. It was a known problem,

a quiet, persistent ache in the community fabric. Kids, mostly teenagers, but sometimes younger, would just vanish. One week they'd be in class, complaining about homework or dreaming about getting their driver's license, and the next, their desk would be empty. Their locker would stay shut. Whispers would start. The official line, the one that settled over the town like a comforting but threadbare blanket, was that they'd run away. Gone to the city, seeking a better life, adventure, opportunities that are stagnant town couldn't offer. And people, by and large, chose to believe it. It made a grim sort of sense. Who wouldn't want to escape? Who wouldn't yearn for something more than the dusty streets and the resigned faces. But even as a kid,

something about it pricked at me. Why would everyone who left cut ties so completely? No letters home, no calls, not even a rumor trickling back through a friend of a friend. It was as if they'd stepped off the edge of the world. Families would grieve, of course, but then they'd latch on to that better life narrative. It was easier than confronting the void, the awful, echoing silence, these kids left behind. Believing they were thriving elsewhere was a bomb, a way to keep the creeping despair of our town at bay. It allowed a sliver of vicarious hope, if they could make it out, maybe the town itself wasn't a complete dead end. I didn't have many friends, preferred my own company mostly. My walk home from school was usually solitary, a straight shot down Main Street,

then a turn on to Elm, and a few more blocks through a quieter residential area. It was routine, predictable. Until that one afternoon. The day started like any other. School droned on. The final bell was a release. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started the familiar trek. The air was that specific kind of late autumn cool, crisp but not yet biting. Leaves crunched underfoot. I was about halfway down Main Street when I first noticed him. He was standing across the road, near the boarded-up storefront of what used to be a pharmacy. What caught my eye wasn't that he was there, but that he didn't fit. Our town had its share of eccentrics, but this was different.

He was wearing a suit. Not a work suit like Mr. Henderson, the bank manager, wore. This was darker, a bit too formal, and it seemed stiff. Like it wasn't made of normal fabric. And it was impeccably clean, which was an oddity in itself in our perpetual. dusty town. He was just standing there, not looking at anything in particular, but his stillness was alert, like a heron waiting by the water. I didn't think much of it at first. Maybe a salesman who'd taken a wrong turn. Or someone visiting family. I kept walking. When I glanced across

the street again a block later, he was still there, but he'd moved. He was now parallel to me, keeping pace, but on the other side. A faint prickle of unease started on the back of my neck. It was probably nothing. Coincidence. I made the turn onto Elm Street. It was quieter here, fewer cars, fewer people out and about. I chanced to look back. He'd made the turn too. He was still across the street, but definitely following. The distance between us was the same, but the casualness was gone from his posture. He was walking with a distinct purpose now, his gaze fixed in my general direction. My heart started to beat a little faster.

This wasn't right. Salesman didn't follow kids' home like this. I told myself to be calm. Maybe he was just going the same way. But Elm Street didn't lead to any businesses, just more houses and, eventually, the old scrapyard at the edge of town. I picked up my pace. Not quite running, but a fast, determined walk.

I risked another glance. He matched my speed effortlessly. The suit didn't ripple or bunch, it moved with him as if it were part of him. His face was indistinct from this distance, shadowed, but I could feel his attention on me like a physical weight. Panic began to bubble up, cold and sharp. This wasn't a coincidence. I needed to lose him. My mind raced.

I knew these streets like the back of my hand. He didn't. Instead of continuing straight towards my house, I made a sharp, unplanned right onto a narrow alleyway that cut between two houses. It was a shortcut I sometimes used, overgrown with weeds and usually littered with overflowing trash cans. It smelled damp and forgotten. I broke into a jog, backpack thumping against my spine. When I emerged onto the next street, breathless, I looked back. For a glorious few seconds, the alley was empty.

Relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. I'd lost him. Then, he stepped out of the alley. He didn't look rushed or out of breath. He just appeared, smooth and silent, and turned his head, his gaze locking onto me instantly. The distance was shorter now, maybe half a block. I could see his face a little better. It was pale, unremarkable in features, yet utterly devoid of expression.

No anger, no curiosity, just a blank, waiting stillness. The suit was still pristine. Terror, raw and undiluted, seized me. This was not normal. This was wrong. My only thought was to run. I bolted. My house was still several blocks away,

but in the opposite direction now, thanks to my detour. Ahead of me, at the end of this less-traveled road, lay the town's unofficial dump, the scrapyard. It was a sprawling mess of rusted cars, discarded appliances, mountains of junk, and treacherous piles of debris. Kids sometimes dared each other to go in, but it was generally avoided. It was vast, chaotic, and dangerous. It was also my best bet.

I ran harder than I thought I could, legs pumping, lungs burning. The scrapyard fence, a rickety chain-link affair with several convenient holes, loomed closer. I didn't dare look back. I could hear his footsteps, though, a steady, rhythmic beat on the pavement behind me, never getting closer, never falling further behind. It was an unervingly consistent sound. I dove through a gap in the fence, scraping my knee, the pain a distant throb compared to the fear coursing through me. The scrapyard enveloped me. The smell was

overwhelming, rust, oil, decaying upholstery, damp earth, and something else, something faintly sweet and rotten. Towers of junk rose on either side, creating narrow, winding pathways. I scrambled deeper into the maze, hoping the sheer complexity of the place would be my salvation. I ducked behind a teetering stack of bald tires, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I strained my ears, listening for his pursuit over the sound of my own ragged breathing. Silence. Or what passed for silence in a place like this, the groan of stressed metal, the rustle of unseen things in the weeds, the distant hum of the highway. Maybe, just maybe, I'd actually lost him this time. The thought was a fragile flicker of hope.

He wouldn't know these paths. He'd give up. I waited, crouched and trembling, for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute or two. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, leaving me shaky and cold. I had to get out of here, but not back the way I came. There was another, more dilapidated section of fence on the far side of the yard, closer to the woods. If I could reach that, I could cut through the trees and circle back to my neighborhood. Slowly, cautiously, I peaked around the tires.

The narrow passage was empty. I took a deep breath and started to move again, trying to be as quiet as possible, weaving through the metallic skeletons of forgotten vehicles and mountains of discarded household goods. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed and shifted with every gust of wind. The light was turning that burnished gold that signals the end of the day. I was nearing what I judged to be the far edge of the scrapyard. I could see the ragged line of trees through a gap in a pile of twisted metal.

Freedom felt tantalizingly close. I navigated around a rusted out hulk of an old pickup truck, its windows long gone, and then I froze. He was there. Standing directly in my path, not ten feet away, by the very gap in the fence I'd been aiming for. He was just, there. as if he'd been waiting, as if he'd known exactly where I was going. My blood ran cold. Every nerve screamed. There was no surprise on his face, no triumph. Just that same blank, patient watchfulness. The impeccably clean suit seemed to absorb the fading light, making him look darker, more solid.

He took a step towards me. A strangled sob escaped my throat. I didn't think. I reacted. I spun around and plunged back into the labyrinth of junk, deeper this time. There was no plan, just a desperate need for distance. This time, I heard him coming after me immediately. And he was faster. Much faster. His footsteps weren't the steady, rhythmic pace from before. They were quick, unervingly light, yet covering ground at a speed that didn't seem humanly possible for someone in a suit, navigating this treacherous terrain. It was like he was gliding over the debris. Panic clawed at my throat, making it hard to breathe. I scrambled, tripped, caught myself, pushed onward. My lungs ached. My scraped knee throbbed. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision.

I could hear him getting closer. I spotted a small, dark opening beneath a pile of flattened car bodies, the kind that had been crushed into grotesque rectangles. It looked like a shallow cave of rusted metal. Without a second thought, I threw myself to the ground and wormed my way into the tight space. It was cramped, filthy, and smelled of stale oil and damp earth. Jagged edges of metal pressed into me from all sides. I squeezed myself as far back as I could, until my shoulders hit the unyielding, cold ground at the very back. I was completely hidden, enveloped in oppressive darkness, save for a sliver of grayish light

filtering through a small gap near the front of my metallic tomb. I held my breath, listening. Silence. Then, footsteps. Slow now, measured. Moving around the pile of cars I was under. I could hear the crunch of debris beneath his shoes, the occasional soft metallic scrape. He was searching. Through the tiny, gap, I saw a sliver of his dark trousers pass by. Then again, he was circling. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I pressed my face into the dirt, trying to muffle the sound of my own terrified gasps.

Every instinct screamed at me to stay still, to become part of the earth and rust around me. The sun was definitely going down now. The already dim light filtering into my hiding spot was fading rapidly. The shadows outside were lengthening, merging, swallowing details. Then, he spoke. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried an unnatural resonance that vibrated through the metal around me. Come on out, kid. A pause.

There's no need to hide. We can just talk, talk. The absurdity of it was a fresh stab of fear. What could we possibly talk about? I stayed silent, frozen. I know you're in here somewhere, his voice continued, still calm, but with an edge now, like a carefully sharpened blade. This yard isn't that big.

I'll find you, he moved again, his footsteps methodically covering the area around my hiding spot. I could hear him shifting debris, the screech of metal on metal. Each sound sent a jolt of terror through me. The light through my gap was almost gone. It was becoming truly dark under the cars. And then, the voice changed. Sweetheart, are you in there? It's mommy, my blood turned to ice.

It was my mother's voice. Not just similar, it was her. The exact tone, the cadence, the little lilt she had when she was worried. The sound of it, so familiar, so comforting in any other context, was now the most terrifying thing I had ever heard. Baby, please come out. I was so worried when you didn't come home. What are you doing in this awful place?

Come out, it's getting dark. Let's go home. A part of my brain, the logical part, knew it wasn't her. Couldn't be. But the raw, primal fear, coupled with that perfect imitation, a tiny, treacherous part of me wanted to believe it. Wanted to crawl out and find her there, to have this nightmare end. Please, honey, the voice pleaded, laced with a perfect imitation of maternal distress.

You're scaring me. Just come out. Everything will be okay. Tears were flowing freely now, silent tears of utter terror and confusion. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from making a sound, tasting the coppery tang of blood. He was trying to lure me out. He knew my mother's voice. How?

How could he know that? The last vestiges of daylight vanished. The scrapyard was now plunged into near total darkness, relieved only by the faintest ambient glow from the distant town lights, which barely penetrated this deep into the junk. Under the cars, it was absolute black. I was blind, relying only on sound. I thought I was doomed.

He would find me. He was patient, methodical. It was only a matter of time. The voice, her voice, had stopped. There was only silence for a moment, a heavy, pregnant silence. Then, a new sound. A low-grown, guttural and pained. It wasn't human.

It was followed by a rasping, wet growl, like an animal in distress. It seemed to come from right outside my hiding spot. My fear ratcheted up to a level I didn't know was possible. What was happening? The growls intensified, mixed with harsh, choking sounds. It sounded like he was in agony. Like the darkness itself was hurting him. And then, his own voice again, but ragged now, strained, filled with a furious, desperate anger that was far more terrifying than his earlier calm.

Damn it all! The light gone too soon. Another pained snarl. Then, chillingly clear, his words cut through the night, seeming to echo in the sudden stillness, I will find you eventually, kid. Just in another day, perhaps. There was a strange rustling sound then, like dry leaves skittering across concrete, or sand pouring from a height.

It lasted only a few seconds. And then, nothing. Absolute silence. No footsteps, no breathing, no pained growls. He was gone. I stayed huddled in that metallic coffin for what felt like hours, too terrified to move, too shocked to process. Eventually, the cramping in my limbs and the desperate need to escape the crushing darkness

forced me to act. Trembling uncontrollably, I slowly, agonizingly, pushed myself out from under the cars. The scrapyard was utterly dark, save for the sliver of moon that had risen. I stood there, shaking, expecting him to reappear at any moment. But there was nothing. No sign of him. Where he had been standing, or where I thought he had been from the sounds, there was just, dust. A faint, fine layer of something dark on the ground, already being disturbed by the night breeze.

It looked like a patch of exceptionally dry soil, out of place. amongst the damp earth and rusted metal. I didn't wait to examine it. I ran. I ran out of that scrapyard the way I'd come, not caring about the noise I made, fueled by a primal terror that lent my legs impossible strength. I ran through the dark streets, not stopping until I slammed through my front door, gasping for breath, collapsing in a heap in the hallway. My parents were frantic. I was covered in dirt, grease, my knee was bleeding, my clothes were torn, and I was hysterical. I tried to tell them. I babbled about a man, a suit, the scrapyard, his voice, my mother's voice. But it came out as a jumbled, incoherent mess. They thought I'd had a bad

scare, maybe got chased by a dog, or had a run-in with some older bullies. They cleaned me up, bandaged my knee, and put me to bed. I never told them the full truth. How could I? How could I, How could I explain that the man who chased me, the man who sounded like my mother, had turned to dust when the sun went down? They would have thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. But I knew what I saw. And I knew what I heard. That thing in the suit wasn't just a serial killer or a kidnapper.

It was something else. Something that couldn't stand the night, or perhaps, couldn't exist without daylight in its physical form. something that hunted in the full light of the sun. The disappearances in our town. I started to see them in a new light. Were they all just kids running away for a better life? Or had some of them, like me, taken a wrong turn on their way home on a day when the sun didn't set a little too quickly?

Had they been lured by familiar voices out of hiding, into the waiting darkness? The thought made me sick. That promise, I will find you eventually, kid. Just in another day, perhaps, has haunted me ever since. I moved away from that town as soon as I could. I try to live a normal life. But I'm always aware of the sun. I don't like being out alone when it's full day.

And sometimes, on quiet evening, when the shadows grow long, I think I hear a faint rustling, like dry leaves, or sand. I don't know why it seemed to turn to dust. I don't know what it was. But I know it was real, and I know it wanted me. The gaps in our town weren't just kids leaving for the city. Some of those gaps were torn open by things that thrive under the daylight the END.