Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Three Chilling Encounters with Demonic Forces That Left Survivors Haunted for Life PART1 #19

Episode Date: October 10, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #demonicencounters #paranormalhorrorstories #hauntingexperiences #supernaturalterror #truehorrorstories  “Three Chilling Encounters with Demonic Forces That Left Survivors Haunted for Life PART 1” explores real-life accounts of terrifying encounters with demonic or malevolent forces. Each story showcases the fear, psychological impact, and lingering trauma experienced by the survivors. From shadowy figures to unexplainable phenomena, these narratives reveal how encounters with the supernatural can leave lives irrevocably changed.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, demonicencounters, paranormalhorrorstories, hauntingexperiences, supernaturalterror, truehorrorstories, chillingtales, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, frighteningexperiences, darkparanormal, terrifyingmoments, mysteriousencounters, hauntedlives, realfear

Horror. Number one. First things first, before I get into this, you have to understand something about my dad. My father is not, and I mean not, a believer in the paranormal. You could put him in a room with ten ghost hunters, swearing they just saw a floating none, and he'd still be the one rolling his eyes, muttering something about drafts and optical illusions. The man used to scoff at the idea of an afterlife, laugh at ghost stories, and would instantly shut down. any conversation about demons or hauntings. He's always been one of those people who says, fear the living, not the dead, as if murderers and tax collectors are the only things worth losing sleepover. But something happened to him. Something that, to this day, still leaves him

looking like he's carrying an invisible weight. I've never seen my dad scared, not once, not even when I wrecked his truck at 17. But whatever this was, it shook him so badly, was like watching Agent Scully suddenly turn into a trembling little kid. My parents' house is not exactly easy to sneak up on. We're talking about a large property, the kind you'd expect to see in some glossy real estate magazine. The whole thing is surrounded by a 10-foot fence, topped with sharp points like it's trying to keep out zombies. There's an electric gate at the front, and the place is wired with alarms and cameras. Honestly, unless you're Spider-Man, there's no real way to get in without setting something off or getting caught on video.

One night, my mom was out and my dad was home alone. He was just sitting in the living room watching TV or maybe scrolling through the news on his tablet, nothing dramatic. That's when it started. A knock. Not just any knock, he described it as hard, steady, and relentless, not frantic like someone desperately fleeing from danger, but rhythmic, like a slow, steady heartbeat echoing through the wood of the front door.

He told me later that it didn't stop. It just went on and on. Bam, bam, bam, bam, over and over. My dad got up, probably thinking it was a delivery guy or maybe a neighbor, but the moment he got close, almost within arm's reach of the door handle, it stopped. Just silence. He opened the door. Standing there, on the top step of the porch, about five or six feet away, was a boy. My dad said he couldn't have been more than 14. The kid was completely still, no fidgeting, no swaying, just standing there, facing my dad. He was wearing a plain, non-descript hoodie, green cargo shorts, and sneakers with gray socks. His hair was perfectly brushed to the side, not a strand out of place. His skin was pale, almost too pale, like he hadn't been out in the sun for months. My dad froze.

For a moment, he couldn't even find his voice. Then, before he could say anything, the boy spoke. I'm lost. Can I come inside? My father said that the second he heard that voice, his stomach dropped, like someone had poured ice water straight into his gut. He couldn't move.

The boy continued, speaking calmly and clearly, but in this weird way, like it was rehearsed, like the words weren't really his, but something he'd been told to say over and over until he could do it without blinking. I am cold and lost. I am frightened. The thing is, it wasn't cold, not even close. The sun had gone down, sure, but it was still in the low 80s outside, and the kid was wearing a hoodie. That detail

snapped my dad out of whatever trance he was in. His voice came back, sharp. No, get off my property, he said, firm and loud enough to leave no doubt he meant it. The boy didn't flinch. He just tilted his head slightly, almost like he didn't understand why my dad was saying no. Please, I am only a boy. I am cold. Then he raised his head, just enough so the porch light caught his eyes. My dad told me that what he saw made his heart stop. The kid's eyes weren't black, like those urban legends about black-eyed children. They were white, completely, no pupils, no irises, just blank, milky white. The moment their eyes met, my dad said it was like something deep inside him just withered, like a part of him died. And then, even though the kids' lips weren't moving anymore, my dad heard his voice again,

louder this time, not with his ears, but inside his head. Neil, your behavior is abhorrent. Let me in, Neil, you are alone inside. That was it. The second his first name came out, my dad slammed the door so hard it rattled the frame. He locked the deadbolt, turned off every light in the house, armed the alarm system, and sat there in the living room in complete darkness. He told me he couldn't move.

He was too afraid. Every so often, he'd hear a knock, this time coming from the window across the room. But he refused to look. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, gripping the armrest of his chair like it was the only thing anchoring him. When I asked him why he didn't call the police, he said he couldn't. not because the phone didn't work, but because moving, even standing up, felt impossible. He said that deep down, he knew, whatever that boy was, if it wanted to get in, it could have. And the second he gave it more attention, the second he acknowledged it, it would.

Later, I did some digging online. I found stories about the black-eyed children, creepy kids who show up at night, speaking in weird, monotone voices, asking to be let inside. But my dad swears these eyes weren't black, they were white. And that voice, it didn't sound young or old, just wrong. Here's the weirdest part. When we checked the security footage later, there was nothing. No one walking up the driveway, no one coming through the gate.

And the camera pointing at the front door, the boy was standing just far enough to be in the perfect blind spot. It was as if he knew exactly where to stand to avoid being caught. My dad doesn't take medication. He's not a liar, and I've never seen him this rattled in my life. It's changed him. He doesn't go out at night anymore. He's lost weight. He's upgraded the security system again. And every night before bed, he paces the halls, checking windows, checking doors, like he's waiting for that thing to come back. Only this time, he's afraid it won't bother knocking. Number two. Back in 2012, I went on a trip to Ontario Can't. I was crashing at my friend Jay's place for the night.

His mom taught archaeology, so their house had this museum vibe. There were display cases in her study filled with smaller artifacts, bits of pottery, arrowheads, old coins, and even some bones. After giving me a tour, Jay asked if I wanted to see something his mom didn't keep in the open, something she kept locked away in a filing cabinet down in the basement. We went downstairs into this slightly damp, dimly lit basement. Jay went over to the water heater, reached behind it, and pulled out a small key from its hiding spot. He opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet, reached inside, and pulled out this big velvet pouch

with a drawstring. He looked over his shoulder to make sure his mom wasn't coming down the stairs, then opened the pouch. Inside was a jawbone, blackened, cracked, and clearly old. A few teeth were still attached, but they looked wrong, just a little too big for a normal human human. mouth. I told him I didn't believe it was real. He just rolled his eyes and said, why would my mom keep it locked away if it was fake? Then he told me the story. According to him, it belonged to a man who had been possessed by a demon. After a failed exorcism, the man set himself on fire. He didn't know the exact year it happened, but he swore that Ed and Lorraine Warren, the paranormal investigators from the conjuring, had examined the bone at some point. They apparently warned the museum not

to put it on display because it had some kind of evil aura. We looked at it for a few minutes, then Jay put it back in the pouch and locked the drawer again. Later that night, we were playing video games in his room until about one in the morning. Eventually Jay passed out, but I couldn't sleep. I was tossing around on the air mattress, and for some reason my palms were itchy, like uncomfortably itchy. I couldn't stop rubbing them together. After 20 minutes, I got up, using my phone as a flashlight, I went back down to the basement. I grabbed the key, opened the cabinet again, and pulled out the pouch. I don't know why, but I needed to look at the jawbone again. I pressed my thumb against one of the teeth until it broke the skin and a tiny

beat of blood formed. In that moment, I wondered, if the story was true, if the man's demon was still somehow tied to this thing, did it know I was here? Did it know me now? Then the stairway light came on. froze. My first thought was that Jay's mom was coming down, but there were no footsteps. Instead, I saw him, a man. He was leaning against an old desk in the far corner, just beyond the light. Bald, broad shoulders, wearing what I first thought was a robe, until my eyes adjusted, and I realized it looked more like the black robes of a Catholic priest. A strange odor filled the air, thick, musty, and wrong. I instinctively moved the jawbone behind my back. Have you been here the whole time? I asked, my voice trembling. He didn't answer. He didn't move,

except for one slow motion. He tapped one of the brass knobs on the desk with his finger, only it didn't look like a finger, more like a claw. And here's the thing. If I remember right, there was no way he could have turned on that stairway light from where he was standing. To be continued.