Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Three Real-Life Encounters with Danger From Urban Assault to Isolated Intruders PART2 #24

Episode Date: October 10, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #urbanassault #isolatedintruders #truecrimehorror #dangerousencounters #creepyexperiences  “Three Real-Life Encounters with Danger From Urban Assault to Isolated Intruders PART 2” continues the series of chilling true events, exploring further cases of real-world danger. These stories delve into tense confrontations, unexpected intrusions, and life-threatening situations, emphasizing the fear and psychological impact on those involved. Readers are drawn into the suspense, uncertainty, and raw emotion of each encounter  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, urbanassault, isolatedintruders, truecrimehorror, dangerousencounters, creepyexperiences, chillingtales, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, frighteningexperiences, darkreallife, mysteriousencounters, hauntedlocations, terrifyingmoments, realfear

Horror. Number two, the man at the door. When I was a kid, my dad and I went through a stretch where we stayed with my grandparents. It wasn't just for a weekend or a summer. We actually lived there for a while. They had this huge old house planted smack in the middle of nowhere. I mean nowhere, the kind of nowhere where if you walked in any direction long enough, you'd either get lost in the trees or find yourself on some unmarked dirt road. wondering if you'd stepped into another century. The place itself was built mostly out of wood, the outside stained dark from years of weather,

and the inside finished with patches of sheetrock. Some parts of the house were still bare wood, not because it was unfinished, but because my grandparents thought it looked charming. I guess design quirk is one way to put it. Another would be creaky old bones of a house that whispered to itself at night. And it did creak,

constantly. The whole place seemed alive with groans and pops. Even when no one was moving, you could hear it shifting, like it was remembering every year it had stood there. Add to that, the fact that my grandparents decorated like they were curating a museum. Everything in there looked like it belonged behind glass with a do not touch sign. Porcelain figurines, heavy carved furniture, faded old photographs that stared at you like they knew something you didn't. My room was in the basement, but it wasn't completely underground. The windows in my bedroom sat right at ground level and looked straight out into the wide-open backyard. That backyard, endless, grass rolling out toward the tree line and beyond that, dense forest in every direction.

When night fell, it wasn't just dark. It was dark. No streetlights, no porch lamps from neighboring houses, because there were no neighboring houses close enough to see, nothing but the black wall of trees and whatever stars happened to be out. The driveway wasn't even a straight shot from the road. It curved and wound through the woods like a trail before it opened up to the house. So if you were after road, you couldn't see the place at all. I was home alone a lot.

My dad worked long hours and my grandparents loved going out for errands or visiting friends. With no pets in the house, when I was alone, I was really alone. We're talking probably the only human within a mile radius. Now, my basement bedroom shared a wall with the laundry room, but here's where it gets weird. I couldn't actually get to the laundry room from my side of the basement. The house had this bizarre, almost maze-like layout. To get there, you had to leave my room, go upstairs to the main level, walk toward the front door, turn right, go down a different set of stairs into another basement section,

and then you'd reach the laundry room. That other basement had its own side door that opened into a narrow hallway attached to the shed. My dad sometimes used that entrance when he got home, and I can't count how many times he forgot to lock it afterward. It wasn't just a door. It was like a door inside a corridor inside another door. If someone really wanted to slip in unnoticed,

that was the easiest way. From my room, I could hear people doing laundry, the heavy steps up those creaky stairs, the slam of the dryer door, the hum of the machines. One afternoon after school, I was home alone, sitting on the couch upstairs with my sketchbook, doodling. That's when I heard a knock at the front door. The front door had two tall windows on either side, so you could see right out, and anyone outside could see right in. I peeked out and saw a man standing there. He was white with a big, messy brown beard and equally messy hair. He wore a flannel shirt and denim overalls.

He looked like every stereotype of a lumberjack you've ever seen, minus the axe. Because of those windows, we were basically staring right at each other. I started toward the door to open it, thinking I was old enough at 15 to handle whoever it was. But before I could turn the knob, he stepped forward, closing the distance between us in an instant. It startled me so much, I froze. Hi, I said, my voice probably a little shaky. Hey, he greeted back, his voice loud, way too loud. Is Mary home?

I think I got her mail by accident. Could she come to the door so I can talk to her? They're not home, I said, feeling stupid the second it came out of my mouth. That's when he smiled in this way that didn't feel friendly at all. And they left a pretty young thing. like you home alone? Something about that made my skin crawl. I didn't answer.

Instead, I pointed to the wooden bench on the porch. If you want, you can leave the mail there. I'll let them know you stopped by. He stared at me for a long moment, like he was weighing something. Then he nodded. Okay, you have a good day. The mail turned out to be nothing but junk, some generic flyer. When my grandparents got home, I told them about the man.

They didn't recognize the description at all. Weeks passed, and I mostly forgot about him. Aside from drawing, one of my hobbies back then was collecting long branches from the woods and polishing them into staffs. I'd sand them smooth, stain them, sometimes wrap the handles. I also liked to practice twirling them, tossing them, catching them like batons. It was weird, but it was my thing. One afternoon, I was outside in the backyard, headphones in, music up,

spinning a staff around. The woods stretched behind me, dense and quiet. When I turned around, he was right there. Same man, same flannel, same messy beard. He was so close I could have reached out and touched him. I hadn't heard a single footstep. I almost screamed, but he spoke first, loud again, reminding me he was my neighbor, said he'd seen me from his section of the woods and wanted to ask about my staff. My brain went blank. All I could think was, there's no one within sight of this backyard

who isn't standing on our property. The nearest house was miles away. I gave him nothing but shrugs and one-word answers. I didn't want to give him any reason to keep talking. After a minute, I made an excuse to go inside, but instead of heading to the main door, I went in through the shed entrance, which, in hindsight, was a huge mistake.

that door was exactly the one he'd have used if he wanted to slip into the house. From inside, I watched him wander off into the trees like he belonged there. I didn't feel bad for brushing him off. He had no business being back there, approaching a teenage girl like that. Several weeks later, it happened again. I was in my basement room drawing on my computer when I heard something. The bottom two stairs in the laundry room, the ones on the other side of the wall from me, creaked. I froze. I hadn't heard the front door open. My dad wasn't due home for hours. The creaks continued, slow, deliberate. Whoever it was, they weren't in a hurry. Every instinct screamed

that it wasn't my dad. He wouldn't be creaking around like that. I slipped out of my room and into the storage closet under my stairs. Using my phone for light, I wedged myself between two boxes, pressing myself down as far as I could. The footsteps kept coming. I could hear the ceiling above me groan as they moved. Then they stopped. Then backtracked, like the person was trying to figure out the layout. A moment later, the stairs above me started to creak. That's when I knew they'd found their way into my section of the basement. My heart pounded so hard, I was sure they could hear it. Then, suddenly, the footsteps quickened, and I heard the front door open, then close. Minutes later, my grandparents came in.

I realized what had happened. He'd pretended to be waiting at the door when they arrived, making it look like he'd just walked up. They didn't notice the door was unlocked. I stepped cautiously out of the closet and peeked around the corner. He saw me. He waved, smiled like we were old friends. I didn't wave back.

He didn't look nervous, didn't look like someone who'd almost been caught sneaking around. He looked completely confident. We moved not long after, and as far as I know, my grandparents never saw him again. But I still think about him sometimes, and what might have happened if I hadn't hidden that day. To be continued.