Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Two Gunshots, One Father, and a Truth Too Painful to Keep Calling an Accident #62

Episode Date: August 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #familysecrets #tragictruth #darkpast #psychologicalhorror #mysteryunraveled  For years, he believed the story about the tragic accident that cost his family everything. But when fragments of memory and buried secrets resurface, he’s forced to face the terrifying reality: those two gunshots were no accident. What he discovers will tear apart his understanding of his father—and himself.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, familytragedy, buriedsecrets, psychologicalterror, darkfamilyhistory, traumauncovered, fatalgunshots, disturbingtruth, fatherandsonhorror, mindbendingmystery, emotionalhorror, hauntingpast, murderoraccident, familybetrayal, uncoveringthetruth

When accidents start to feel like something else, you ever have a memory that won't let go? Like, you're just living your life, trying to be normal, trying to move on, and then, bam, it shows up again. Uninvited. Loud. Messy. I've been trying to forget a few things for years now, but somehow, they've been creeping back into my head lately. And I think I'm finally at the point where I need to let it all out, put it somewhere other than just my brain. So here it goes.

Back in 2019, I was 14. Still a kid, really, but old enough to start noticing things that didn't sit quite right. That summer, my dad decided to take me and my brothers fishing. Now, none of us had ever gone fishing before, not seriously anyway. Maybe we'd seen it in cartoons or movies, but we weren't what you'd call outdoorsy. The idea kind of came out of nowhere. One minute we were sitting around the house being bored, the next he's loading up the truck with a cooler, a tackle box, some poles, and, a gun.

Yeah. A gun. I didn't think much of it at the time. I mean, he was our dad. When you're 14, your dad still has that, knows what he's doing, or a. You just assume they've got it figured out. If he brought a gun, it was probably for protection, right? Like if a bear showed up or something.

I never asked. None of US did. We just hopped in the truck and headed off to the lake. It was this big, kind of isolated place. Trees all around, water dark and still. No lifeguard, no boats zooming past. Just quiet. It was kind of nice, actually.

peaceful in a way I didn't expect. We unpacked, set up our spots, and tried to act like we knew what we were doing with fishing poles. Spoiler, we didn't. But after a while of awkward attempts, I actually got a bite. And not just a nibble. Like, a full-on tug. I started yelling, laughing, adrenaline rushing.

I had no idea what I was doing, but whatever was on the other end of the line was big. My pole was bending like it was about to snap in half. I was pulling and reeling, my arms shaking, feet slipping in the dirt. My brothers were cheering, kind of half-loughing at how ridiculous it looked. Even my dad seemed amused at first. Then, out of nowhere, he shouted, move back. I'll shoot it, and before I could even process what that meant, bang. I felt this blinding pain explode near my eye.

Everything blurred. I stumbled, dropped the pole, and fell back onto the ground. My head was spinning. There was blood on my hand when I touched my face, and for a second, I honestly thought I was dying. My brothers froze. No one moved. My dad rushed over.

His voice was shaky, like he couldn't believe what had happened. I was trying to hit the fish, he said. It just. I don't know. I didn't mean to. You moved too fast. Turns out, the bullet had grazed my eye. Didn't go in, didn't blind me, thank God. But it left a nasty cut, swelled up like crazy, and for days, it throbbed like I had a lightning bolt stuck behind my eyelid. We went home after that, obviously. He took me to the ER, and they patched me up. I told the doctors it was an accident. He told them the same thing.

No one asked too many questions. My eye healed eventually, mostly. But that whole moment stayed burned in my memory, like a video I couldn't stop replaying in my head. I didn't talk about it much afterward. We all just kind of, moved on. Like we agreed not to bring it up again. I convinced myself it was just bad luck. A stupid, careless mistake.

I never even questioned if you. there was more to it. Why would I? He was my dad. Dads don't shoot their kids. At least, they're not supposed to. Fast forward to now, or more specifically, about two weeks ago. I just got out of the hospital. This time, it wasn't my eye. This time, it was my back. Let me back up a bit. I'm living with my grandma now. Been here since getting discharged. It's safer here. Calmer. She makes breakfast and folds my clothes and doesn't slam doors when she's mad.

Being with her has been the only good thing about all of this. But the reason I ended up here isn't exactly something I can laugh about. It happened on a Saturday. I remember because I was supposed to hang out with some friends that afternoon, but my dad asked for help in the garage. He said we needed to clean it up, make space for a new workbench or something. something. The place was a mess. Tools everywhere, dusty shelves, old bike tires, and God knows what else buried under boxes from ten years ago. We were going through some bins when he

pulled out a case. Long and black. I recognized it instantly. His guns. I froze a little. Not because I was scared, at least not yet, but just because it reminded me of the fishing trip. That memory I thought I'd buried. But I didn't say anything. I figured, maybe he was just checking them. He used to clean them sometimes. Said it was a, Dad thing, whatever that means. He opened the case, pulled one out, sat at the bench, and started taking it apart.

Polishing. Inspecting. Wiping it down like it was some ancient relic. I tried to keep cleaning up in the background, pretending it didn't bother me. Then it happened again. Another bang. Another blinding pain. Only this time, it wasn't near my eye, it was in my back. My lower spine. I dropped instantly. My knees hit the concrete so hard I think I screamed. I couldn't move. It felt like someone had driven a hot piece of metal straight through my body. Blood started soaking through my shirt.

My fingers went numb. I thought I was going to pass out right there on the cold, greasy garage floor. My dad started yelling again. Not at me, just into the air. I didn't know it was loaded. I didn't know it was loaded, over and over, like he was trying to convince someone, me, maybe. Or himself. Next thing I knew, paramedics were there.

Sirens. Lights. Questions. I was in the hospital for days. Three surgeries. A terrifying conversation with a spinal surgeon about potential nerve damage and mobility risks. I don't remember most of the middle part, just that I kept waking up in pain and drifting off again. Eventually, I stabilized. The bullet had missed my spine by just enough that I could still walk, barely. My back feels like it's carrying a brick full time. I've got a long scar and a new fear of loud noises.

Oh, and an even bigger question burning a hole in my brain, did he do it on purpose? That's what's been eating at me. I didn't want to believe it. Not after the fishing trip. Not after the eye. But now. I can't stop wondering. I keep replaying both moments.

How it happened. What he said afterward. How calm he seemed. once the chaos faded. It's like my whole brain is glitching, trying to rewrite the narrative I've believed my whole life. There's this part of me that wants to scream, it was just another accident. That same part still sees him as my dad. Still hears him cracking jokes, cooking breakfast, blasting old music in the car. But there's another part now, a louder one, that doesn't buy it anymore. Two accidents. Two gunshots. One to my face and one to my spine. What are the odds?

My grandma didn't say much when she picked me up from the hospital. She just helped me into the car, packed up my stuff, and drove in silence. But later that night, she made me tea and said quietly, you don't have to go back there if you don't want to. That was it. No long lecture. No dramatic breakdown. Just calm, understanding, and safety. And now I'm here. Trying to process all of it. Every day since I left that hospital bed, I've been thinking more and more about the difference between accidents and patterns. I've heard people say trust is like glass. Once it breaks, it never goes back to the way it was. I used to trust my dad like he was bulletproof. Like nothing he did could ever really hurt me.

But now I'm not sure I even know who he is. Or maybe I do, and I just never let myself see it. I haven't spoken to him since I left. He hasn't called. No texts. Nothing. Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe he's waiting for me to reach out.

Or maybe, deep down, he knows I finally stopped believing the stories. I stopped nodding along. I stopped pretending, I didn't. know it was loaded, was a good enough excuse for nearly paralyzing your own son. So yeah. I'm not going back. Not for now. Maybe not ever. I don't know what happens next. Therapy, maybe. Trying to heal. Trying to focus on school, on normal stuff. My grandma says healing takes time. That some wounds don't bleed, but they still cut deep. All I know is, I've got two scars now.

One near my eye. One on my back. They remind me of who I am, what I've survived, and what I refuse to ignore anymore. Maybe someday I'll understand everything that happened. Maybe not. But at least now I'm not pretending anymore. The end.