Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Uncovering the Dark Secrets of Stinson Beach and the Haunting Pigman Tape PART1 #73

Episode Date: October 7, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #stinsonbeach #pigmantape #darksecrets #truehorrorstories #hauntingencounters  “Uncovering the Dark Secrets of Stinson Beach and the Haunting Pigman Tape PART 1” takes you into a chilling mix of urban legend and true horror. Stinson Beach hides eerie mysteries, and the infamous Pigman Tape adds another layer of fear with its disturbing content. These stories explore the unsettling blend of folklore, hidden truths, and encounters that leave lasting nightmares, reminding us that some secrets were never meant to be uncovered.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, stinsonbeach, pigmantape, darksecrets, urbanlegends, truehorrorstories, chillingtales, hauntedstories, creepyencounters, mysteriouslegends, paranormalfear, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, hauntedplaces, terrifyingmoments

Number one, before I get into the meat of what happened, there are a few details you should know. I'm not the kind of guy who usually posts online about weird things, and I'm definitely not one of those conspiracy or paranormal forum junkies. I live in Northern California, in a small townhouse with my girlfriend. We have our routines, our bills, our occasional weekend getaways, basically, the kind of quiet, forgettable life where the strangest thing you expect to find on the beach is maybe a half-bearer. frisbee or a dead crab. I'm changing names and even place references here, not because I'm paranoid, but because I've seen what happens when people start digging around the wrong kind of story. They go looking for answers, but instead they find the same trouble the original person found. And I wouldn't wish that on anybody. So, this is me being cautious. Also, I should apologize

in advance, I know this is going to be long. I've tried trimming it down, but at every time I do, it loses the shape of what happened. And besides, I haven't slept properly in days. My brain feels like it's full of wet sand, thoughts keep slipping and breaking apart, and sometimes I forget what I was even talking about mid-sentence. But here we go. Saturday, March 26th, it was supposed to be just a lazy day out. My friend John and I decided to take a drive to the coast. We ended up at Stinson Beach, one of those long, deceptively peaceful stretches where the water looks calm, but you know the currents will drag you under if you give them a chance. We were wandering near the far end, away from the cluster of families and tourists, when John's

foot caught on something sticking out of the sand. At first I thought it was driftwood, but when I bent down and brushed away the grains, I realized it was the corner of a camcorder, half buried, half drowned. I yanked it out, and water immediately dripped out from every seam. Sand was packed into every button, every little ridge. The battery pack was gone entirely. Whatever had happened to it, it hadn't been gentle. I grabbed my beach towel and tried to dry it off. Out of habit, I popped open the cassette compartment. To my surprise, there was still a tape inside. It was one of those small digital cartridges with a yellow head and a Panasonic logo, no label, no writing, nothing to hint at what might be recorded. The camera itself looked trashed beyond repair, but the tape seemed, maybe salvageable.

I had an old Sony digital camcorder at home that used the same type of tape, so I decided to take it with me. John dropped me off later that day, and I put the camcorder and tape on my desk. Then, as happens with a hundred other things in life, I forgot all about it for nearly a week. Thursday, March 31st. John came over again the following Thursday. He spotted the tape sitting on my desk and asked if I tried playing it. I told him I hadn't even touched it since that day at the beach. We decided to check it out right then. I loaded the tape into my Sony camcorder, hooked it up to my PC through the Firewire port,

and opened my video capture software. We scanned for footage, only one clip appeared. I'll try to describe it exactly as I remember. The camera is pointed down a narrow dirt path, maybe a deer trail. On either side, tall dry grass and small bushes sway gently. The lighting says it's either early morning or evening, the sky is cloudless but has that soft orange tint the sun leaves behind. A woman is walking a few feet ahead of the camera,

her back toward us. She's barefoot. She's wearing the bottom half of what used to be a one-piece swimsuit, the top has been ripped or cut away and now hangs uselessly from her hips. From the waist up, she's naked, her skin pale under the fading light. Her back is covered in angry red welts and shallow cuts, the kind that make you wince just seeing them. It looked like someone had beaten her with something thin and hard. Her hands are bound behind her with what looks like twine, thin, rough, digging into her wrists so tightly that her fingers are turning blue. Tiny rivulets of blood run down her hands, dripping onto the dirt path as she walks. The only sounds are her slow footsteps, the distant cry of seagulls, and the faint rush of ocean

waves. She takes maybe a dozen more steps, and then, a man's voice cuts in, harsh and impatient. Are you filming? You better not be filming yet, I told you to wait till we get inside. side. And then the clip ends. John and I just sat there for a second, staring at the frozen frame before the software flickered back to the menu. My stomach was in knots. That wasn't some art project. That wasn't a prank. Someone had filmed a woman who was clearly hurt, restrained, maybe worse. I tried saving the clip, but every time I played it back, the file turned into scrambled green lines with no sound. John decided to take the tape home, thinking maybe his MacBook or his parents' camcorder could do a better job at recovering it.

I let him, and that was the last time I saw the tape in my possession. Friday, April 1st, a normal workday. Nothing strange. I called John to see if he'd had any luck, but he said he hadn't looked at the tape yet. He planned to borrow his parents' camcorder over the weekend. Sunday, April 3rd, John called in his car. the evening. He sounded almost, excited. He said he'd managed to get the clip to play on his Mac, though the sound was still missing. I told him to just upload it, but he wanted more time

to try and recover the audio first. Wednesday, April 6th, I hadn't been able to reach him for two days, calls went straight to voicemail. Then, just as I was leaving work, my phone rang. Looking back, I realized something was off in his voice. It was flat, almost robotic, like he was reciting lines without emotion. He didn't mention the tape directly. Instead, he said he'd found something in that we needed to go back to the beach. I told him there was no way I could drive out there midweek after work. It's nearly a two-hour drive, and by the time we'd arrive, it would be dark.

For some reason, that seemed to frustrate him. I promised we'd go Saturday. He insisted he had to go that night, that there was something I had to see. I asked what, but he wouldn't tell me. Finally, he muttered something like, stubborn bastard, and hung up. Thursday, April 7th. No answer from John. His voicemail was full.

Friday, April 8th. I got up for my morning shower and noticed something odd, a thin layer of wet sand spread across the bottom of the top. My first thought was that Sarah, my girlfriend, had finally rinsed off her bathing suit from our beach trip a couple of weeks ago. But her suit wasn't hanging anywhere to dry. I shrugged it off and went to work. Later, my phone chimed with a new voicemail. It was from John.

His voice was calm this time, almost casual. I'm going back to Stinson again tomorrow morning. Meet me there. There's something I want to show you. That was it. When I got home that evening, Sarah still wasn't back from work. I made dinner, watched TV, and waited. By 8 p.m., I was worried. I called her workplace, they said she'd left at 4 p.m. I called her mom in L.A., but she hadn't heard from her either. I fell asleep on the couch, the TV murmuring in the background. To be continued.