Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Uncovering the Dark Secrets of Stinson Beach and the Haunting Pigman Tape PART4 #76

Episode Date: October 7, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #stinsonbeach #pigmantape #hauntingencounters #truehorrorstories #darklegends  “Uncovering the Dark Secrets of Stinson Beach and the Haunting Pigman Tape PART 4” delves even further into the eerie mysteries surrounding Stinson Beach. With each revelation, the Pigman Tape continues to unnerve and disturb, exposing new chilling encounters, dark secrets, and unexplained phenomena. This chapter intensifies the fear and suspense, reminding us that some stories are far more terrifying when you uncover the full truth.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, stinsonbeach, pigmantape, darksecrets, hauntedstories, creepyencounters, paranormalfear, chillingtales, mysteriouslegends, nightmarefuel, truehorrorstories, unsettlingstories, hauntedplaces, terrifyingmoments, urbanlegends 

The darkness in his eyes didn't just unsettle me, it froze me completely, like my brain refused to process anything except that black, bottomless stare. I couldn't move, couldn't blink. I was locked there, as if invisible ropes had tied me to the spot. Then I heard it. Breathing. Not just the vague kind you imagine when you're scared, this was warm, rhythmic, and uncomfortably close.

I could feel the faint gusts of air hitting my face, cold and dim. damp, despite the fact that there was still a decent stretch of space between us. And then, he moved. Slowly, almost like a marionette, he raised one finger to his lips. That one, tiny motion felt heavier than any scream. Shoo, he whispered. The sound wasn't loud, yet somehow it carried far, past the boarded-up barber shop, drifting beyond the darkened pizza place, curling through the hollow silence of the street. I swear it went right through me, threading itself into my spine. The next second, he was gone. Vanished. The street was empty again, but I knew better than to believe I was actually alone.

I'd barely had time to exhale before I felt it, his breath, again. But this time it came from behind me. I turned. Nothing. Well, nothing except the dark. Not regular nighttime darkness, but something thicker, heavier, almost tangible. My mind struggled to recognize it until I realized, God, it was his eyes. The black swallowed everything else. Silence hung between us for what felt like forever. Then, breaking it with an almost jarring crack, came his voice. Well, hello, Grayson, he said, cheerful in the most wrong way possible.

And that's when I woke up. A nightmare. Just a nightmare. But it didn't feel like one. I'd had plenty of bad dreams about the pigment since watching that curse tape, but nothing compared to what came a few weeks later. That one still makes me clench my jaw when I think about it. In that dream, I was in a bedroom.

The walls weren't just painted, they were scribbled on, every inch covered in marker and crayon doodles. Messy rainbows Wobbly stick figures big, uneven letter spelling out things that didn't make much sense. The bed I'd woken up and was not mine. The blankets were scratchy, thin, and smelled faintly of dust and something metallic. I stepped into the hallway.

Children's voices drifted from somewhere ahead, singing. Not random kid songs, either. These were the exact voices I'd heard in the tape, echoing from room to room like the walls themselves carried the sound. As I walked, I peeked into each doorway I passed. Every single room was empty, just toys scattered across floors and more walls scrawled with drawings. Then I heard it. The music. The theme song.

It was coming from one of the rooms on my right. I stepped inside. Against the wall sat an old, battered radio, its speaker grumbling out the familiar melody. Next to it lay a diary. Its cover had a crude, childlike drawing of Mr. Piggyton. Something in my gut told me not to touch it, but of course I did. I opened to the first page. The handwriting was big and uneven, the way a child writes when they've just learned how to form letters.

Mr. Piggy said this is my new home. I like it here. I have so many toys. He said I can stay forever and ever. I love my new home. Mr. Piggyton gave me a chew-choo train. He made it for me and I like it a lot. I miss my mommy and daddy but Mr. Piggyton said I can never see them again.

It's okay because Mr. Piggy said I can have any toy I want. I can hear my mommy crying for me to come home. Mr. Piggyton said if I'm a good boy, I can go home. I don't believe him, my throat tightened. Every time I read his name, Mr. Piggyton, a picture. forced its way into my head. Him. Standing in the distance.

Knife dripping red. Watching. Always watching. I closed the diary fast and stepped out of the room, trying to shake the image. No luck. Because he was there. At the far end of the hallway.

This time, I knew I wasn't imagining it. He started toward me slowly, each step deliberate. He cradled something. in his arms, a small, blue remote control race car. I backed up until my spine pressed against the wall. He stopped right in front of me, head tilting slightly to one side. Hello, Grayson, he said in that absurdly high-pitched, almost cartoonish voice. I, made this just for you. Panic hit like ice water. I fumbled for the nearest door, the one leading to a staircase, and bolted. Footsteps echoed behind me. Don't run, Grayson, he called after me.

I only want to play, I didn't stop. It isn't safe to run down the stairs, he reminded me, voice lilting like a TV host teaching safety tips. Then, sing song, watch me do it, Grayson. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I hit the bottom, heart hammering, and tore through the door into a long hallway. Halfway down, I saw someone in one of the rooms, a boy, standing with his back to me, facing the window. He wore blue and white striped pajamas and didn't move.

Behind me, Mr. Piggotton's voice still echoed, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. I ducked into the boy's room, slammed the door, and locked it. The boy didn't turn around. I stepped closer and tapped his shoulder. Slowly, he lifted an arm and pointed outside. Through the window, all I saw was an old, a bandstander. in theater. Something about the room felt different from the others I'd seen. The walls weren't

just decorated, they were covered over and over with the same phrase, I want more. The boy finally faced me. That's when I saw it. His mouth was sewn shut. The name tag on his chest read, Hello, I'm Evan. Without speaking, couldn't speak, he bent down, picked up a blue marker, and scrawled on the wall. This is where the children play. A sudden pounding rattled the door, shaking the whole room. Evan dropped into the corner, covering his ears and rocking, his head thudding against the wall. The pounding grew louder. I rushed to the window, clawing at the frame, but it wouldn't budge. The door creaked open just enough for a slice of bread to be tossed inside. Evan scrambled toward it, hands shaking, trying to eat, but the stitches held his

mouth shut. He stopped, breathing hard, then walked back to the window and pointed again. I looked. The theater was still there. I leaned closer, squinting. That's when I saw it. Not outside, in the reflection. A name tag. On me. Hello, I'm Grayson. And behind me, in the reflection, stood Mr. Piggyton. His voice came out muffled, like he was speaking through. cloth, I made this for you, Grayson. He held the race car up to the glass. That's when I woke up. Even awake, I could still feel the cold of that room on my skin. Weeks passed, but the dreams stayed vivid, as if they weren't dreams at all. Then came my seventh birthday. The party was at the local playground. I didn't want to be there, playgrounds had become my personal nightmare,

but my parents said it was too late to change the plans. At first, it was fine. Cake. Friends. Balloons. Until the presents. There were the usual gifts, clothes from my grandmother, toys from my cousins, a couple of VHS tapes from my parents. Then came the last one. My mom read the tag aloud, to Grayson. No sender's name.

She assumed it was from one of the guests. I opened the box. Inside was a blue remote control race car. car. My breath stopped. I looked up from the table. Over near the swings, a group of kids sat in a perfect circle. And in the middle. Him. The pigman. Watching me. His dark eyes never moved from mine. He lifted one finger to his lips. Shoo, he whispered. The children around him began singing that song. I bolted for my mother, burying myself in her arms. She asked what was wrong, but I couldn't explain.

I just kept staring at him. And he just kept staring back. I never went to a playground again. To be continued.