Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Uncovering the Dark Secrets of Stinson Beach and the Haunting Pigman Tape PART7 #79

Episode Date: October 7, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #stinsonbeach #pigmantape #hauntingencounters #darkmysteries #truehorrorstories  “Uncovering the Dark Secrets of Stinson Beach and the Haunting Pigman Tape PART 7” takes the terror to new heights as the chilling legends and eerie encounters around Stinson Beach deepen. The Pigman Tape continues to unearth frightening truths, unexplained phenomena, and encounters that defy explanation. Each story amplifies the fear, proving that some secrets are far more sinister than anyone could imagine.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, stinsonbeach, pigmantape, darksecrets, hauntedstories, creepyencounters, paranormalfear, chillingtales, mysteriouslegends, nightmarefuel, truehorrorstories, unsettlingstories, hauntedplaces, terrifyingmoments, urbanlegends

When the guy behind the counter looked up from the bill and the cassette I'd slid across to him, there was this little moment where I thought he might just tell me to get lost. But instead, he sighed like I'd just given him a problem he didn't feel like solving on a Monday morning, nodded once, and said, all right. Follow me. He stood, taking both the $100 bill and the tape in his hand, and led me through a doorway into the back of the shop. The place opened into a cramped workshop, bare concrete floor, the air heavy with the same. smell of old electronics. There were shelves stacked high with all kinds of Frankenstein-looking video equipment, the kind of stuff that looked like it belonged in a museum, or a scrapyard. I'd done my own clumsy attempt at fixing the tape the night before, but it had been nothing

more than a desperate DIY hack job. This guy, though, he had tools. He had those precision, plastic-padded steel tongs, the kind that could flatten out wrinkles in a strip of magnetic tape without shredding it. Watching him work was hypnotic. He moved with this combination of speed and patience, like he'd been doing it for decades and knew exactly when to rush and when to slow down. Each crease in the tape got its own delicate press, the tong squeezing it back into something resembling its original flat, glossy shape. I didn't dare say anything, I just stood there, hands shoved into my pockets, watching this stranger work on the one object in the world I wasn't sure I wanted repaired. After what felt like an eternity of silent, careful movements, he pressed the last

crinkled section between the tongs and gently released it. All right, he said finally, setting the tongs down with a little metallic clink. That's about as flat as she's going to get. He rolled his chair back toward a TVNVCR combo that looked like it had been wheeled straight out of the 90s. With one hand, he slid the cassette into the VCR's slot. It made that satisfying Werchunk sound. swallowing the tape like it was hungry. Let's see what kind of life she's got left, he muttered, pressing play. The screen flickered, and there it was, the part of my fourth birthday I'd seen before, the happy section. My mom's sitting cross-legged on the carpet with me, both of us laughing over that little musical Teddy Bear. I knew exactly where this was headed,

but sitting there in that dim workshop with the smell of solder in the air, the whole thing felt heavier. The man glanced at me sideways. So which parts the trouble, I didn't answer. My throat was dry, and my stomach had that slow burn knot in it, like I just remembered something bad but couldn't quite bring it into focus. On the screen, my mom leaned over and gave me a big hug. My dad, off-camera, shifted the lens down toward the carpet and set the camcorder on the floor. Normally, this is where the picture had glitched out completely. But not this time. Now, the image held.

It was a little slower than normal, the colors slightly washed out, and the voices. God, the voices. Every time someone spoke, their words came out deeper, warped, almost demonic in tone. The effect was unintentional, just a side effect of the slowed playback, but it made everything feel wrong. The man leaned forward, fiddling with the tracking dial. better than before, before I could answer, it all came flooding back. And when I say, flooding, I don't mean a trickle of hazy images, I mean a wave, crashing into me hard enough to knock the breath out of my chest.

The memory hit with the force of rocks shattering under the surf. Oh my God, I whispered. I remembered this day. I remembered exactly what happened next. And it was the day I'd apparently spent my whole life trying to bury. The camera stayed low, still resting on the carpet. My dad's heavy footsteps pounded out of the room, and for a moment it was just me and my mom in frame. Then, just as suddenly, the footsteps returned, stomping back into view.

And he wasn't alone. He had a steak knife in his hand. Ben. What are you doing? My mom's voice, slow, deep, distorted, was still unmistakably panicked. Shut up, my dad's voice growled back, dropping like gravel out of the TV speakers. He knelt down on the floor, getting right in my four-year-old face. The knife tip stopped just inches from my nose.

I could see the light from the lamp glint off the blade. You little, the rest of the words dissolved into a string of curses, mean and venomous, but the distortion twisted them into something almost inhuman. Ben, let him go, I said shut the hell up, he snapped. Then, jabbing the knife toward me again, this little brat wants to play with girl toys, and I'm sick of it. Here, be a man. Cut it up.

On the tape, my tiny self started to cry. Not the gentle whimper of a kid pouting over a lost toy, this was full-on, terrified, hyperventilating sobbing. The kind of cry that shakes your whole little body. The sound, warped, slowed, and booming out of the workshop's cheap TV, was so intense it made the plastic casing of the screen actually vibrate. The whole moment felt unreal, like I was watching some cursed footage instead of a piece of my own life. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the repair guy turn to look at me, his face pale. Jesus, is that you, I couldn't even answer.

My eyes were locked on the TV. The footage skipped for a second, cutting forward, but when it came back, things had only gotten worse. Are you going to do it? My dad's voice was mocking now, dripping with cruelty. Benjamin. Stop. Mom shouted. Off camera, something exploded.

Not literally exploded, but the sound of my dad hitting her, hard, was so loud it echoed through the room like a cannon-muffled underwater. She went down. The camera, still resting where he'd put it, caught just enough of the doorway to show her body hitting the floor in the hallway. A red spatter appeared on the wall behind her, blood, spreading in thick drops. She lay there for a few seconds, not moving, before her hand twitched and she tried to push herself up. Meanwhile, my dad came back to me. The knife was still in his hand. And then, he stabbed at me. or, more specifically, at my chest. The blow landed, not in me, but in the teddy bear I'd been clutching.

The little toy took the hit like a shield, and its built-in music box began to play, the tune cheerful and absurdly out of place. The plastic heart in its chest lit up and bright, shifting colors, as if the bear was still trying to make me happy while being impaled. My dad yanked the knife out and stabbed again, this time into the floorboards next to me. over and over, each jab faster than the last, until the blade itself snapped with a metallic ping. The bear tumbled from his hand, its fabric torn wide open, stuffing spilling across the carpet in slow motion. Some of it landed on my lap, on my hair, floating down like fake snow

in a Christmas store window. The camcorders autofocus twitched, locking onto my little face for a moment. My eyes were huge, wet, my mouth trembling. I reached down, picked up the destroyed bear, and clumsily tried to shove the stuffing back inside, my fingers shaking. In the background, my dad's breathing was heavy, like he'd just run a mile. He started to pick the camera back up, but stopped when Mom, somehow, got to her feet. The image swung sideways as he set the camcorder down facing the wall. The audio caught a rush of footsteps, hers, coming toward me, and my own crying getting quiet as she carried me down the hallway. Somewhere in that movement, the distortion ended. The voices went

back to normal. And just like in the version I'd seen before, the last part played out, feet appeared on the right side of the screen. The camera tilted up to catch my dad's face. I'm sorry, he said. It won't happen again. All right, Mom replied quietly. I love you, I love you too. The tape rolled on a few more seconds before cutting out. I stopped the playback. The workshop fell into silence, the only sound the faint hum of the electronics. The repair guy didn't take his eyes off the blank screen. Kid, he said slowly, what the hell was that? I swallowed, trying to find the right words. My father was a monster. My voice cracked, but I kept going. And my mom knew it. They, kept this hidden. All these years.

They never told me. Never said a word, he didn't reply. I don't think he knew how. I stared at the tape still sitting in the VCR, the black plastic casing now looking more like some venomous animal curled up on the machine, waiting to bite. The reality sank in like cold water. My father had tried to kill me, a four-year-old kid, in a blind rage over a stuffed bear. If that toy hadn't been there, if it hadn't been in the exact place where he had been, he drove the knife. I clenched my fists. Part of me wanted to break down right there in the

workshop, to cry until my chest hurt. But another part of me, the louder part, refused. I stood, pulling my phone from my back pocket. It was vibrating. The caller ID lit up the screen. Dad. I just stared at it, my thumb hovering over the answer button. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end.