Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Unexplained Terror The Phantom Truck Attack and the Well of Screaming Voices PART2 #32

Episode Date: October 11, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #phantomtruck #wellofscreamingvoices #truehorrorstories #paranormalencounters #creepyrealities  “Unexplained Terror: The Phantom Truck Attack and the Well of Screaming Voices PART 2” continues the harrowing tales of supernatural terror. This installment dives deeper into encounters with the phantom truck and the chilling well of screaming voices, capturing suspense, fear, and unexplainable phenomena. Each story emphasizes the unsettling, unpredictable nature of paranormal events and the lasting impact they have on the witnesses.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, phantomtruck, wellofscreamingvoices, truehorrorstories, paranormalencounters, creepyrealities, chillingtales, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, frighteningexperiences, darkreallife, mysteriousencounters, hauntedlocations, terrifyingmoments, realfear

Horror. Number two, My Story, rewritten in 4,000 words. I don't really know how to start without immediately sounding like I've either lost my grip on reality or I'm trying way too hard to be spooky. But since there's no good way to ease into something like this, I'll just spit it out straight. I've been hearing voices underground. Yeah, I know how that sounds. Voices Underground instantly makes you think of some cheap horror movie plot, or maybe that I need medication, right? But let me clear something up before you roll your eyes. I'm not schizophrenic. I've never had hallucinations. I don't walk around muttering to myself or imagining people that aren't there. What I'm talking about wasn't happening in my head. These weren't thoughts. These were actual

sounds, clear as day, coming from somewhere below me, like through stone, through earth, echoing from a place I couldn't see. And it all started when I was 15. Backstory, the house and the well. I grew up in this small town in Missouri called Ryle. If you've never heard of it, I'm not surprised. It's rural as hell. The kind of town with one diner, two gas stations, and neighbors who've known each other for so long, they all argue over nonsense at church, but still show up at each other's barbecues. Our backyard was big, long, and wild. It stretched way back until it eventually faded into a thick tree line. Right before the property ended, hidden behind brush, weeds, and overgrown vines sat this old stone well. The well had been there forever. My dad thought it probably dated back to when

the land was farmland. He told me some story about settlers and how water used to be drawn bucket by bucket, but honestly, as a kid, none of that mattered. What mattered was that the well scared me and fascinated me at the same time. I don't remember the very first time I saw it, but my parents swore I was obsessed with it when I was little. They said any time they let me outside, I'd immediately sprint toward the tree line just to stand near it, stare at it, touch the mossy stones like it was some kind of treasure. And apparently, I don't remember this part myself, but they told me I used to claim there were people down there talking to me. Actual people!

Like I'd be holding full-on conversations with invisible friends who, in my mind, weren't invisible at all. They were in the well. Of course, my parents brushed it off as imagination. Every kid invents things, right? Monsters under the bed, voices in the closet. It was cute to them. Maybe a little concerning, but nothing worth more than a laugh.

The day it started, age 15. Fast forward to me as a teenager. Fifteen. Sweaty, awkward, full of hormones, just trying to get through life without completely embarrassing myself. It was summer, the kind of sticky, hot Missouri summer where the air feels like you're walking through soup. My mom had nagged me enough times about mowing the lawn that I finally gave in. I was trudging up and down the yard with the mower, sweat dripping into my eyes when I noticed something weird. At first, I thought it was just the mower being loud and messing with my ears, but no, there was definitely a sound cutting through the growl of the engine. It was faint, distant, but sharp enough to make me stop in my tracks. It sounded like screaming. Not just one person screaming either, several, like a whole group of

people in absolute agony. I froze. turned off the mower and just listened. And there it was again, high-pitched, raw, desperate, the kind of sound that sends a chill straight through your bones. It didn't sound like someone stubbed their toe. It sounded like someone was being tortured. Curiosity got the better of me, as it usually does in situations where it absolutely shouldn't. I walked toward the tree line. Every step I took closer, the sound sharpened, more screams, more. voices. When I reached the clearing, I saw it again, the old stone well. I hadn't thought about it in years. It was almost completely hidden now by weeds and branches. The stones were green with moss,

cracked, worn down by time. And the opening was just black, a bottomless pit. I leaned closer, and that's when it hit me. The screaming wasn't just coming from the woods. It was coming directly from inside the well. I swear to you, it didn't sound like echoes or tricks of the wind. It was down there, deep, deep underground. And then, one of the voices called my name. Not in a faint, maybe I imagined it way, clear, sharp, dragged out, like someone who knew me. Jake. My heart nearly exploded. I jumped back so fast I tripped over a tree root and almost face planted. My chest felt like it was going to burst through my ribs. I sprinted straight out of the woods like I was being chased by demons and ran to the garage, where my older brother was tinkering with his piece of crap car. There are people in the well,

I shouted, practically grabbing him by the arm. He gave me that classic older brother look, the one that says, you're such an idiot. But to my surprise, he actually followed me back. When we reached the well, the screaming was still going, louder than ever. My skin was crawling, and I stayed back, practically trembling. My brother, though, he strolled right up to the edge, leaned over casually, and even spad into it. Well, where's the screaming? He asked. I stared at him like he'd lost his mind. The sound was deafening to me, vibrating through my whole body. But he just looked confused, like I was wasting his time. Then came the loudest scream yet, a woman's voice, shrill, ripping through the air.

I physically flinched, my brother didn't even blink. That's when I realized he couldn't hear it. Obsession and fear. From months after that, I refused to go near the well. But the sound stuck with me. Every night when I tried to sleep, I'd hear echoes of those screams, not hallucinations, but memories. Like the sound had imprinted.

It's tinted itself in my head. I kept replaying the scene with my brother, wondering if he was pranking me. But that didn't make sense. He wasn't the type to go through that much effort. He could barely clean his room, let alone set up hidden speakers in a forgotten well. And how would he have timed it so perfectly to call my name? The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. A few months later, I decided to test it. This time I brought my cousin and her dog, Molly. I didn't tell them about the well. I just suggested a walk. As soon as we got close, the screaming started again. My blood went cold. Molly, though, totally calm. My cousin, oblivious. She even danced around the edge of the well like it was nothing. I could hear dozens of voices begging for mercy,

pleading for help. They didn't hear a thing. I made up some excuse and bolted back to the house, locked myself in a closet and cried until I couldn't anymore. The cassette recorder. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to go back alone. I brought an old cassette recorder. My plan was simple, set it by the well, capture the sound, and finally proved to myself, and maybe others, that it was real. I placed the recorder on the edge, hit record, and ducked behind a tree. For 15 minutes, I listened as the voices wailed. Some called my name. Others begged for death, begged for release. When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I grabbed the recorder and sprinted back home. My hands shook as I rewound the tape. I pressed play. What came out

was nothing. Just the normal forest sounds. Birds chirping, wind-blumming, no voices, no screams, nothing. That's when I started wondering if maybe I was losing my mind. Seven years later. I stayed away from the well for seven years, moved out, tried to forget about it. But when I was 22, I went back to my mom's place to feed her cat while she was on vacation. For some reason, I still can't explain, I decided to walk out to the well. The voices were still there. I only stood there for a minute, but in that minute, I heard two things that my blood froze. First, I hung for days. No one came. Second, she killed your sister. Family secrets. That night, when my mom got back, I asked about my great uncle, her dad's brother. She told me he'd killed himself in his shed, hung himself with an extension cord,

took them four days to find him. Then I asked if I ever had a sister. Her face changed immediately, anger, shock, like I'd hit some forbidden nerve. She demanded to know why I'd ask that. I kept pushing until she finally admitted that between me and my brother, she'd had a pregnancy terminated. I didn't know what to say. I felt sick. The last time. I didn't go back to the well until a year later, when my mom was selling the house.

I brought plywood and nails and covered it, hammering it shut while the voices screamed at me from below. One of them shouted, you'll be joining us soon. Another, your daughter will be raped at 18. At the time, I wasn't even in a relationship. Now, I'm married. My daughter is three months old. Closing thoughts. I don't care if you think I'm lying, crazy, or making up ghost stories for the internet. I know what I heard. The only place I've ever heard those voices was at that well in Missouri. You could come with me. I could show you. But odds are, you wouldn't hear a damn. You'd be. You wouldn't hear a damn. You. thing. I used to think heaven and hell were just stories. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe hell isn't down there in the sense of fire and brimstone. Maybe it's closer than we think. And maybe there's always a reason to be a...