Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Unmasked Terrors Creepy Encounters with Vans, Horse Masks, and a Blank-Faced Stalker PART2 #2

Episode Date: October 18, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #unmaskedterrors #vanencounters #horsemaskhorror #blankfacestalker #truefear  Part 2 of Unmasked Terrors escalates the chilling encounters. Vans appear at more unexpected locations, horse-masked figures stalk with eerie persistence, and the blank-faced stalker’s actions intensify the fear. These true-inspired tales show how ordinary spaces can become terrifying, keeping readers on edge as the danger grows closer and more unpredictable.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, unmaskedterrors, vanencounters, horsemaskhorror, blankfacestalker, truefear, chillingencounters, unsettlingstories, nightmarefuel, streethorrors, creepyencounters, realfearstories, darkencounters, terrifyingmoments, fearintheunknown

Horror. Number one, the man in the blank mask. All right, so let me take you back to this one particular summer when I was 15. I was living in Buckinghamshire, England, way out on the edges of London. And when I say edges, I don't mean bustling suburbs with coffee shops on every corner and constant traffic noise. Nah, this was the kind of place where woods sprawl for miles, fields opened up like green oceans, and old red brick neighborhoods looked like they hadn't changed in decades. A small high street was pretty much the center of action, and even that would be dead quiet once the shops closed for the evening. The air always smelt fresh, like grass after rain or smoke from someone's fireplace in the winter. Basically, it felt like London was a hundred

miles away, even though technically we were part of it. I went to a secondary school nearby, nothing too fancy, just your average school full of bored teenagers waiting for life to actually start. That summer, I was buzzing, because the holidays were about to kick off. There was only one more week of school left, and you know how it is. Teachers were already half checked out, homework wasn't being taken seriously, and everyone was just counting down the days to freedom. It was a Friday evening when this whole thing went down. My parents were heading out to visit some family friends, and I flat out refused to go. At 15, hanging out in some strangers living room while adults talk about mortgages and gardening,

hard pass. Instead, I called one of my close friends over. Let's call her Emma. We figured we'd have the whole house to ourselves, two teenage girls, a stack of snacks, and total freedom. Sounds fun, right? Except, in hindsight, it's literally the setup for every horror film ever. If I'd heard someone else telling this story, I would have been like,

yep, that's how you die. Anyway, Emma came over and we hung out in the living room. You know the drill, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, gossiping about people from school, laughing at dumb inside jokes, raiding the fridge every 30 minutes just because we could. The TV was on, but there was nothing worth watching, so after a while we got the idea to rent a movie. This was before streaming made everything instant,

so yeah, we actually had to walk to the local video rental shop. It was only about a 15 to 20 minute walk, and the route cut across a public park and threw some sleepy neighborhoods, totally safe, at least in theory. We set off just as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The walk there was uneventful. We joked around, planned out the summer, talked about boys we liked.

When we got to the shop, we browsed the shelves and, naturally, ended up grabbing horror films. Because what else do you watch when you're home alone late at night? Comedies? Nah, we wanted the thrill. We paid, stuffed the DVDs in a plastic bag, and started walking back. That's when things shifted. We were at the end of the high street, the shops all dark and shutters pulled down, when Emma leaned in and whispered, Don't freak out, just keep walking, look behind us.

Of course, that made my heart lurch. I turned my head just slightly enough to see what she meant, and there he was. About 30 yards behind us, on the same footpath, stood a man. At first, nothing seemed too crazy, people walk around at night, but then I noticed two things that didn't add up. First, he was wearing a trench coat, a heavy, dark trench coat, even though it was July, and Emma and I were in shorts and tank tops, sweating from the walk. Second, and this was the kicker, he had a mask on.

Not a fun mask, not some colorful costume thing, just a plain, white, blank mask with empty holes where the eyes and mouth should be. the kind of mask that makes you think of cheap horror films or creepy internet legends. My stomach dropped. We both tried to act casual, but inside I was screaming. I told myself maybe he was some prankster, maybe he was just weird, but something about the way he was standing, silent still, made it feel so much darker than that. And then he started moving. Slowly he began to follow us.

He wasn't rushing or running, just walking with deliberate steps. The weirdest part, he had a metal crutch in one hand, the kind you'd use if you injured your leg or foot. But here's the thing, he didn't look injured. He wasn't limping, wasn't leaning on it, he carried it like it was a prop. That's when real fear hit. Emma muttered, let's call someone. But then it hit us. Neither of us had brought our phones.

Rookie mistake. We picked up the pace, walking faster, pretending we weren't panicking. Every sound seemed louder. Every shadow stretched further. Eventually, we risked a glance back, and he was gone, just like that, vanished. We let out shaky laughs, relief washing over us. Probably just some weirdo. We hurried home, locked the door, and collapsed on the sofa, laughing nervously.

Well, that was creepy, we said. But we figured that was the end. end of it. Spoiler, it wasn't. We popped one of the horror movies into the DVD player, killed the lights, and settled in. The jump scares were making a squeal and laugh the way you do when you're safe inside. Halfway through, Emma suddenly muted the sound and said, Shush, listen. At first, I thought she was messing with me. Then I heard it too. A sound outside. Movement. Not a car, not a neighbor. Just something. My parents weren't due back for hours, so there shouldn't have been anyone outside.

Alarm bells went off in my head. We tiptoed to the window, pulled back the curtain ever so slightly, and that's when I felt my stomach turned to ice. He was there. The man in the mask, standing in the driveway, facing our front door. He didn't move, didn't knock, didn't shout, just stood there, staring. Or at least I think he was staring, it's hard to tell through a mask like that. But the way his head tilted slightly toward the door made it seem like he was planning something.

Maybe he was deciding whether to try the handle. We panicked. We ran upstairs, straight to my parents' bedroom, and locked ourselves in the bathroom. Lights off, curtains closed, hearts hammering. We crouched there, whispering about what to do. Neither of us wanted to make a sound. We knew enough from horror films and crime shows to realize this could end really, really badly. Finally, Emma pulled out her last option.

She called her brother. He was a university student, six foot two, a rugby player with the bill to match. If anyone could handle a masked lunatic, it was him. She told him what was happening, her voice trembling. He didn't even hesitate. I'll be there, he said. Those ten minutes waiting for him were some of the longest of my life. Every creak of the house felt like footsteps.

Every tick of the clock made me jump. Elbows pressed against knees, we just sat there, praying he'd show up before anything worse happened. Finally, headlights swept across the driveway. Emma's brother had arrived, and he wasn't alone. Two of his rugby mates piled out of the car with him, all three of them holding cricket bats like they were ready for war. They rang the doorbell, and we scrambled downstairs to let them in. The second we opened the door, her brother asked, where is he? We pointed out where we'd last seen the man, right outside the door. But now, nothing, no sign of him. One of the guys

stood guard at the door, another shone a torch around the yard, and the rest of us went room to room, flipping on lights, checking every corner, every wardrobe. The house was empty. We regrouped in the living room, adrenaline still pumping. Nobody could explain it. Maybe he left when he saw the car pull up. Maybe he was still lurking in the shadows, waiting. Either way, we were shaken. We sat there, all five of us, going over what happened,

like it was some campfire story, except we were part of it. When my parents finally came home, we told them everything. My mom immediately called the police, and sure, in hindsight, we should have called them first, but at the time, Emma's brother felt like the quicker, more reliable option. The police, predictably, didn't find anything. No footprints, no sign of forced entry, just nothing, like he was never there. We never saw him again.

Life moved on. But the story stuck with me. And here's the kicker. Months later, I mentioned it to my history teacher. We got along pretty well, and I figured he'd get a kick out of a spooky story. As I finished, he leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. Then he told me something that sent chills down my spine. Back when he was a student at the same school in the mid-1970s, there had been rumors.

Stories passed around by kids about a strange loner who lived in the woods on the edge of town. They said he wore a blank mask and only came out at night. night, so no one could ever identify him. Some claimed he was a rapist, others a devil-worshipper, some even whispered he was a cannibal. My teacher never believed it. He and his mates never saw anything, so they wrote it off as just creepy local folklore, kids scaring each other with tales. But hearing him say that, and then thinking back to the man who followed us, that chill returned. Because what if it wasn't just folklore? What if somehow the masked man from the rumors and the man who stood outside my house decades later were connected? The timeline didn't even make sense. 40 years is a long time.

But still, the idea that this figure had haunted our quiet little town for generations