Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Unmasking the Fear Real Terrifying Stories of Home Intrusions and Hidden Threats PART2 #56

Episode Date: October 4, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #homeintrusions #hiddenthreats #creepyrealstories #nightterror #truestories  Part 2 continues the harrowing accounts of home intrusions and hidden dangers. These true stories reveal how quickly normal life can turn into a nightmare, as unseen threats escalate and homeowners face terrifying encounters that leave lasting scars.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, homeintrusions, hiddenthreats, creepyrealstories, nightterror, truestories, spinechilling, suspensefulmoments, eerieencounters, disturbingtruths, survivalhorror, terrifyingencounters, mysteriousintruders, hauntedhomes, darkrealities

I was driving through what you could generously call the middle of nowhere, although honestly, calling it middle, implied there was an end somewhere. There wasn't. It was just flat, dry desert stretching out in all directions under a sky so pale it almost looked bleached. I'd been on the road for hours, the hum of my tires in my ears, earbuds jammed in and music playing just loud enough to block out my own thoughts. That's when I spotted him. At first, I thought it was just a murraying. some dark blotch wobbling in the heat haze ahead. But as I got closer, the blotch turned

into a man. He was standing right there in the middle of the road, bent forward like his spine had given up on him. Then, without warning, he puked. Full-on vomit splattered across the cracked pavement, a wet sound even my music couldn't completely drown out. I slowed down out of reflex, you see someone hurling in the middle of a road, you get curious, and that's when the details hit me. Corderoi pants. Blue Crocs. Who even wears crocs in the desert? His mouth was lopsided, like one side just wasn't keeping up with the other, and several teeth were gone. The whole thing had a weird cartoonish quality, except there was nothing funny about it. He turned toward me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and I swear his eyes didn't match, like one of

was trying to focus on me and the other was busy with something over my shoulder. I couldn't hear him through my closed window and earbuds, but I could tell he was saying something. My gut twisted. I didn't like this. I grabbed my phone and called 911, rattling off an approximate location and telling the operator there was this guy in the middle of the road who had just tried to get into my car. And yeah, he had tried. As I'd slowed down, I felt the thunk of my back passenger door handle being pulled. That was enough to spike my adrenaline. The operator was still talking, asking questions, but my attention was locked on the guy. He wandered away from my car and started shuffling toward the desert like someone had just told him the ocean was out there

somewhere and he was determined to swim. Hanging from his belt, right in the small of his back, was one of those leather pouches retail workers used for box cutters. My stomach dropped. I told the operator, he's got a knife, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. She said something about staying put, but I was already putting the car in gear. I wasn't sticking around to see what box he planned on cutting open. My hands were shaking as I drove, every nerve screaming for me to keep moving. I didn't stop until my fuel gauge was dangerously close to empty, and even then, I sat there at the gas pump for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to process what the hell had just happened. That's when it hit me. I don't smoke. Never have. But there,

on the floor of my back seat, was an empty cigarette pack. The brand didn't matter. What mattered was that stale, sour smell lingering in the air, the smell I'd been noticing for hours but dismissing. He hadn't been trying to get in. He'd been getting out. My whole body went cold. He'd been in my back seat. God knows how long. Ever since I'd left San John, New Mexico, that's what I figured. The door slam I'd heard earlier wasn't my imagination, it was him leaving. I'd been sitting there, earbuds in, music going, completely oblivious to the fact that I had a passenger who hadn't been invited. The realization clawed up my spine. He could have killed me at any time. Slit my throat while I was laughing at a song lyric. And I never would have seen it coming. I don't know if he was

high, drunk, sick, or maybe just completely detached from reality, but for whatever reason, he hadn't decided to hurt me. Maybe that was luck. Maybe he'd been planning to, but something made him change his mind. I'll never know. I never found out what happened to him either. Did the cops pick him up? Did he wander off into the desert until the sun? fried him. No clue. I don't tell that story much because, honestly, people don't believe me. They think I'm making it up for shock value. I wish I was. I also haven't worn earbuds in the car since that day. Flash forward a few months. Spring of 99. Different situation, but the kind of night that changes how you think about safety. Back then, I was living in a loft apartment in Boulder, Colorado.

It wasn't luxury living by any stretch, the ceiling above my kitchen table leaked whenever it rained, the air conditioner roared like a freight train, and the floorboards had more creaks than a haunted house. But it had a cozy charm, plus a view of the Rockies that looked like something out of a postcard. By day, I worked at a hardware store. By night, I wrote articles for a local paper. My routine was simple, get home, pour a glass of wine, write for three hours. maybe edit my column, then crash around one or two in the morning. The building only had two lofts on the second floor, mine, and the one directly across the hall. That other apartment

had been empty for years, until one day a middle-aged woman moved in with a herd of cats. We didn't have numbers or A and B labels on the doors, which was weird but didn't matter to me since I got all my mail at a P-O box. I didn't know it then, but that little detail, the last lack of numbers, might have nearly gotten me killed. One night, I was at my desk, classical music playing low on the radio, wine glass half full, typing away. Around 1 a.m., I got up to refill my glass. On a random impulse, I glanced out the peephole of my front door, and froze. Across the hall, outside my neighbor's door, stood a short, heavyset bald man. He was wearing gray socks but no shoes, dark jeans, a green windbreaker, and gloves. He was turning her doorknob, slow and careful,

like he was trying not to make a sound. My heart thudded so hard I could feel it in my teeth. I didn't know him. Never seen him around. Everything about his body language screamed that he was trying to get in without being noticed. I watched for half a minute, maybe more, my breath shallow. He bent down and unzipped a gym bag I hadn't noticed before. When I caught a glimpse of his face, something about it made my skin crawl, older than I expected, eyes sharp and searching. I stepped back to set my wine glass down, then pressed both palms to the door and peered out again. This time, he was looking right at my door.

And he was holding a crowbar. My chest tightened. I felt sweat sliding down my neck. Had he seen the light from my desk lamp vanish when I stepped away from the people? Was he guessing I was here? He stepped forward and jiggled my doorknob. Once. Twice.

Slowly. Testing. If that door hadn't been locked, we'd be standing face to face. Then, the worst part, he knocked. Soft, three little taps. And whispered, open it. It was like ice water poured down my spine. He couldn't know I was standing there, could he?

Was he bluffing? I stayed silent. Didn't move. Barely breathed. After ten seconds that felt like ten years, he picked up his bag and patted down the stairs without a sound, socks muffling his footsteps. I counted to twenty, then grabbed my old Nokia and called the cops, whispering the whole time. I was still on the phone when I glanced out my window, and saw him. He was on the sidewalk below, staring up at me. When he noticed me looking, he waved. Then walked into the alley across the street. The police arrived minutes later, slow but steady. They searched the alley, then came upstairs to talk to me and my neighbor. That's when things got, weird. Turns out, she was in witness protection. By morning, she and her cats were gone, escorted away by two men in

FBI jackets. Never saw her again. The man never caught. My gut says he wasn't just a random burglar. My theory, he didn't know which loft was hers, so he tested both doors. Later, I learned about the Whitey Bulger trial. She had a Boston accent. Do the math. The next day, I added three new locks to my door. Lived there four more years. That other loft stayed empty the whole time. There's always a reason to be afraid. The end.