Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Unmasking the Fear Real Terrifying Stories of Home Intrusions and Hidden Threats PART2 #63

Episode Date: October 5, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #homeintrusions #hiddenthreats #creepyencounters #nightterror #truestories  Part 2 continues the terrifying true accounts of home intrusions and hidden dangers. Unseen threats intensify, creating tense situations that push victims to the edge. These stories reveal that even familiar spaces can conceal chilling encounters, leaving lasting fear and cautionary lessons.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, homeintrusions, hiddenthreats, creepyencounters, nightterror, truestories, spinechilling, suspensefulmoments, eerieencounters, disturbingtruths, survivalhorror, terrifyingencounters, mysteriousintruders, hauntedhomes, darkrealities

You ever have one of those nights where everything feels just a little, off. Like the air is too still, the shadows stretched just a bit too long, and even the familiar noises in your house seem to pause and listen with you. That's how it was for me that night. I'd been in the kitchen earlier, doing nothing important, probably just looking for a late snack, when I ended up stopping in front of the window. From there, I had a pretty clear view of our backyard and the barn out past the grass.

I don't remember why I stayed there so long, but at some point, I tilted my head back and just stared up at the stars. The sky was clear enough that the constellations were sharp and bright, like someone had carefully dotted them on with a fine tip pen. I was about to roll myself backward, literally, since I was in my wheelchair at the time, and head back to whatever I'd been doing in the kitchen. That's when I noticed something. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. The moonlight was spilling across the yard, catching on the edges of the barn. And right there, in that pale silver light, two figures stepped out of the barn and started walking toward my house. Now, I've had my fair share of, what the hell, moments, but that one hit differently.

I froze, still holding the curtain in my hand, too nervous to even let it fall back into place. My first instinct wasn't to hide, no, for some reason, I made myself keep watching them. It was the way they moved that got me. They weren't just walking casually. They were holding hands. I remember actually saying it out loud, are those, kids. And with that one thought, most of the fear I'd been feeling slid right off me and got

replaced by something else entirely, irritation. I mean, who were these brats, wandering into our yard at 9 o'clock at night? We didn't exactly live in a bustling neighborhood. We were in a pretty isolated area, and the direction they were coming from. It would have meant hiking through the woods in the dark just to get here. That was my first mistake. Instead of just keeping quiet, I opened the window and called out, hey, what are you doing? Both figures froze instantly.

They didn't drop their hands, didn't move an inch, just stood there, locked in place like someone had hit paws. Get out of our yard. I yelled again. Silence. Maybe five seconds. And then, one of them spoke. The voice was calm. Too calm. It was muffled, like it was coming through something, a mask, maybe. But it was the words that made my stomach flip and all that earlier fear come rushing back twice as strong. Can we come in? Something about that question. It wasn't how kids talk when they're lost or need help. It wasn't even a request. It felt like they were testing me, waiting to see if I'd make the wrong move. By now, my eyes had adjusted to the moonlit yard, and I finally got a good look at them. And that's when I realized they weren't kids at all.

They were probably teenagers, tall enough, anyway, and both of them were wearing white porcelain masks. Each mask had one of those painted on smiles, stretched way too wide. The kind that looks cheerful until you stare at it for more than a second and realize it's, wrong. Sadistic, even. My mouth went dry. Whatever I was going to say next died in my throat. My hand started shaking. I slammed the window shut hard enough to rattle the glass and pushed myself backward across the dining room as fast as I could. I rolled into the living room, turned off the TV and every light I could reach, and plunged the house into totally.

darkness. Then I moved into the den. I didn't even stay in the wheelchair, I got out and crawled across the floor to another window so I could peek out without making noise. And there they were. Same spot. Still holding hands. Still staring at the house. I watched them for a few more seconds, my heart pounding, until one of them slowly raised their free hand and waved. Not a casual waved to, the house, in general, no, they waved right at me. That's when the bottom really dropped out of my stomach. I ducked back under the window, swearing under my breath. There was no way they could have seen me in that darkness. I'd barely let my face peek above the sill, and I hadn't turned on a single light. I sat there, trying to think. I didn't know if all the doors were locked.

I didn't know if the garage door was shut. I didn't know if the garage door was shut. I didn't I didn't know when my family was getting back. And worst of all, I couldn't exactly move quickly enough to check every entry point. I grabbed the phone on my desk and called my mom's cell, but it went straight to voicemail. She was probably in a movie. Tried my dad. Same thing. I thought about calling the cops, but what would I even tell them?

Hi, there are two people in creepy masks standing in my yard, and they waved at me. They hadn't actually threatened me or tried to break in, yet. And I had no idea how to explain that gut-deep sense of danger to someone over the phone. I got back into my wheelchair and started rolling through the hallway between the kitchen and living room. That's when I heard it. A knock at the front door. And then that same muffled voice, can we come in?

My stomach turned to ice. I turned away from the door and headed toward the stairs. My plan was to crawl up them on my hands and knees, get to my room, and lock myself in until my family came home. Our front door had these narrow vertical windows running down one side, and just as I reached the stairs, a masked face appeared in one of them. They tilted their head to the side, like a curious dog. I froze.

Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Then they disappeared from the window. That's when I noticed the deadbolt was unlocked. All it would take was one twist of the knob and they'd be inside. Before I could even react, there was a knock at the back door. And another muffled voice. I couldn't even make out the words over the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

Then, rattling. Someone was testing the handle. I shut my eyes and buried my face in my hands. I'm not religious, but right then, I prayed. I prayed hard. I don't know how long I sat there, could have been ten minutes, could have been an hour. Eventually, I looked up. No one was at the windows anymore.

I slid out of the wheelchair and crawled up the stairs into my room, locked the door, and sat against it. Right before shutting it, though, I could have sworn I saw something in the hallway below, a dark figure, slowly tiptoeing up the stairs. I spent the rest of the night in my room, sweating and shaking. My family got home after 1 a.m., and they said I looked so bad they almost called an ambulance, thinking I'd had a stroke. I never saw those masked people again. My parents didn't believe me, no break in, no damage, no proof. Just another bad dream, in their eyes. But I know what I saw. And if I had to choose between reliving that night or breaking both my legs again, I'd take the cast and crutches without hesitation. Because nothing, nothing, compares to the feeling of looking into the hollow black eyes of a porcelain mask. Part 2. I used to live in a two-story place in Boise, Idaho. Both floors were meant to be part of one big apartment, but I only used the upstairs. The bottom floor. Completely empty the

whole time I lived there. To get to my place, I'd go around the back, across the deck, and up a set of old wooden stairs. There was an inside door that connected my living, room to the downstairs, but it was deadbolted from my side, and at the bottom of those stairs, there was another door, deadbolted from the other side. I'd asked my landlord a few times why nobody rented the bottom unit, and he'd just shrug. Bad reputation, he'd say. Apparently, the place had caught fire in the late 80s and two people had died down there. One night, a nasty storm rolled in, thunder, lightning, the works. I was watching football in my love. I was watching football in my living room when the power cut out. I sighed, lit a few candles, grabbed a flashlight,

and figured I might as well just turn in early. It was only 9 p.m., but I climbed into bed anyway. Problem was, I wasn't remotely tired. I tossed, I turned. An hour passed. At around 10, I was about to start making shadow puppets just to keep from going crazy when I heard it, a door slamming somewhere in the house. I shot it. I shot up. upright. I knew I was alone. No one was supposed to be downstairs. Then came the sound of heavy footsteps, charging up the stairs from the bottom apartment. And then, someone slammed into the connecting door. Hard. I grabbed my phone, locked my bedroom door, and called the cops. I was practically yelling into the phone, telling the operator someone was in my house, trying to break in.

Whoever it was, they weren't just knocking, they were hitting the door like they had a sledgehammer, over and over. The operator said she could hear it too. Told me officers were on their way. I stayed on the line, rambling, telling her who my parents were and to tell them I loved them if I didn't make it. The police arrived fast, their sirens drowning out the thunder. I heard them yelling, police, from downstairs, and the pounding stopped immediately. They came to the back deck and I let them in. But before I could even ask if they'd caught the intruder,

they were rushing me outside into the rain, saying the house was on fire. I sat in the back of a patrol car, soaked and shivering, watching them run in and out with flashlights. Then the fire truck showed up. Finally, one officer climbed into the car with me, handed me a towel, and started asking questions. I told him everything, but he said something that. made my blood run cold. The bottom door. Still dead bolted from the inside. My door. Same thing.

No damage to either one. And despite the overwhelming smell of smoke in the house, there was no fire anywhere. The landlord came by later, and when I told him I wasn't crazy, he gave me this grim look. He told me about the last tenants, a single father and his disabled son. One night, the boy accidentally set fire to the carpet, and they both got trapped in that very stairwell, unable to open either door. They died of smoke inhalation right there. I moved out the next month, because there's always a reason to be afraid. The end.