Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Whispers in the Snow Christmas Creatures, Ghosts, and the Night the Sky Moved PART2 #54

Episode Date: September 14, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #winterghosts #holidayhorror #unexplainedlights #darkchristmas #snowspirits  Whispers in the Snow: Christmas Creatures, Ghosts, and the Night the Sky Moved – PART 2The horror deepens in Part 2 as the snow-covered nightmare unfolds further. Strange creatures stalk the silent white fields, and the whispers are no longer distant—they’re at the window. The sky behaves like something alive, warping with colors no one can explain, while ghostly figures roam beneath the frozen stars. What started as an eerie Christmas evening now feels like a descent into something ancient and inhuman. Shadows grow bolder, and the line between reality and the supernatural vanishes. If you thought you were safe inside, think again.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, christmascreatures, hauntedholidays, winterhorror, skyphenomena, chillingencounters, part2, ghostsofthecold, snowparanormal, festivehorror, mysteriouslights, frostbitefear, supernaturalwinter, nightvisitors, unknownentities

The whole time I was outside that day, I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone. Not like I was being watched, exactly. It was more like, someone else was just there, on the property with me. Lurking. Not moving or making a sound, but still definitely present. I tried to brush it off as paranoia. I mean, unless someone had some weird obsession with the cabin, there wasn't a single reason for anyone to be this far up the hill.

We were surrounded by trees and old power lines, nothing else. Just snow, woods, and silence. Eventually, I headed back inside, and noticed I had a couple of missed calls. My friends had called, letting me know they were on their way and would be there in about an hour. I got dinner started, tossed some food in the oven, then went out and grabbed more firewood. I had just settled in, boots off, feet up, maybe half a minute into relay. when I heard a sharp knock at the window. It wasn't polite. It was forceful. Like someone trying to get my attention, not say hi. I froze. The knocking hadn't come from the front, where someone

would naturally walk up. No. It came from the kitchen window. That side of the cabin. Pure forest. No paths, no driveway, no lights. Just trees. Slowly, I got up and walked toward the sound, already half expecting one of my friends to be messing with me. But when I looked through the window, no one was there. I squinted into the gloom beyond the glass. Still nothing. So I grabbed my flashlight, opened the back door, and pointed the beam toward the woods. That's when I saw it, a vague figure.

An outline. Definitely a person. Hey. I shouted, stepping out into the snow. For crunches in and I stopped. The sound of my boots against the snow was so loud it almost echoed. I glanced down. Tracks mine, obviously.

Leading from the front door to where I now stood. Then I turned the flashlight back toward the window where I heard the knock. No tracks. None. Not even disturbed powder. Whoever had not. hadn't walked there. Not in any normal way. I stood still for ten seconds, maybe more, just staring back and forth between the trees and the snow under the window. I turned and marched

back inside, angry with myself. I was convinced I was being ridiculous. Another one of those moments where I start imagining things. My mind creating threats out of wind, shadows, and tree limbs. But then, more knocking. This time at the front door. Finally, I thought, Friends. Normal. I exhaled in relief, walked over, and opened it.

No one. No cars in the driveway. No tracks leading up the stairs. Nothing. That chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the winter. Someone was screwing with me. Someone was out there. just out of sight, playing games.

I suddenly got this overwhelming certainty that they were trying to distract me, pull my attention to one side of the cabin while they messed with the other. I wasn't going to play their game. I grabbed my sidearm from the duffel bag, flicked the safety off, and started clearing the house. Both bedrooms. The small bathroom. Even the closet where the water heater is.

I checked every window too, making sure they were locked. up tight. I was just walking back into the living room when I saw it, a shadow. Human-sized, maybe five foot seven. It passed across the front lawn, caught in the yellow glow of the porch light. My heart kicked up a notch. Gotcha. I threw open the door and raised the weapon. Nothing. No figure. Not even a blur of movement. Again, no footprints. My own were the only one scarring the snow. Then the back door slammed. Not swung shut. Slammed. Hard. I spun, nearly firing a shot in my panic. I sprinted to the back, threw it open, and aimed. Empty. Only my own footprints again. That's when I said, nope. I shut both doors,

locked them, and flipped every light switch off until the only illumination was from the fireplace. I stashed the gun in the filing cabinet, locked it, and dropped the key in a jar across the room. I didn't want to overreact. For the next 25 minutes, I sat by the fire and just listened as various knocking and pounding sounds hit windows around the house. Sometimes soft. Sometimes hard enough to rattle the glass. I didn't move. I didn't look. I pretended it wasn't happening. Then headlights cut through the mist. My friends. I stood up, flipped on all the lights, and greeted them at the door like everything was perfectly fine. The rest of the night.

Pretty chill. We decorated a tiny tree, played cards, drank a lot. I smiled the whole time. Didn't say a word about what had happened. That night, I slept on the couch. Listen to footsteps crossed the roof above me and just, ignored it. If that was the end of the story, I wouldn't even be writing this. I would have blamed it on stress, paranoia, maybe a stray animal.

But the next morning, I was making coffee when my buddy stepped back inside from his morning smoke. His wife called to him from the bedroom, asking, hey, did you see anything out there last night? I raised my eyebrow and asked, see what? He said, we both heard footsteps on the roof last night. We thought maybe you were messing around, but we checked this morning. There ain't a single footprint up there. Not in the snow. Not even a handprint.

I didn't say a thing. I just handed him his coffee. Now, that story would be creepy enough on its own. But it reminded me of something else, a tale my grandfather once told me. One of the best and scariest stories I ever heard. It was Christmas Eve, 1959. My grandfather was 18 years old and laid up on the couch with a broken leg. The leg was in a big old cast, propped up on the armrest.

He was home alone, listening to the radio and watching snow drift past the windows. The fire was crackling, and he was using a long iron poker to stir the logs now and then. Quiet night. Cold and still. The family farm was in the middle of nowhere, rural Kansas. His dad and brothers were out in the barn, which was about a mile away. He didn't know where his mom was. Maybe she was visiting the neighbors. Who knows? Anyway, it was about 8 p.m. My grandfather was skimming through the newspaper, reading something about Eisenhower, when there was this furious pounding on the front door. Like someone was trying to break it down with their fists.

Then came the voice, drunk, furious, full of rage. That's IT, Owen. You're going to die tonight. Now, Owen was my great-grandfather. But he wasn't home. And my grandfather couldn't even get off the couch. He didn't answer. Just quietly pulled a rug across the floor with the fire poker

until he could reach the shotgun leaning against the fireplace. He picked it up and cocked it, pointing it right at the door. For ten straight minutes, the man outside circled the house, screaming, slamming on windows, yelling Owen's name like a lunatic. Said he was going to, gut him like a pig. My grandfather didn't move. He didn't blink. Just waited.

Then, the front door exploded open. The guy had kicked it in. A blast of freezing wind and snow hit the room, along with the stench of whiskey and cigarettes. The man stomped through the hall into the living room like he owned the place. He was tall, skinny, and crazy-looking. Gray beard, brown teeth, eyes wide as hubcaps. And get this, barefoot. In the snow.

In Kansas. In December. He didn't see my grandfather at first. His eyes were scanning the room like a rat. But then he spotted the couch. Saw the shotgun. And froze. My grandpa pulled back the hammer on one barrel.

Get the hell out, he growled. The guy looked mad. Not scared. Mad. Where's Owen? He hissed. Get. Out.

The man backed up a step. Then turned and wandered into the kitchen. like he owned the place. He found a pint of whiskey in the pantry, chugged it, smashed the bottle in the sink, and shouted back, tell Owen I said Merry Christmas. He walked out the front, knocking over the firewood pile. My grandpa didn't follow.

Couldn't. But a minute later, he smelled smoke. Looked outside and saw that the guy had lit the firewood pile. He was trying to burn the place down. My grandpa dragged himself over to the door with the shotgun. But the wind and snow were already dousing the flames. The guy had vanished. When Owen and the boys got back and saw the scorched steps, they asked what happened.

Grandpa told them everything. Owen didn't say a word. Just grabbed the shotgun, lit a lantern, and followed the man's tracks out into the snow. He didn't come back until Christmas morning. When he did, he dropped the gun on the table and muttered, damn thing wasn't even loaded. Grandpa asked if he got him. Owen just nodded and said, oh, yes. That was it.

No details. Never said how he knew the man. Never said what he did to him. I once asked my grandpa if he thought Owen killed him. He looked me dead in the eye and said, I'm almost positive he did. Then I asked, but how? If the shotgun wasn't loaded. He just smiled and said, there are dozens of ways to kill a man with your hands. The end.