Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Witnessed a Daylight Murder, Slipped, Bled, and Got Treated Like the Criminal #79

Episode Date: August 18, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #witnessaccount #daylightmurder #injustice #thrillerstory #survivalhorror  This intense and unsettling story follows a witness to a brutal daylight murder who suffers injuries while trying to escape but ends up being treated like the perpetrator. Facing injustice, suspicion, and fear, the narrator navigates a nightmarish situation where truth is twisted and survival depends on more than just escaping danger. A raw tale of chaos, betrayal, and injustice.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, daylightmurder, witness, injustice, survival, thriller, crimehorror, chaos, rawemotion, policecorruption, fear, darktruth, escape, urbanhorror, dangerousencounter

All right. I don't know if I'm doing this the right way since it's my first time sharing something like this, but here goes nothing. It's a day that's burned into my memory like it happened yesterday, even though it's been years now. August 22, 2016. That date is tattooed into my brain whether I like it or not. Back then, I was working at this auto parts store, one of those old school places that's been around so long it felt like the walls were holding on out of sheer stubbornness. The building was ancient, and because of that, we didn't have a proper back room. Instead, all the extra inventory that didn't fit on the shelves was stored outside in a big old trailer. So, whenever corporate sent down one of those dreaded rescan orders for overstock, I'd have to head out there and bake in the sun while scanning barcodes for hours on end.

Now, behind our store was this thrift shop. It wasn't anything fancy, just one of those run-down second-hand stores where the over-es sign flickered like it was dying and the clothes smelled faintly of mothballs. Out behind that thrift shop, there was a little bench. For some reason, it became the spot for high school kids to hang out after school. I guess it was secluded enough that no adults would really bother them, but it was still close enough to the main road that they could see if a parent was pulling up to drag them home.

Some days, they'd just sit there, scrolling on their phones, laughing, sharing headphones. Other days, though. Pure chaos. Arguments would break out over stupid stuff, someone like someone's girlfriend, or somebody said something on Snapchat that pissed off the wrong person, and before you knew it, fists were flying. It wasn't unusual to hear the sound of sneakers scuffing the pavement or someone shouting, yo, chill, from across the lot. But I'd gotten used to it. Kids being kids, right? Anyway, it was about 3.30 in the afternoon. A classic summer day in the deep south. If you've ever been down here in late August, you know exactly what I'm talking about,

the kind of heat that feels like it's trying to cook you alive, where even the air feels heavy and damp in your lungs. I'd been in that trailer for a good hour, and I felt like I was melting into a puddle. Sweat was dripping down my face and stinging my eyes, my shirt stuck to my back, and my scanner was beeping in that slow, annoying rhythm. Finally, I decided I needed to step out and breathe for a second. So I slid open the door to the trailer, stepped out, and leaned against the side. I tipped my head back, squinting against the sun, and took a deep breath. Even though it was hot as hell, the breeze felt good on my sticky skin. That's when I heard it. This car, a beat-up grand

Marquis, comes tearing into the lot like it's being chased by the devil himself. Tires screech, gravel flies everywhere, and my first thought was, damn, somebody's in a hurry. But before I could even finish the thought, the driver slams on the brakes, and a guy jumps out. He's moving fast, too fast. And then it happens. He runs straight up to another guy, one of the kids hanging out behind the thrift store, and without hesitation, pulls out gun. Pop. Pop. Three shots, just like that. Time stopped. I don't even know how to describe it. It wasn't like in the movies where you hear dramatic music or everything goes into slow motion. No. It was fast and loud and terrifying. One second the kid was standing there, and the next

he was jerking backward as bullets tore into him. Then the shooter turned. And we locked eyes. For a split second, I swear the world froze. It was like he saw straight into my soul, and all I could think was, I'm next. He's going to shoot me too. I'm about to die right here, in this parking lot, over nothing. My brain screamed run. So I did.

I spun around to take off back toward the store, but my foot hit a patch of loose gravel, and I went down, hard. My knees scraped the ground, and my chin slammed into the pavement with a sickening crack. Pain exploded through my face, and I tasted blood. I was laying there, dazed, thinking, this is it. He's going to walk over and finish me off. But instead, I heard the car door slam. Tires squealed again, and when I looked up, the Grand Marquis was already speeding away.

I caught a glimpse of at least three or four other people packed in. inside before it disappeared around the corner. Shaking, I scrambled to my feet. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely push the door open. Inside, it was chaos. People were screaming, crying, running around. My store manager spotted me first. Her eyes went wide when she saw the blood pouring down my face. Oh my God! You've been shot, she screamed. I, I don't think so. I stammered. I stumbled to the mirror behind the counter and felt my stomach flip. My chin was split wide open, hanging in a way that made me want to puke. Blood was everywhere, on my shirt, dripping down my neck, pooling onto the floor. Meanwhile, one of my co-workers was staring out the window,

yelling, oh my God. He's dead. He's dead. Apparently, the kid who got shot had managed to run a few feet before collapsing in the parking lot right in front of our store. The manager came running back with a big bottle of rubbing alcohol. Here, let me clean it, she said, her hands trembling. No. I yelled, shoving her away. The thought of alcohol hitting my open wound made me want to scream. She tried to hold my chin together with band-aids, but they were useless. The blood kept soaking through, so I ended up holding a towel against it myself. A few minutes later, an off-duty cop showed up. He'd been nearby when the call came in and pulled into our lot. He checked on the kid in the parking lot first, but there was nothing he could do. The kid was gone. More

cops arrived soon after, and that's when things got even weirder for me. They came into the store and immediately started barking questions. Who saw what? Where did the shooter? Where did the shoot or go, we all pointed at me. She needs medical attention, my manager shouted. But they barely looked at me. Instead, one officer grabbed my arm and said, you need to come with us. What? No. I protested. I need to get to a hospital first. Look at me, you can ride in the ambulance after we ask you a few questions, he snapped. No. I'll take myself, I argued. Not happening, he said flatly. He yanked open the back door of his squad car.

Get in, I'm not getting in there. I said, can't I sit in the front, nope. My stuff's up there, so now I'm standing there, dripping blood, being treated like I'm the one who pulled the trigger. To make matters worse, someone had posted about the shooting in this Facebook group called, Where They At Though, or W-T-A-T-T-A-T for short. The group started out as a place where people would warn each other about roadblocks and speed traps, but it turned into a gossip hub for anything happening in the area. By now, word had gotten out that the shooter had been pulled out of the parts store.

People in the comments were saying, they caught the killer at the auto parts place. I was furious. I pulled out my phone with a bloody hand, took a quick selfie, and posted in the group, No, I'm a victim. I fell running. Eventually, another cop came over and asked me in this deep, scary voice, what did you see? At that point, I was so freaked out I couldn't even tell the truth. Nothing, I said quickly.

I saw the ground. That's it. In reality, I had stared that shooter in the face. But I wasn't about to say that out loud. Not when the way he killed that boy made it clear he wouldn't hesitate to do the same to me. Hours passed. I still hadn't received any medical attention. The store was locked down, and nobody was allowed to leave.

Finally, my district manager showed up. He took one look at me and said, we've got to get you out of here, but the cops still weren't letting anyone leave. It took another hour before they finally escorted me out. My co-worker drove me to the hospital, where I ended up getting five stitches. The doctor gave me a little removal kit and sent me home. For weeks after that, I was terrified. I told my district manager I didn't feel safe at that store anymore, so they transferred me to a different location.

Still, I kept looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. The fear that those guys would come back for me never really left. Detectives visited me several times. Even the county commissioner came by. But I stayed tight-lipped. I felt bad about it, sure. But I was scared out of my mind. A month later, I saw the news. They'd caught the killer. I pulled up the article, saw his mugshot, and just broke down crying. It was him. The same man I'd come face to face with that day. I don't think I'll ever forget those eyes. The end.