3 Creepy Disturbing Horror Stories – Scary Stories You’ll Never Forget

Some stories don’t just scare you… they stay with you. 

In this episode of Blighty Nightmares, we bring you three creepy and deeply disturbing horror stories told in immersive, first-person style. Each tale taps into a different kind of fear—psychological, nostalgic, and supernatural. If you’re looking for slow-building dread, unforgettable imagery, and Mr. Nightmare–style horror, you’re in the right place. 

🧠 In this episode:
• The Ice Cream Man Doesn’t Blink – A childhood memory of a man who never ages… or blinks
• We Slept Beneath the Sky – A camping trip where the stars vanish… and something else appears
• The Lifeguard Who Didn’t Leave – After the accident, the figure by the pool keeps returning 

These stories aren’t just scary—they’re crafted to stay in your mind long after you hit pause. 

🎧 Follow Blighty Nightmares for more true horror, unsettling encounters, and creepy stories that dig under your skin and stay there. 

Transcript

I was eight the first time I saw the ice cream man smile. And I swear to you, he didn't blink. Not once. His truck would crawl down our street like it was hunting something. That warp jingle always played too slowly, off key, like a broken music box. Back then, I just thought he was weird. Now I think he was watching us. And now he's back. Only I'm not a kid anymore and I live four states away. So tell me, how the hell is that truck parked outside my house right now? I grew up in a quiet suburb in New Jersey. White fences, sprinklers on timers, kids biking in circles until the street lamps come on. Summer was magic. Would run barefoot across hot as fate to chase the ice cream truck. Budsicles, bomb pops, the little Sonic heads with gumball eyes. But there was one truck that didn't belong. No logos, just rust, white paint, a cracked mirror, and the offtempo music. The driver wore a pale blue shirt like a uniform, too neat, too clean, and dark aviator sunglasses always reflecting the sun. But the thing we all noticed, he didn't blink ever. We made jokes like kids do. Called him Mr. Freeze Face. But we kept going because he had the good stuff. The ones no other truck sold. Blue cones that melted into purple. Snow White bars that made your tongue go numb. One day, my friend Caleb said he followed the truck after it turned off our street. Said it didn't drive to another neighborhood. Said it just vanished behind the old church. We laughed it off. But then Caleb stopped coming outside. His parents said he was at camp. Only he never told us he was going. And when he came back a month later, he wouldn't talk, wouldn't make eye contact, and he didn't eat ice cream anymore. I moved away when I was 13. Life went on. Now I'm 32. I live alone. No kids, no noise. I forgotten all about him until last week. It was the middle of July. I was working from home. Headphones in editing a video. Then that sound, a jingle, slow, wart, faint at first, then louder. I froze. No other house on the block had kids. No reason for an ice cream truck. I ran to the window and there it was. Same white truck, same crack in the mirror, same music. and the man behind the wheel wearing the same uniform, same sunglasses, head perfectly still, staring up at my house. I told myself it was a coincidence, a trick of memory until the next day. I came home from the store and found something on my front steps. a halfmelted ice cream cone, bright blue, oozing purple, the same kind he gave us as kids. There was no truck, no kids, just a cone sitting there, melting into the cement. That night, I heard the music again. I opened my window and the truck was just idling at the corner. Headlights off, engine running, and I swear to you, his head turned towards me, but the rest of his body, it didn't move. Still no blinking. I checked the security cam the next morning. The footage glitched from 2:06 a.m. to 2:13 a.m. And when it came back, the truck was gone. But for two frames, you can see a tall figure at my porch holding something in one hand. I finally called the cops. They said no one else had reported a truck. No music, nothing. They promised to patrol the neighborhood. That night, I heard the music again. This time, it was closer. I stepped outside with a baseball bat. The street was empty. No lights, no sound until the jingle walked into a slower, more broken version. It sounded like it was playing from inside my own head. He stepped out from behind the truck, not walked, stepped like unfolding from nothing. He stood at the curb still, smile wide, eyes behind mirrored shades, and in one hand he held an ice cream cone. It was purple. He lifted the cone, offered it to me, and said, "It's still your favorite." His mouth moved, but a voice, it came from everywhere. I ran inside, slammed the door, locked everything. I called 911, but when I looked out again, the truck was gone, and so was the cone. The police came, searched, just found nothing. But that night, I found something in my freezer, tucked behind the frozen peas. A snow white bar, no wrapper. I didn't buy it. I haven't slept properly since. The jingle plays faintly in my ears, even when I unplug my headphones. Sometimes I wake up to the taste of sugar on my tongue. And when I look in the mirror, I don't blink for a long time. They told us it was the perfect place to camp. Remote, silent, beautiful. But something about the stars that night felt wrong. Too close, too still. My friend disappeared around 3:00 a.m. When we found him, he was smiling wide like his mouth had been stretched. He was whispering coordinates over and over. Now I know we weren't under the sky. We were inside something else. It was a Fourth of July weekend trip, just the four of us, me, my cousin Blake, and two friends from college, Sasha and Jordan. We wanted something off-rid, something real. Blake found this spot deep in the Arizona desert, a hidden canyon with no cell service and no light pollution. Perfect for stargazing, he said. And honestly, it was. The sky looked like it was painted. Black velvet scattered with diamonds. You could see every constellation, every faint streak of light. We parked, hiked half a mile, set up sleeping bags directly on the sand. No tents, no phones, just us and the stars. We spent the night laughing, drinking, and telling dumb ghost stories. At around midnight, I noticed something odd. The stars weren't twinkling. Not one of them. They just held perfectly still. No shimmer, no movement. I mentioned it to Sasha. She squinted and shrugged. Maybe it's the altitude. Blake joked that we were in assimilation, but Jordan, he stared straight up, quiet, then said, "Those aren't stars." We all laughed until he said it again, "Furmer. They're not stars. They're eyes." At first, we chalked it up to the weed and the whiskey. Jordan was always dramatic, but that night his behavior shifted. He wouldn't stop staring upwards, didn't blink, barely spoke. Around 3:00 a.m., I woke up to footsteps, soft padding through the sand. Jordan was gone. I figured that he went to pee. When 30 minutes passed and he still hadn't returned, we got up and grabbed our flashlights. We found him standing on the ridge, naked from the waist stop, arms hanging limp at his sides, just staring at the sky. His lips moved, whispering something. Blake stepped closer. Jordan. Jordan didn't move. I got close enough to hear what he was saying. Numbers, coordinates, over and over in a soft chant. 31.181109.55. We shook him, yelled, even slapped him. Finally, he blinked like he just woken up. No memory of what happened. But when we showed him the video, because of course Sasha filmed it, he didn't react. He just stared then quietly asked, "Did anything look back?" We hiked back early that morning. Something felt off in our heads, like forgetting a dream mid-sentence. But I couldn't shake that feeling that we were being watched. Not from the bushes or cliffs, from above, or maybe from within. That night back home, I looked up the coordinates Jordan whispered. It led to the exact canyon we camped in. But here's the part that turned my blood cold. An amateur astronomer had posted about that location 3 years earlier. He captured a time lapse of the stars above the canyon. And in one frame, just one, you can see every star vanish at the same time for exactly 1.8 8 seconds then come back as if something passed in front of them. I reached out to the guy, no response. His page hadn't been updated since 2020. 2 days later, Sasha stopped answering texts. Then Blake. And when I finally got him on the phone, he just said, "Have you looked at your ceiling lately?" Then hung up. That night, I stared at my ceiling, watched the little glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck up 3 years ago, just to see something familiar. But around 2:00 a.m., they moved. I know how crazy that sounds, but they moved slowly shifted to new positions. When I turned the light on, they stopped. But I could still hear them humming like a low electrical pulse coming from inside the walls. The next day I went to a neurologist. She ran scans. No traumas, no damage. But she asked me something strange. Have you ever experienced any prolonged episodes of visual echo? Like seeing stars when you close your eyes, but they don't fade? I hadn't told her anything. I left without answering because I knew she saw it too. It's been 2 months since the trip. Blake deleted all his social media. Sasha moved and won't answer calls. Jordan, he's missing. Last seen near the same canyon alone. When the police searched the tent, they found a message carved into the side wall. Don't look down. They look in and me. I sleep with blackout curtains now. Not to keep the light out, but to stop the sky from watching. Because when I stare up too long, the stars start to blink, but not in unison. They blink like they're waking up, and they know I saw them. The pool was supposed to be empty. No water, no people, locked down for over a decade. But as I stood at the edge of the deep bend, I saw someone sitting in the lifeguard chair. They weren't breathing. They weren't blinking. And the floor beneath my shoes was wet. Back in 2019, I volunteered for a city project clearing out old buildings. Mostly, it was easy stuff. moving boxes, checking for mold, turning off breakers. One assignment stuck with me. An old YMCA scheduled for demolition. It had been closed since 2006 after flood damage made the foundation unsafe. The upper floors were cleared out years ago, but the basement, that's where the pool was, they just locked it off and left it alone. My job was simple. inventory any remaining items before the wrecking crew came in. I was the only one there. Power was cut, just me and a flashlight. I made my way down to the pool level. Rusted signage, peeling paint, faint smell of mildew. The pool itself was drained. Just a dry tiled basin with a faded line marking the deep end. But as I stepped in, I slipped slightly. My shoes squeaked. Wet floor, but there was no water. I looked up and that's when I saw the lifeguard chair, tall, red, and someone sitting in it. At first, I thought it was a mannequin, maybe something left behind. But as I aimed my flashlight higher, the figure shifted slightly. They were wearing the uniform, white shirt, red cross, sunglasses, just sitting there upright still. I called out, "Hey, hello." No answer. No movement, but my flashlight flickered and I swear for a moment he was smiling. I backed away. I turned to leave and that's when I heard it, a splash. I spun around. The pool was empty, but the tiles at the bottom were soaked, like someone had just climbed out. There were footprints now, wet, bare feet from the drain towards the edge. I told myself I imagined it. Maybe condensation, maybe some broken pipe. When I came back the next day, this time with a coworker named Lena, we both heard the same thing. That music, faint echoing across the tile, a short whistle like the kind lifeguards used. And then footsteps walking above us, but we were in the basement. Ena was creeped out and left early. I stayed behind, stupidly determined to finish the job. I went back down one more time, phone light in hand, and I found the wet tile draped over the diving board, still damp, still warm. I checked the files upstairs. The YMCA had been evacuated in a hurry. One report mentioned a teenage lifeguard named Evan Kramer who went missing during the 2006 flood. He was last seen trying to help kids out to the pool as the water rushed in. They never recovered this body. I returned one final time. I don't know why. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe curiosity. Maybe I just wanted to prove myself I wasn't imagining it. It was pitch black. My flashlight was nearly dead. The moment I stepped out onto the pool deck, I heard breathing. Slow, wet, close. Then something touched my shoulder. I turned and there he was, not in the chair, not on the deck, standing halfway up the pool wall like he'd just risen from it. His mouth open, but no sound came out. His eyes were water logged, lips purple, his skin was stretched like he'd been bloated and dried over and over. And in one hand, he held a whistle. He raised it to his lips and blew. No sound, but my ears rung with pressure like I was underwater. I ran. I never went back. The building was demolished a month later, but sometimes I dream of water rushing over me, cold, endless, and I still see that red chair sinking slowly in the dark. When I wake up, the bed sheets are soaked with chloride water, and sometimes I hear the whistle just once, sharp, right before I fall asleep.