Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. I'd booked a cabin for a
long we kin just outside a tiny place in eastern Tennessee,
Cold Worthen Hollow. I wasn't going for some epic wilderness
experience or anything like that. I just needed space. So
when I found a listing that promised and plugged serenity,
it sounded perfect. No neighbors within a mile, no WiFi,
no cell service, just woods and a small wooden cabin
up on a ridge. At the time, that sounded peaceful.
Now I think about that detail a little differently. The
place was run by an older couple who lived at
the bottom of the hill. I met them briefly when
I arrived. They were polite but didn't linger. The man
handed me a big, heavy flashlight and said something about
the power sometimes acting funny in a wind. His wife
gave me this quick smile and said, if you hear coyotes,
don't worry, they're farther away than the sound. That was it.
No tourt, no lingering questions. I think they'll keeping to themselves,
which worked fine for me. I just wanted to drop
off the grid for a few days and maybe feel
a little more like a person again. The cabin itself
was simple, wood paneling, one bedroom, a porch with two chairs,
a kitchen with exactly three forks, and one of those
tiny hotel style coffee makers. No TV, no radio, not
even a clock. It was clean, but it didn't feel
lived in, more like a display model. The walls had
a few faded photos of the nearby hills, some old
logging cabins, maybe a church or two, but no signs
that any one had ever stayed long. My first night
was exactly what I hoped for. I made a big
bowl of pasta red on the porch until it caught
too dark, then passed out early. The silence was so
completely felt heavy, not in a creepy way at first,
more like a weighted blanket I didn't realize I needed.
The next day, I drove a few miles to hike
this little trail i'd found on an old block. It
was steep in places and not particularly well maintained, but
it was pretty mostly trees, a few rocky overlooks, and
not another soul inside. I took a bunch of pictures,
bark textures, tree roots, an old mossy sign that just
said ridge Trail Loop and didn't really look at any
of them. Afterward. I got back to the cabin late afternoon,
knee aching and made a grilled cheese with some stuff
I brought from home. That night, though, something just felled off.
And I don't mean in a dramatic horror movie kind
of way. It was subtle. The air felt charged, like
the staticy get when a storm was coming, but the
sky had been clear all day. I brushed it off,
probably just nerves on my body finally flowing down after
weeks of tension. It was a round nine When I
heard the knocking. I was brushing my teeth in the
little bathroom, how sonning out when it happened. Three short knocks, clear, rhythmic,
not loud, just for him, and they came from the
back door. Now there was only one way up to
the cabin, and that was the gravel path that led
to the front. The back door. It opened on to
dense woods, no trail, no step, snow lights, just thick
trees and waste high weeds. I froze too for still
in my hand, I weeded nothing. Then again, three knocks,
exactly the same. My first thought was animal or raccoon,
mae be, but it didn't sound like that. There was rhythm,
like someone was standing there with a purpose. I turned
off the bathroom light and crept out toward the back
of the cabin, trying not to make any noise. I
peeked through the window. Total darkness, no movement, no flashlight beam,
no sound at all. Eventually I took myself into thinking
it had to be something harmless, an old screen shifting
in the wind, or maybe a branch hit the dough
just right. I locked both doors again, double checked the windows,
and left the kitchen light on. I also slept in
my jeans and kept my boots next to the bed
just in case. I didn't even brush out my hair.
The next morning, I tried to tell myself i'd overreacted.
I went out to the porch with my coffee, and
that's when I saw something that stopped me. Cold coffee
mug sitting upside down on the edge of the gravel
path right before the tree line started. Perfectly clean, white ceramic,
no riding, no chips. It was too far from the
cabin to have just rolled out there. It had been
placed intentionally. I hadn't brought any muggside. I'd only used
the same ship blue one inside the whole time, and
this one I hadn't seen it in the kitchen. I
picked it up. It felt warm, like I had been
out in the early sun for a while. I brought
it in and set it in the counter, figuring maybe
the host left it by mistake, maybe they came by
early and didn't want to knock. I even tried to
message then through airm just to check there was no signal,
but the message stayed em out box sending. I figured
it'd go through when I hit town again that night.
The final one started out fine. I read on the couch,
flipped through a crosswoodook i'd brought, tried not to check
the clock too much. I was half way through a
chapter when it happened again, three knocks. Only this time
they came from the front door. I froze. There was
no reason, none for some one to be at that door.
No neighbors, no deliveries, no other cabins. I hadn't even
told anyone exactly where I was staying. The knocks came again,
not pounding, just even deliberate. Then a voice. It was
a man's voice from totally steady, not I sat there
in the dark, the book slipping off my lap and waited.
There was no other sound, no footsteps, no more knocking,
just stillness. After a few minutes I heard something crunch
softly on the gravel, like some one turning away. Then nothing.
I didn't sleep much. I kept every light off and
sat there with a flasc eight in my lap until
it was light enough to see outside what I finally
got the nerve to open the door. Nothing was there,
But when I stepped around the side of the cabin
I saw the mug again, this time upright, sitting white
beneath the bedroom window, right next to where I had
left my boots the first night. I didn't touch it.
I went inside, threw everything into my back and got
out of there. By seven, I stopped briefly at the
host house to return the keys. The place looked completely empty,
no light, snow car. I knocked, but no one answered.
I left the keys on their mat and drove until
my phone finally lit back up, the air blasting gone
like completely vanished, my message still show descending, no reply,
no record. I'd been burned out. Work had been a
nun stop loop for months. And everything in the city
felt loud, email's pinging, neighbors stomping upstairs, sirens every night,
like the whole place was wound too tight. I wanted
some more quiet someway still, so when I saw the
cabin listing, it felt like the right call. It was
a smaller frame red roof two bedrooms, just a few
minutes from Bishop Trail Preserve added that trail saved in
my note since the spring. The pictures made it look peaceful,
somewhere between rustic and cozy. There was a little fire pit,
a half dead lawn, surrounded by pine and pople trees,
and the kind of vibe that says no one's going
to bother you out here. The reviews were decent. A
few people mentioned the Wi Fi barely worked and that
sal reception was body at best, but they also said
the place was clean, the beds were comfortable, and the
air felt safe. So I booked it three nights Friday
through Monday. No calls, no deadlines, just quiet. The drive
out from Hausen took longer than I expected. Once I
left the main roads and stif darted climbing into the hills,
the signal dropped fast. I lost service about twenty minutes
before I pulled up to the place. No Google Maps anymore,
just the host email directions and some handritten notes I
had made on a post it. By the time I
got there, it was pushing late afternoon. The sun was
already starting to sink behind the trees, throwing long shadows
across the gravel driveway. The cabin looked like the phetos,
but more tired. The pain on the trim was cracked
and peeling. There was russ where the gutterer met the siding.
The steps up to the porch had a soft give
to them, like the wood had started to rot. When
I opened the front door, this faint mossy smell drifted out,
not awful, just dent like old leaves and rains of
ply would. Inside it was fine, a little worn, sure,
but clean enough. The furniture was all second hand stuff,
soft arm chairs that didn't match, a low coffee table
that had been sounded down and stained, and evenly a
chip ceramic lamp with a buzzing bulb. But the sheets
were freshed. The bathroom was stocked. There was even a
binder on the counter labeled welcome guest in big bubbly
fond filled with local restaurant menus in a list of
house rules written in comic sands. I tossed my duffel
in the bed in the bigger room, cracked the window
and an inch to let in some fresh air, and
didn't bother on packing. I wasn't there to settle in.
I just needed to break that. First night was pretty uneventful.
I made some postor read a few chapters of a
beat up paperback i'd brought, and then brought a drink
outside of the fire pit. The air had that clean,
chilly edge that makes your skin feel tighter. Crickets were
out in full force, and somewhere in the distance I
heard a few dogs, barking farm dogs probably Otherwise it
was quiet, not peaceful, quiet, like full stop quiet, the
kind that makes you notice every creek of your chair,
every breath you take. I stayed out there until about ten,
then went inside, brush my teeth and crawled into bed.
It was one of those rare nights where you expect
to toss and turn but ended up slipping on the
right away. Just as I was drifting off, I heard
a sound, not a knock, not really, more like a
doll bump like something hit the outer wall. I froze.
Ten seconds later, another bumb same spot, same delphad like
some one leaned against it slowly. I stood up, walked
over to the window and looked out total darcas a
kind that swallows the glass. I didn't see anything, didn't
hear anything else. After a few minutes, I went back
to bed, told myself it was a deer or maybe
a raccoon nosing around. The Next morning, there were marks
under that window, just a few small, curved scuff lines
in the wood, like something had rubbed up against it.
Not claw marks were anything dramatic, just enough to notice.
I stared at them for a minute, then shrugged it off.
That day, I finally hit the trail, did the full
six smile loop. I took my time, stopped to eat
a sandwich on a flat rock near the ridge, took
a few photos that I couldn't post because I still
had no service, And by the time I got back
to the cabin, my legs were full of that satisfying
nick you only get from walking farther than you meant to.
I showered, made dinner, and by seven had already felt
like night. That second evening, I tried to sit outside again,
but I didn't feel right. There was no wind, no bugs,
no night birds, this heavy stillness in the trees like
everything out there was waiting for something. I know how
that sounds, but it didn't feel like imagination. It felt
like the whole patch of forrest had taken a breath
and refused to let it out. I stayed up maybe
ten minutes. Then I went back inside, unlocked every door.
I woke up again at midnight. Another thud, same wall,
same way to slow bump. I didn't move. I just
lay there listening, waiting for it to happen again. But
it didn't. Eventually I got up, walked into the kitchen
and pulled the curtain aside an inch. There was someone
standing behind a cabin, not close, maybe ten feet back,
but clear enough to make out the shape, tall then
longer than normal, arms just hanging at their sides. They
weren't moving, not waving, not pacing, not even sway, just
standing there looking at the wall or maybe the window.
I couldn't see a face, just the outline. I backed
away without making sound. I sat down on the floor
and waited for iyres. Every muscle was tight, my breathing
felt loud. I couldn't bring myself to check again. I
just stared at the whole wall until gry light started
creeping in through the blinds. When I finally got the
nerve to go outside, the ground back there was soft
and damp, the kind that should have held every beprint.
Likely there was nothing, not one single mark. I should
have left then, I know that, but I didn't. I
made breakfast. I sat on the porch for a bit,
and I told myself it had to be some trick
of my tired brain. I hadn't slept much, I'd haked
all day. Maybe it really was a tree I misread
on my own reflection, But whatever I needed to believe.
That night, I didn't even pretend to relax. I kept
every light on, sat on the couch with the five
poker across my lap, like some character in a boud
survival movie. I didn't open a single curtain. Every so often,
I checked the locks again, even though I knew they
were still bolted. Around eleven, something changed. It wasn't a noise,
not exactly. It was more like the air in the
room tilted. You know that feeling when an elevator moves
too fast in your stomach shifts before your brain catches
up that, but sideways like the house leaned a few
inches off center, even though nothing in it moved. I
walked to the front door, slowly, carefully, not to open it,
just to check the bolt again. I looked through the
peep hole. There was a man standing on the porch.
No knock, no footsteps leading up, no sound at all,
just there. He wore a flat cap and a long
black coat that looked worth a lot, even though it
hadn't rained. His shoulders were squared, his arms perfectly still.
The porchlight caught his face, or where his face should
have been, and it looked wrong, like some one had
tried to paint a face and gave up halfway. Blurry,
too smooth. I stood there, frozen, watching him through the
peep hole, trying not to blink. He didn't move, not once.
I backed away, slowly, holding my breath, and didn't take
my eyes off the door until dawn started to show
through the kitchen window. When I looked again, the porch
was empty. I didn't shower, didn't grab my bag. I
took my keys, got in the car and drove until
my signal came back. Once it did, I counseled the
last night of my state and didn't leave a review.
I didn't want any one from the listing contacting me.
I had booked a cabin way out in the foothills
of eastern Kentucky, not far from a place called Lever.
I say not far, but it was still solid two
irons from the nearest grocery store or anything you call
a town. I was behind on a writing deadline and
fought a week in the middle of nowhere. Might kick me,
inter gear just me. My laptop was stocked, fridge and
absolutely no distractions. The listing had great reviews. People used
words like charming and peaceful and unblugged. The photos were nice,
wood paneled everything, one of those old claw for TIBs
with window view. I wrapped around porch with a single
rocking chair, all nestled between dick Green hills. Rustic but
not sketchy. The host's name was called. He sent me
a message to the morning I was supposed to arrive.
No cell signal passed the shell station, he said, and
once I hit the gravel road, I needed to drive
six more miles, then take a left at an old
rusted mail poks. The key, he said, would be under
the deer scull nail to the porch post. I remember thinking, okay,
that's a little horror movie ish, but I figured it
was Kentucky. People have their own way of doing things.
It was a long drive. The last stretch felt endless,
just gravel, trees and silence, and when it finally pulled up,
I realized just how remote it was. No other cabins,
no power lines, not even distant light on the hills,
just wind through trees and a few birds I couldn't name.
But the place looked exactly like the pictures. Old. Yeah,
but it had that kind of age that felt lived in,
not neglected. The front porch creaked a little, the steps
were slightly uneven, and sure enough there was the deer
scull nail throright to one of the posts, staring down
at me. I found the key tut behind its lower jaw.
Inside was cozy. Cloud had left some dry fire would
stack near a stove and now let it right away.
The bedroom was upstairs, clean, simple, with a big old
bed that smelled faintly of cedar. I unpacked, made a
basic dinner and opened my laptop, but mostly I just
sat there, listening to the quiet. The first night passed
without anything unusual. The second morning, I got up around seven,
made coffee, and walked out to the porch. The air
was cool, not cold. Quiet again. Still not a single
cart had passed by, but I noticed the rock and
chair across from me was moving, just a little, barely,
walking slowly back and forth. There wasn't any wind, the
trees weren't even swaying. I washed it for a bit,
then nudged it with my foot to stop the motion.
I didn't think much of it. Maybe I had just
kept going from when I sat in it the night before.
That evening, I brought out a blanket and sat in
the porch again, this time facing the valley. The air
felt heavier somehow, like something had shifted. I glanced at
the chair again. It was rocking. Ah en, I actually
got up checked underneath it. No animals, no breeze, no
bugs caught in the wood. Nothing. I moved it, dragged
it back into the corner of the porch, flush against
the siding, just to be sure. That night, maybe a
little after midnight, I was woke up by this low,
dragging sound kind of scraping mixed with the dolphump. It
took me a second to figure out what I was hearing.
Then I realized it was the porch. Something was being
dragged across it, slowly, back and forth. I sat up,
held my breath for a few seconds. It kept going. Eventually,
I worked up the nerve, got out of bed and
opened the front door. The rocking terror had been moved
back to its original spot, and it was rocking again,
just like before, slow steady, like someone had gotten up
a moment ago. I didn't say anything out loud. I
didn't even fully step out, just stood there for a second.
Then pulled it back again, this time mudging it tightly
between the woodpile and the porch railing. I pressed it
and sir hard. I could feel the frame bend slightly
under my hands. Day three, I decided I needed a break.
I drove into town, grabbed lunch, wandered around the local
hard were still longer than necessary. Just wanted to be
a round people for a while. Something about that cabin
was starting to feel off, and I didn't trust myself
not to spiral if I stayed alone too long. When
I got back, the sun was just starting to dip,
and there it was. The chair was no longer on
the porch. It had been moved. Now it sat directly
in front of the cabin door, square to it, like
it was waiting for someone to answer. Not tipped, not crooked,
just straightened still. I stood at the edge of the
driver for a long minute before walking around it. I
didn't touch it. Inside. I locked the door, then I
locked the windows. Then I dragged the small table from
the kitchen and shoved it against the door for good measure.
I didn't care how it looked. That night, I barely slept.
I stayed in my clothes, bots on flasklight on the
night sand back back packed Gila, though, listening. At some point,
maybe a round three, again I heard the same dragging noise.
It was slower this time, like something heavier. Then it
stopped a few seconds later. There were three soft knocks,
then silence. I didn't move. I stayed in bed, stiff
as a board, until the light started coming through the window.
When I opened the front door, a chair was back
where it started rocking slowly. I took a picture, needed
to prove to myself I wasn't just losing it. I
message clawed nothing. Later that afternoon, I drove out to
the ridge where I could get a signal and tried
to call ABE. Got put on hold, then the cold dropped.
I didn't bother calling again. That night. I didn't even
try to sleep. I stayed in the main room, fully dressed,
keys in hand, light on around for I must have
drifted off in the arm chair. I woke up to breathing,
not inside on the porch, shallow raspby, like some one
was standing just outside the door trying not to be noticed.
Then came a sound. I still think about this, soft,
broken humming, like someone trying to remember a song they
used to know, but only getting bits and pieces. The
kind of humming the trails off, then starts again, like
they are getting frustrated. It stopped after mayy thirty seconds,
and then nothing. When the sun finally came up, I
opened the door. The chair was gone again. I stepped out,
scanned the area, and there it was, at the edge
of the woods, sitting air, turned away from the cabin,
facing into the trees. I didn't touch it. I got
in the car and left. About two iOS later, as
a hit signal called finally replied his message just said
did you move the chair. I didn't answer. I drove
straight home, left my bag in the trunk for three days,
didn't turn off the porch lights for weeks. Even during
the day when I finally looked, the listing was gone.
So was claud profile, No trace of him, nothing tied
to the cabin. I was twenty seven when I'd booked
a cabin. The little Afrayin cabin out in the Blue
Ridge Foothills, about three iOS from Raleigh, looked like something
you'd see on a travel blog. Cozy, wooden walls, very light,
strung across the porch forests in every direction. Five star reviews,
more than fifty of them. Guess went on about how
peaceful it was, how clean, how exactly would I need? It?
Sounded perfect. I got there Thursday afternoon, a little after three.
I remember that because I had a long debate with
myself about whether it was too early to open a bier.
The place was easy to find. Long gravel rode off
the main highway, winding up through trees until it opened.
Her tiny clearing with the cabin and just enough based park.
The horse had sent me the door code a day before.
Super Polite messages, very thorough instructions. The only the odd
part was a single line at the end. Please ignore
the shared out back. It locked and not part of
the rental. Seemed tomless At the time, I figured maybe
it was where they kept extra supplies or old furniture.
I'd seen plenty of cabins with lock causes labeled on
access only. Not weored inside the cabin was exactly as pictured.
Warm wood everywhere, soft fur blankets on the couch, a
basket of coffee paws and tea bags by the kettle.
Someone had clearly but thought into the place. It didn't
feel like a rental. It felt like someone's personal hideaway.
There was a binder on the kitchen counter with the
usual info Wi Fi password, emergency contact, hiking trail maps,
local restaurants, fire safety stuff, everything laminated. They even included
a stack of trail mixed packets and a first aid
kit by the door. Into the very back of the binder,
almost like an afterthought, was a single loose page white
printervapor handriton in the red marker do not go past
the creek ever, no context, no signature, just that. I
actually laughed when I saw it. Thought maybe it was
a prank a guest had left behind other hosts, trying
to add some spooky charm for effect, you know, like
when people hang fake Beware of Sasquatch signed in Mountain Towns.
I showed it to a friend later over text and added,
guess I won't find out what's past the creek. That
first night, I may paused and watched a movie. There
was a decent TV with h DM I and strong
WiFi it, which surprised me given the location. After dinner,
I read for a while up in the loft. The
bed was tacked under the a frame peak, surrounded by
little shelves of books and battery powered lanterns. Honestly, it
was kind of dreamy. Around midnight, I heard something outside,
just a quick series of soft crunches, like someone stepping
on dry leaves. I paused, listened nothing after that. It
wasn't loud, barely louder than a squirrel. Really, I convinced
myself that's exactly what it was, squirrel or maybe a raccoon. Still,
I locked the front door and double checked the windows
before going to sleep. The next morning, I decided to
go for a walk and check out the creek. It
wasn't far, maybe fifty yards through the trees behind the cabin,
just a thin stream winding through the forest with one
of those concrete slot bridges barely wide enough to walk across.
Beyond it, the land slope sharply upward into thicker woods.
I stood there for a while, didn't cross. Later that afternoon,
my phone buzzed I known number. The message was short,
stay inside after dorc. That was it. No name, no punctuation,
just that sentence. I stared at it for a long time,
trying to decide if it was a joke. I texted back,
who was this? No reply, tried calling straight to voicemail.
Part of me figured it was the host again, maybe
a weird way to be cautious, like some mile left
comes out at night O. Locals don't like strangers wandering around.
But the vibe was off. The message didn't feel like
a warning about bears. Still, I played it safe, locked
the doors at dusk, turned on all the inside lights,
poured myself a drink, and tried to focus on a movie.
Every now and then I glanced at my phone to
see if there were follow up texts. There weren't. Then
just after ten there was a knock at the door,
three soft knocks, a long pause, then three more. I
didn't move. It wasn't loud, it didn't sound hungry, but
it was deliberate, too slow to be random. I muted
the t V and listened hard. Nothing else, no voices,
no footsteps, just the heat O kicking on. I looked
out the side window. No car in the gravel pull up.
If some one had walked in, I should have heard it.
That road was loose rock and dried twigs. The sound
carried it happened and again, same rhythm. Three knocks, paused,
three more. I backed into the kitchen, heart thudding grud.
The flask light from the wall, hooked just and gaze,
but didn't turn it on. Crawled up into the aloft
and pulled back the curtain just enough to peek out
the high front window. No one on the porch. I
stayed there for Iar's couch behind the bed frame, waiting
to hear something else. But nothing happened. No more knocks,
no footsteps walking away, just dead quiet. I didn't sleep
that night. By morning, I was exhausted, but trying to
be rational. Maybe it was some dumb hiker or neighbor
messing around. I told myself I was being dramatic. I
started packing up early, wanting to leave before it got
dark again. But when I checked my phone, there was
no signal, not even one bar. That didn't make sense.
I had perfect reception when I arrived. I figured i'd
hike up the slope behind the creek and see if
I could get a better signal high ground, just enough
to call a toe or figure out my next move.
So I crossed the creek. The other side felt heavier,
like the trees were closer together or the air was thicker.
There was an old trail, mostly swallowed by undergrowth, but
I followed it anyway, docking branches and stepping over roots.
That's one thing started to feel wrong. First I found
the stump charre and blackened at the center, like it
had burned from the inside. Then under a rock ledge
a pile of clothes, faded hoodie, torn jeans, and what
looked like a backpack strap. Looked like they'd been there
a while. I kept going, I don't know why. Then
I saw it, half burrowed in leaves and dirt. Just
off the trail was a metal box about the size
of a microwave, old, rusted, streaked with grime. A thick
chain ran through the handle and disappeared into the ground.
I stepped closer. The lid was unlatched. Inside were four
cell phones, older models, all cracked and as a block
bag filled with torn scraps of paper. Most were water
damaged and hard to read. But one had my name
on it, just my first name, written in handwriting that
looked exactly like mine. I backed away fast, almost fell,
turned and ran. I don't know how I didn't trip
going down ill, but I didn't stop until I hit
the creek again. I jumped over it, ran straight back
to the cabin. I didn't go inside, just grabbed my
bag from the porch and tried to start the car.
Nothing no lights, no sand. Battery had been fined the
whole time. I hadn't even used it since I got there.
I went back inside, hand shaking, trying to find a
land line of something I could use to call out.
That's when I saw the shed. The door was open.
I hadn't touched it. It had been locked, I was
sure of it. I crept closer, lowered the ground, flascight
in hand. Inside it was empty except for a folding
chair and a pair of binoculars resting on the seat,
pointed directly at the loft window. That's when something emmy snapped.
I left everything behind, ran down the gravel road as
fast as I could, didn't look back. About half a
mile down, I finally got one bar of signal and
called a toll company. Told them my car wouldn't start.
I didn't tell them anything else. They showed up, anile layer,
jumped the car, followed me back into town. I didn't
sleep that night either. I booked the cabin after a
string of brutal yache shifts that all started to blur together,
twelve iron nights, alarms going off, nonsop patient's yelling, lights
too bright. It felt like I hadn't had a moment
of silence in weeks. When my supervisor finally forced me
to take some time off, I went straight to searching
for the farthest quite as place I could find. The
listing said secluded, serene and rustic. That was the exact wording,
and it hooked me. The photos looked simple, an old
wooden cabin tucked in a clearing surrounded by thick trees.
There was a porch with a rocking chair, a small
fire pit, and a tiny kitchen with mismatched smugs. It
wasn't fancy, but it looked peaceful. The host's name was Janis.
Her profile picture was just a photo of a foggy
mountain range. No face, no family photo. Nothing that should
have made me pause, but I didn't care. The price
was shockingly cheap for a whole cabin. It felt like
a sign, Janie replied fast after I booked. Her messages
were short and polite. Drive safe, let me know if
you have trouble finding the place. Key's under the horseshoe
on the porch beam. That was it. No fell off,
no chatty host energy. The drive out there was long,
but kind of nice at first, the highway for quiet
hills and small towns until it turned into narrow country
roads lined with pines. The last stretch was rough, unpaved
gravel barely wide enough for one car. My GPS kept
losing signal, so I just followed Janis's directions and hoped
I wouldn't end up in the wrong driveway. I passed
one of the house maybe two miles before the cabin.
It was gray and sagging, windows boarded on one side,
no sign of life. I remember thinking it was odd
that there weren't any light on, not even a porch bulb.
After that, it was just words, dense and broken dark,
even though it was only late afternoon. When I finally
pulled up, the cabin looked exactly like the photos, a small,
boxy structure with peeling wood siding and a portchreck creaked
under my feet. The rocking chair swaghed slightly in the breeze,
which I told myself was normal. The horses above the
beam was there, and sure enough, the key was tucked
right behind it. Inside it smelt faintly of cedar and
something older, like a dambattic. The furniture was worn but solid.
There was one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a single
arm chair by the window. No TV, no WiFi, just
a few dusty books stacked by the bed, and an
old clock that take two loudly. I unpacked, made some
tea and sat on the porch to wash the sky dim.
The air was cool, clean in that way city air
never is. It really was peaceful. I even send a
photore to my co worker, jerking that I was officially
living my home in the woods fantasy. That first night
was perfect. I read for a while, drifted off in
the chair and woke up at two in the morning
to the sound of cicadas and when brushing against the windows.
No weird noises, no strange feelings, just quiet. The second
morning was when things started to feel off. There was
a boot print inside the front door, just one right foot,
clear as day on the wood floor. The thing was
I hadn't worn boots, I had sneakers, and the tread
didn't match. For a second I thought maybe it was
from the previous guest, though the floor looked clean when
I arrived. I wiped it up with a paper towel
and told myself not to overthink it. Next morning, two
prints side by side, same tread, not mine. I checked again, door,
a lock, windows closed, everything in place. I tried to
laugh it off, told myself it was probably from me
stepping in and out too much, but deep down I
didn't buy that. That night I started latching the bedroom door.
The latch was old and half rusted, more decorative than secure,
but it gave me some illusion of control. I dragged
a stool in front of it too. Fourth night, right
around one m I woke up to the front door
creaking open, not a loud creak, to stut lawn, slow
grown of voltinges. I froze instantly. My brain went from
half asleep to wide wake panic. In a second. The
latch on my door looked ridiculous, now flimsy, almost mocking.
I could hear faint movement out in the main room,
wood shifting under weight. Some one was walking slowly, cautiously, cautiously.
I held my breath and leaned closer to the door, listening.
Each step sounded deliberate, then silence, then another step. My
pulse was pounding so loud I was afraid whoever it
was could hear it. After maybe thirty seconds that felt
like IROs everything went quiet again, no footsteps, no breathing, nothing.
I didn't sleep the rest of the night. I just
sat in a corner of the room, niece pulled to
my chest, staring at the door until the light started
to show through the cracks and the curtains. When I
finally opened the bedroom door, everything looked normal. The front
door was closed, but the dead bolt was turned open.
There was also this faint smell hanging in the air,
like sweat and damp wood. I messaged janis right away. Hi,
I think some one came into the cabin last night.
Are you sure the locks are secure? She didn't reply
until late the next morning. Her message said only there's
only one key, Are you okay? That was it. Nothing else.
That afternoon I drove into town and bought a camping
lock and a door wedge from a hardware store. The
clerk tried to make small talk, asking if I was
camping alone. I just said yeah and smiled like it
was no big deal. Back at the cabin, I hooked
the lock through the latch and wedged the chair under
the knob. Again that night, I didn't even try to read.
I just laid there, stirring at the ceiling, counting seconds
between every sound. Around midnight, the creak came again, slower
this time. I frozed as wide opened, waiting the sand
of the door easing open. Then footsteps sluggish, uneven, wood bending,
under weight. Something scraped across the floor. It sounded like
metal dracking or maybe fabric. Then there was this low,
breathy chuckle, just one quick, almost like some one left
through their nose. I didn't move, not once. My body
felt locked. When dawn finally came I got up and checked.
The cabin was empty again, the door closed but a latch.
Everything else looked in touch, except for what was on
the floor outside my bedroom, A rat dead split open
down the middle. It spined, sticking up like a little
white ridge. I just stared at it, because there was
no reason there should have been there. It hadn't been
there before. I didn't bother cleaning up. I packed everything
I owned in ten minutes. When I opened the front
door to leave, I noticed something nailed to the porch
beam above me, a folded piece of paper. The nail
was driven straight through the center. The outside of the
pay pre said one word stay. My hands were shaking
as I opened it. Inside in uneven ladders, written hard
enough to dend the paper, it said, I like you quiet.
That's when I stopped pretending any of this was explainable.
I didn't even check if I had locked the car
before I tore out of there. The gravel road nearly
took my bumper off, but I didn't stop until main highway.
I made it to her hotel in Knox that night.
Didn't sleep, just sat in the bathroom with the door locked,
phone in my hand, light buzzing overhead. In the morning,
I reported the listing to EBHUM. They said they'd reach
out to Janis a week later if the listing was gone.
Sometimes I wonder if Janis was even real. Maybe the
profile photo was Random's scenery. It was the road to
that cabin. Maybe some one else used her name. The
cabin looked pretty much perfect on abum remote but cozy,
it said in the listing. Tapped away nearer Little mountain Town,
Colbro's Hollow somewhere in the southern stretch of the Appalachians.
I'd taken a long weekend off for a solo photography trip,
nothing serious, just me my camera and would have a
landscapes I could find. The idea was to get out
shoot during the day and spend the night's editing reading,
maybe making an end in that giant folder of and
touched rophiles on my laptop. This place had good reviews,
not a time, maybe five or six, but all of
them were five stars, and each one talked about how
quiet and peaceful the area was. That was basically all
I wanted. Photo assured this cute slightly with it. One
bedroom cabin with a porch swing, a little wood burning stove,
and these tall pines crowding the back. It looked like
the kind of spot where you might hear your own faults. Again.
The host went by Jay, no last name, no real photo,
just a blur a shot of what looked like a
ridge line. Nothing suspicious, just vague. Their messages were brief
but polite. They sent clear instructions for finding the key
in the lock books under the steps mentioned that zeal
reception could be hit or mess but there was a
land line in a cabin if I needed it. I
got there a late Friday afternoon. It had been a
lang drive, lots of winding two lane roads and gravel
stretches where I wasn't totally sure my cob was going
to survive, but the cabin was right where it was
supposed to be. First impression, it looked a little more
more tired than the listing. Paint chipped on the door.
One of the rocking chairs in the porch had a
missing slat, and the porch itself creeped loudly with every step.
But honestly, I didn't mind that I've stayed in worse places.
It had that kind of rath lived in character that
may feel like it belonged where it was. The lock
box was jammed. At first. For a second I thought
maybe I'd written the coat down wrong, but after a
little fiddling it popped open. Inside the key looked in
your shiny brass, no keychain, just bare. Inside the cabin,
things were bay burns, but clean, small couched, decent bed,
kitchenette with an old but working fridge. There were two
bottles of water in a fridge and a not on
the top shelf that set to help yourself. That was
at no welcome message, nor instructions, no guess, but the
kind of place that didn't try too hard to impress.
One thing that struck me a meal. The windows had
no curtains, not one. It was just clear glass all around,
including a big window in the front room that looked
directly into the woods. I remember standing there thinking how
that would feel once it got dark, like you were
in a lit up box and the whole force could
see you still. I unpacked, made a quick dinner and
lit a fire in the wood stove. It was getting
shilly in a place heated up fast with the fiery going,
I settled in with my laptop and started walking through
some shots from earlier in the day. Time passed quickly.
I was deep into editing when I heard it, something
crunching outside gravel under something heavy, like a footstep. I froze.
The fire crackled behind me, and for a long second
I didn't move. Then nothing, just silence. I sat there
still as a statue, straining to hear something else. After
a while I convinced myself it had to be an animal,
a dear. Maybe this was deep in the woods. Things
moved round. I didn't check. I just stayed on the
couch and told myself it was nothing. Eventually I must
have dozed off. I woke up some time after midnight, freezing.
The fire had died down to just glowing embers. I
got up, shivering a little, and reached for the firewood
stack next to the stove. That's when I saw it
the port swain. It was moving, not swaying from wind,
not creaking randomly, just moving slowly, steadily, like someone had
just pushed off with their legs. It kept gliding back
and forth in this slow, even rhythm. There was no breeze.
I checked. I stood there staring at it through the
window for maybe a full minute. Then it stopped dead still,
like it had never moved. I locked the door immediately,
not just the lock. I dragged one of the chairs
from the kitchenette in front of it too. I don't
know why, they just felt like something I needed to do.
I didn't go outside. I didn't even look out the windows.
After there, I climbed into bed and lay their staff
as a board until morning. Every sound outside kept me
on edge. Every creek in the floor made me sit up.
In the daylight, things felt a little less eerie, still weird,
but not terrifying. I stepped out on to the porch
and immediately saw the boot prints, not mine. These were
larger space farther apart, and led straight up to the swing.
They didn't match the tread on my shoes, and they
didn't leave back the way they came. They just stopped
at the edge of the porch. I looked around, walked
the perimeter of the cabin. Nothing else seemed out of place,
No signs anyone had broken in, no footprints near the windows.
I checked the woods behind a cabin, but didn't go far.
It was too quiet out there. The land line still
had a dial tone. I considered calling someone, but what
would I even say? Hey, a swing moved, and there
were footprints. I figured I'd just keep an eye on
things and maybe leave a day early if it felt
off again. That afternoon, I drove out to the lake
i'd seen and the map, took some pictures, wandered around,
tried to relax. When I came back just before sunset,
something had changed. There was a piece of cord nail
to the door frame beraige thin like twine tacked in
two places, forming a little loop right next to the door. Nup,
it wasn't there before I would have noticed. I didn't
go inside right away. I stood there stirring at her,
trying to make sense of what it was. Some kind
of trap, a marker, a prank. It felt too deliberate
to ignore. I backed off the porch and circled the
cabin again. Still no one. Signal was weak, but I'd
picked up a barro or too earlier at the lake,
so I pulled up my phone and took a picture
of the twine and messaged Jay on ebbly. Not even
a message for red check mark. I waited for over
an hour before I finally got a long stick from
the woods and used it to pried coll loose. Nothing happened.
I opened the door, slowly checked everything inside. Nothing looked touched.
Same water bottles say no. That night I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined the door opening.
At one point I thought I heard someone walking around outside,
but I didn't check her. Stayed in bed, still and quiet,
with my car keys in one hand and my fern
in near the Next morning, a patter was supposed to
stay three nights. I left after two. Before leaving, I
took my cam out back to get one last shot
of the trees. The light was good and the fog
clung low to the ground. I figured maybe i'd get
something moody for the portfolio. That's when I saw it.
About fifty feet into the woods. There was a structure,
not a full cabin, just four walls, no roof, like
some one had started building a shed and quit halfway through.
I walked over, thinking maybe it was an old hunting
blind or storage thing. Inside was a folding chair and
a coffeekinful of cigarette butts. They looked fresh, some of
them still smeled faintly like smo ok. I stepped back, slowly,
took one photo and turned around. Got in my car.
And didn't stop driving until I hit the nearest gas
station of full bars. Ten minutes down the road, I
passed a man walking up hill. He was headed straight
toward the cabin, tall guy, broad build, wore a faded
red jacket. He didn't look at me, just kept walking,
slow and steady, like he had all the time in
the world. I slowed a little as I passed, just
enough to see his face, older, white hair, pil skin.
I slike he hadn't slept in a week, and he
was sweating, drip and sweat, even though it was maybe
forty degrees out. I didn't stop, I didn't call out.
I just kept driving. When I got home, I reported
everything to Erbum, the court on the door, the shed
in the woods, the man I passed. I sent photos,
told them everything. The listing was gone the next day,
no reply from Jay, no explanation, just disappeared. ERP gave
me a Reefinn a credit, but that was it. That
was three years ago. I still go on trips, still
take photos, but I haven't used em since I was
twenty nine. When I booked the cabin, i'd setch something
big like quiet remote cabins and ended up finding this
listing outside a town called Fairview in eastern Tennessee. The
photo showed a one bedroom wooden cabin surrounded by woods,
maybe a forty minute drive from the nearest grocery store.
I'd burn myself out on deadland clients, messages that needed
just a minute of my time. I wanted to disappear
for a while. The host's name was Lee. She'd gotten
good reviews. Nothing over it detailed, just the usual cozy
private had a great time, and so on the morning
I was set to drive up, she sent me a
short message through the app keys under the flat rock
by the steps. WI Fi might be out because of
the weather. No big deal if I can't reach her
right away. It felt informal but friendly. She sounded like
someone who rented her place occasionally and didn't fuss over it.
The drive up took longer than I expected, winding roads,
spotty GPS, a couple misturns. By the time I arrived
it was early evening. The s smelt like wet leaves
and pine. The cabin was tucked back from a gravel road,
maybe fifty feet from the woods, and there was no
one else around. A single of the building in sight
The place itself was modest, a small porch with teams
matched chairs, a little fire pit surrounded by logs for sitting,
and a creek it would endure with a rust its green.
Inside it was exactly what I'd hoped for. Not fancy
but solid. There was a narrow kitchenet with just enough
to make basic meals, a wood stove in the corner,
and a double bed tucked under a window. A faded
quilt lay neatly on top. The floorboards had a soft
grun when he walked, and the whole cabin smelled faintly
of damp wood and maybe old smoke. Not bad, just
very cabin. That first night, I may pause to scribbled
some thoughts into my notebook and went to bed early.
I actually felt pretty good, relax even it was quiet
in a way I hadn't realized I missed. The next night, though,
something changed. I'd been wandering around inside, just stretching my
legs when I noticed the curtain. It was on the
far wall, across from the bed. I'd seen it before
but hadn't paid much attention. It matched the couch, same
played pattern, so I just figured it was a decorative
thing or covering. A window, but that night I was
bored restless. I pulled the curtain aside. There was a
door behind it. It wasn't like the front door. This
one was plain, unpainted with with no knob, just a latch,
one of those small metal hooks you see on sheds
or old bathroom doors. But what struck me was how new.
The latch looked, shinier than anything else in the cabin,
almost like it had been added recently. I tested it locked.
At first, I figured it was just a closet, or
maybe an old coal space, but the placement was weird,
tucked away like it was supposed to be noticed, and
the latch being on the side of the door gave
me pause. It was meant to keep something in. Still,
I wasn't about to start creeping myself out over a
storage door. I let the cout and fall back into
place and got ready for bed. That night, I couldn't sleep.
Some time after midnight, I woke up to a shop
thought it came from inside the cabin. I froze for
a second. I wasn't even sure I'd heard it, but
then came a second sound. This one's lower, like something
scraping across the floor, a dragging sound. I sat up
in bed. My ears were straining so hot it felt
like my whole body was holding its breath. Then another noise,
soft dough, like a slow creak wood under pressure. I
looked toward the curtain. I couldn't see the door from
the bed, it was around the corner, but I swear
I saw the edge of the coven shift just slightly,
like it had been disturbed by breeze. I didn't move.
I lay there, stiff as a board, watching the shadows.
Every little noise made me flinch. I wanted to believe
it was the wind or the cabin settling. That's what
I told myself over and over. Still, I left the
lights on until the sun came up. The next morning,
I sent me a message asking what was behind the curtain.
No response. I tried to brush it off, told myself
I was letting my imagination run wild. I spent the
day hiking one of the nearby trails, breathing in the
cold air, trying to reset, and for a little while
it worked. But when I got back to the cabin,
something was off. There was a red rubber band sitting
on the window sill next to the bed. It wasn't mine.
I hadn't brought anything that would have had one. It
was just sitting there, small, stretched a bit, like it
had been used recently. I picked it and just stared
at it. Then I looked at the curtain. I walked
over and pulled it back. The latch was unhooked. I
stood there for a long time, hand hovering near the door,
trying to top myself into opening it. But I couldn't.
I just couldn't. Instead, I hooked it again out and
dragged the kitchen chair over to block it. Then I left.
I sat in my car with the engine off, watching
the cabin from a distance like it was going to
make a move. I stayed there for almost two hours.
The whole time nothing happened, no movement, no sound. Eventually
I went back in, locked everything and got into bed,
fully dressed, flashlight in one hand, keys in the other.
I even slept with my shoes on. Around three a m.
I heard it again. That's low, deliberate dragging sound. Then click,
not from the curtain, this time from the front door.
I sat boulteupright another click. The doorknob was turning. I
jumped up, ran to the door and slammed my body
against it. I didn't have a weapon, but I grabbed
the fire poker from the stove and shattered that i'd
a gone. The knob stopped turning silence. Then I heard footsteps, faint, deliberate,
moving away across the porch. I stood there, listening, my
back press to the door. After five minutes, I cracked
it open. No one was there but inside the cabin.
The chair I had placed in front of the second
door had been moved. It was now facing the front door,
like some one had been sitting behind the curtain watching me.
That was it. I grabbed my stuff round to the
car and drove. I didn't stop until I hit a
gas station just outside Faervy. I sat there wonderful reescent lights,
trying to slow my breeding. The next morning, Lee finally
replied that door isn't supposed to be open. He did
the right thing by leaving. After that, she stopped answering
my questions, never explained the rubber by end, never told
me what was behind the door. I was thirty three,
where we stayed in a cabinat's side Laurel hollow Elsie.
My wife had booked it as a surprise getaway. She
knew I'd been dragging myself through brutal trail of ioschifts
at the clinic for weeks. It looked exactly like the photos.
Top back off an old logging road. About ten minutes
passed a blink and you'll miss a town called Marla's Gap,
two gas stations, a hard restore, and a diner that
looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies. The cabin
sat on a slope a little higher up, surrounded by
woods that were deep enough to feel like you'd fallen
off the map, but not so remote. It felt like
we were in survival mode, which is what I wanted. Quiet,
not sketchy. I'll see was giddy about it all. She
kept joking that we were officially off grid like Pioneers,
except with bourbon and running water. The hosted missus just
a couple of days before, with the door code and
a one line note, don't worry about checking or check out,
just enjoy the woods. No welcome basket, no rolls about
cleaning up. He didn't even ask for a n iadio deposit.
It just the code. The place fell all but solid,
the kind of place that had seen a few decades
of renters come and go, but some one still clearly
cared for it. Stone fireplace hard, with floors the creaky
warmth you only get in buildings that have settled a
little too long into the earth. There was even a
wrapper on portrait, a couple of all Vacan chairs that
actually rocked like they were supposed to, not those cheap
ones you find at tourist traps. That first night, we
grilled steaks outside. I poured us both some of the
good bourbon. She'd packed it in a sock and head
awfl bag like we were sneaking it into a dorm.
We played a few rounds of gin Rummy at the
kitchen table, joked about how Bare would probably love the
left off a steak fat, and eventually passed out in
front of the fireplace. The bed was softer than I expected,
a kind of soft that makes you forget about her
back problems for a night. The next morning I got
up to make coffee and noticed something strange. Just outside
the guests bedroom in the hallway was a stack of
neatly folded laundry, not ires, a couple of t shirts,
some towels, and what looked like a throw blanket, all clean,
all folded, just sitting there, perfectly placed. I stared at
it for a second, like maybe it would explain itself.
Then I asked Elsie if she touched the washer or dryer.
She looked at me like I'd asked if should build
a treehouse overnight. We haven't even been down stairs. She
said she was right. The basement door was still latched
and we'd only opened the main level. It was weird,
but not terrifying, just one of the small domestic things
that makes you frown and go hot. Maybe the cleaners
left it and forgot, Maybe it was meant for someone else.
I picked it up and moved it into the closet
in the spare room. Didn't think much of it after that.
Later that afternoon, we drove into town to pick up groceries.
Marla's Gap had one of those general stores that sells
everything from MIxS to motor oil, and the produce looked
like it had been picked by someone's grandpa that morning.
We grabbed what we needed, then stopped for a bite
at the diner. Our waitress, who introduced herself as Sandy
with an eye, looked like she could have been working
there since high school. While we waited for our food,
I mentioned we were renting a place upon Greely Ridge.
Just making conversation. She paused me poor with the coffee pot.
Unasked that the one with the triangle window over the kitchen,
I'll see and I glanced at each other. I nodded yeah.
Actually Sandy didn't say anything for a beat, just nodded back, ha,
she said, then walked away like we hadn't said anything.
That night, the temperature dropped around eleven it started snowing lightly.
We were in bed reading when we both heard it.
This still solid thumb from down stairs, not a creak
or pomp, not the house settling, something falling. I grabbed
the fast fire from the night stent and went down.
I expected to find a but fallen off the shelf,
or maybe one of the fire with locks had rolled.
Everything was exactly where we left it, doors locked, windows shut,
no broken glass, no fallen objects. But on the little
table by the staircase there was a spoon, just one
stainless steel plain. We hadn't used any spoons. I held
it up when I came back up stairs and asked,
did you grab this earlier? Elsie looked at it and
just said nope, was it clean. It was spotless. We
double checked all the doors again. I even waged a
dining chair under the front door handle, like that would
do something if someone really wanted in. The Next morning,
Elsie didn't look great, pale, swatty, moving like her bones ache.
She said she hadn't slept much, not because of the noise,
but because of this dream, or more like the same
dream over and over. She kept walking through the cabin
but things were wrong. The couch was facing the wrong way,
the curtains had changed colors. The cabinets were full of
stuff we didn't burn, canned goods with no labels, a
teacup with someone else's lipst gone. Each time she walked
through something, el shifted. The bed moved, the windows were
bricked up. The rooms felt too small where she couldn't leave.
While she rested, I stepped out to have a smoke
in the porch. The snow had stopped and everything was
dead quiet, no birds, no breeze, just that heavy stillness
you only get after fresh snow. I noticed the footprints
almost immediately leading around the side of the house. Not
beat Prince's bare feet, human full adult sized, no tread,
no socks, unclean, like some one had walked out of
a hot bath and into the snow. They circled the
cabin once meet deliberate steps, then stopped near the back door.
No return path. I didn't tell Elsie. I brushed him
out with the broom and waited outside for over a nire,
trying spot movement in the woods. Nothing moved. That night,
around three, Elsie woke me up. She said she heard whispering,
not words, just the low murmur of some one talking softly,
like they were behind the drywall. I sat up and listened. Nothing,
not even the wind. We turned on every light in
the cabin. We room to room. Everything looked exactly the same,
except for the laundry. It was back in the hallway,
same pile, same shirts, sane blanket, except this time there
was something between two of the shirts. A polar owed.
I picked it up, already knowing where would before I
saw it. It was a cabin taken from the tree line.
The porch light was on, and in the front window
you could see two silhouette sitting side by side, Me
and Elsie. From the first night. We didn't say a word,
just started grabbing bags and stuffing them with whatever we
could reach, left the dirty dishes in the sink, left
the bourbon on the table. By four a m. We
were on the road, driving in silence through the falling
snow until we hit the interstate. We didn't leave a review.
The host never messaged us. We didn't report it, just
got home, unpacked and let it fade into the kind
of memory you don't touch unless you have to. That
was almost two years ago. Since then, I've had two dreams,
same both times. I'm standing outside in the woods, looking
at the triangle window. There's some one inside, same height
as me, same build, just standing watching, not even fear now,
just that hollow certainty that some one else was at
the whole time. I was thirty four when I rented
the cabin. It was one of those listings that just
belly managed to look choym me instead of run down
cozy mountain get away with into charm. A phot showed
an old frame to tup into a clearing, weatheredward and foggy
pines in the background, the kind of place that made
you imagine early mornings of coffee and long afternoons filled
with nothing. I was sold I'd been trying to get
through a writing project that kept slipping away from me,
and this place out near Carden, West Virginia seemed far
enough from everything to make me focus, remote, quiet, nothing
to do but work. The reviews were all glowing. People
called a peaceful, rejuvenating. One even said they found themselves there,
which felt a little dramatic. Behay five stars as five stars.
The drive took most of the day. The last ire
was worthings started to feel different. No cell signal, no landmarks,
just winding roads that got narrow and rough. Of the
farther I went my GPS lad so badly it actually
froze on a screen that just said were calculating for
the last ten miles. The cabin one sat at the
very end of a dirt tract that looked like it
hadn't been maintained in years. I had to ease a
car rand potholes and true roots like I was navigating
a hiking trail with wheels. There were no other houses
in sight, just trees, the kind of deep woods that
felt they swallowed sound. When I finally pulled up, I
saw the place looked even smaller in person. The roof
slanded steeply the wood siding had gone gray, and the
front porch sagged like it was tired of being held together.
There was a rusted metal barrel beside the steps, filled
with rain water, and a few floating pine needles. No driveway,
no welcome sawn, just this aging a frame half hidden
in the woods. The front door was unlocked. That threw
me for a second. I paused in the porch, thinking
maybe I'd missed keycoat in the confirmation email. But there
it was wide open, not open open, just unlatched. The
door creaked a little when I pushed it in, but
everything inside was in order. Small, simple, clean, mostly wood paneling,
a stone fireplace, a tiny kitchenette and a lofted bed
up top. Cozy I guess rustic in that way that
toast the line between peaceful and unsettling. There was a
handred to no tick to the fridge, big loopy cursive welcome,
hope you enjoy your stay, make yourself at home. Then underneath,
in smaller writing, pist, I don't worry if the neighbors say hi,
folks around here are friendly. That last line stuck with me.
Something about it didn't sit right, maybe because I hadn't
seen another house for miles. I remember rereading it while
standing there in the kitchen, wondering who to hell the
neighbors could even be Still. The first night was quiet.
I made dinner, cracked open a note book, got a
little writing done. There was no cell service, no WiFi,
but that was the point. I lit a candle, read
for a bit, and fell asleep by nine, the kind
of sleep you only get when you're far away from
other people. The next morning was one thing started to shift.
I stepped outside with my coffee and saw a man
sitting in a lawn chair at the edge of the clearing,
just sitting there, completely still, looking in my direction. He
wasn't there when I first walked out, no sound, no
crunch of leaves or footsteps, just suddenly there like he'd
always been. He looked to be late fifties, thin, with
a hand line face, a denim jacket and the sword
of fixed neutral smile. He raised a hand in a slow,
casual wave, like we were neighbors who sawed each other
every Sunday morning. He called you the one renting this place.
I said yes, and he nodded, still smiling. Used to
come out here lot grew up just down that ridge.
He pointed vaguely toward a hill covered in trees. There
was something off about him. Not threatening. He didn't raise
any alarms like that, but off. He wasn't dressed like
a hiker, didn't have gear or a back back, and
there was no car any winter by. The ground was
muddy from recent rain, but I didn't see any footprints
except my own. I asked if he was a neighbor
kind of He said, I like to keep an eye
on the spot used to be more open before they
started renting it. I gave a polite nod and told
him I had work to do, then went back inside.
Watched him through the window for a few minutes. He
didn't move, just sat there like he was waiting for something.
Eventually he stood up, turned and walked into the woods
without word, no trail, no path, just stepped between the
trees and disappeared. That afternoon, I calnned up one of
the nearby trails, brought just enough service at the top
of a ridge to send the message to the host.
Hay just wanted to check to any locals. Higd out
near the cabin. Had a visitor this morning, no reply.
That night, I locked the doors and windows. I'm not
usually paranoid, but something about that guy stuck in my head.
He'd appeared so quietly, say too long, left without a trace.
Some time after one am, I heard movement on the porch.
Not heavy footsteps, just a dragging shuffle, like some one
sliding the feat slowly back and forth. I didn't get up.
I lay perfectly still in bed and waited. It lasted
maybe a minute. Then it stopped. In the morning, there
was a pine cone wasist into the front door frame,
not placed there, jammed you couldn't close the door until
you pulled it free. I stared at it longer than
I cared to admit, told myself animals so weird. Made
a scorse, dashed it, maybe wind something. But the next
night it happened again. This time it was knocking. Three slow,
evenly spaced knocks, not hard, not aggressive, just precise, precise,
like some one had rehearsed the timing. I stayed in
bed again, didn't move, didn't breathe. When it stopped, I
stayed awake until daylight. The third day, I went for
a run down one of the older trails. Nothing official,
just an overgrown path that looked like it used to
be a locking road. About half a mile in I
saw something hanging from a tree branch, a plastic grocery
bag tied in a knot. Inside the bag was a
red bick lighter, a folded grocery list, and a polar
oared photo. The list was short eggs, come paper, towels,
duct tape. The photo showed a golden Retriever sitting in
the porch of the cabin. I was staying in the
dog at its head tilted here is up, like it
was reacted into something just outside the frame. I took
the photo left the rest. When I passed that spot
again on the way back, the bag was gone. That night,
for the first time, nothing happened, no sounds, no knocking.
I let myself believe maybe it was over. Maybe whoever
it was got bored. I even dozed off without locking
my bedroom door. At midnight, I got a text from
the host, Sorry for the delay. Did you mean some
one was on the property? I set up and replied
immediately told them yes, gave the details. Asked if there
were spare keys out here or if any one had
permission to be around. No answer. Around two point fifteen,
I woke up to a lapop like something shorting out.
All the lights died at once. I stepped into the
hallway with my phone light on and saw mighty boot
prints one sat starting at the front door and ending
at the bathroom. The bathroom door was slightly ajar the
window when there were small, tunny enough that even a
child would have trouble fitting through. I stood in the
hallway staring at it, following the prince to the sink.
They ended there no princes coming out. I didn't go in.
I didn't check the closets. I didn't do anything except
put on my boots, grab my keys, and walk out
with that turning back. I drew four eyres three the dark,
without stopping, without music, just the sound of tires on
asphalt and my own heart beat in my ears. I
didn't even check my phone until I had a town
cold ronsily and saw the bars come back. I pulled
into a motel, paid in cash, and locked the door
behind me. The host finally replied the next day. All
it said was we've had guest mentioned strange things before,
but never liked that. Do you still have the polaroid?
I mailed it to them the next week. They never responded.
The place was out in western North Carolina, not far
from a town, cold Elbridge, right where the edge of
the piscaphores starts turning into actual wilderness. I'd booked it
for a long weekend, nothing dramatic. I figured three days
in the woods might shake something loose. The rental was
a converted gerushed huck behind this older guy's house, kind
of rustic, but in that neutral ebb way where they
tried to make it feel charmingly bare bones. There was
a gravel path to park, a little wooden porch with
a swing that looked handmade, and a stand alone door
with its own keep at enough privacy to feel peaceful,
not enough to feel vulnerable, I thought I nailed the location.
Marty at the host was already outside when I pulled in.
He had the quiet, worn out look the older countrymen get,
lean built, deep smile lines, dnham shirt tucked into jeans.
He waved me down, introduced himself in a low voice,
and helped guide me into the gravel space. Said his
family had been on that lamp for over a hundred years,
and his wife was buried in the little church cemetery
about a mile down the road. It wasn't sad the
way he said it just a fact, like the weather
of the number of pine trees. I asked if the
guest unit had always been set up like that. He
said not. It used to be my brother's workshop before
he left it behind, And then he moved on talking
about the key code and the Wi Fi password that
that phrase stuck with me. Left it behind, not moved
out or passed away or even stopped using it, just
left it behind. Inside the place was about what I expected.
Simple layout, one open room with a fruit on that
sagged in the middle, a basic kitchenette, a small bathroom
off to the side, and in the far corner this
huge metal cabinet bolted to the floor. It was a
dark gray color, kind of scratched up and looked like
something you'd find in an old factory or otto body shop.
At first, I didn't think much of it. I figured
it was too heavy to move, so they just left
it there from the workshop days. It wasn't ugly exactly,
just out of place, like it didn't know it was
in someone's weekend get away rental. I slept find that
first night until around three in the morning, when I
woke up suddenly, no dream, no panic, just a weird alertness,
like my body had decided it needed to be upright.
A second later I heard a thought, a low metallic clunk,
then another. It came from the direction of the cabinet.
I sat up and listened. Nothing else happened. I didn't
go check. I didn't even move. I just stared toward
the dark shape in the corner until my brain came
up as something that let me roll over and fall
asleep again, something like it's probably the building settling or
all furniture makes noises. Next morning, I couldn't stop thinking
about it. I ended up opening the cabinet just to
satisfy the part of my brain that gets stuck on things.
It was blocked, but it didn't open easily either. The
hinges groaned a little and I had to lean into it.
Inside was six wooden tray stack vertically like draws. They
slid out stiffly and held what looked like old tools,
musta clamps, creasy wires, the few lawn metal files that
kind of thing. Some were wrapped in faded rags. It
smelt like oxidized metal in something a little sire underneath,
like rotting wood. I didn't touch anything. I didn't want
to find something sharp or sticky or get tete and
I saw on my vacation. I slid the trays back
in and closed it a little harder than I meant to.
That night I had a dream, or maybe more of
a half dream in n it. I was lying in
the fruit on just like I was in real life,
and I could hear knocking, three knocks, steadies based out,
but it wasn't coming from the door. It was coming
from inside the cabinet. I could see it in a dream,
just this slow, precise knocking from within, like someone trying
not to panic, or someone being very patient. I sat
up in bed for reel. I remember, because my mouth
was dry, and my arms were cold, and the hair
on my neck felt stiff. Everything was still. I wasn't
even looking at the cabinet before I went to bed.
It wasn't on my mind, but now it felt like
it was the only thing in the room, just a silent,
dense object taking up more space than it should. I
barely slept after that. Around sunrise, I stepped out side.
The gravel was damp, the porch swing was still, and
Marty's truck was gone. When he came back later that day,
I caught him outside stacking some bins near the shed.
I asked him, just casually, like I wasn't thinking too
hard about it, if the cabinet had belonged to his brother.
He gave this slow side on look and said he
built it, but never finished what he was doing with it.
I asked, was it for tools? He just shook his
head and said not exactly, then walked back toward the
house like that was the end of the conversation. I
didn't press It didn't feel like he was hiding something exactly,
more like he didn't want to dig memory. That answer
belonged to That night, I took melotonin. Wasn't trying to
be a hero. I just wanted to sleep. At some
point around four in the morning, I woke up again,
groggy but alert, and I heard breathing. It wasn't mine.
It was loud, but it was rhythmic and slow, like
some one asleep. It didn't match my own breath. I
held still, trying to figure out if it was coming
from outside the cabin maybe someone walking bite or an
animal under the floor boards. But it was too even,
too steady, like it was happening, and the walls were
just under the floor. I stayed frozen. I didn't move
for what felt like five straight minutes. Eventually the breathing
stop just ended. I didn't go back to sleep. Next morning,
I noticed one of the drawers in the cabinet was open,
not wide, just a few inches. I hadn't touched it
since that first day, and I remember closing it completely.
Inside it was a scrap of d'nem wedged between two tools.
It was small, torn, maybe the size of a note card.
I didn't remember seeing it before, and it didn't look
like it had been there long. The edge was frayed,
like it had been ripped, not cut. That was the
day I didn't hang around the cabin. I topped my
book and drove twenty minutes to a gas station Dinah,
just to sit somewhere with people and fluorescent lighting. I
stayed until the sun was down. That night was supposed
to be my last. I had a plan hack everything
up early in the morning, grabbed coffee on the road,
and get back to Asheville by lunch. Simple. But round
midnight I woke up kneading the bathroom. The futon creaked
under me as I stood. As I walked past the cabinet,
something caught my eye. The window above, its small rectangular
high on the wall had something on the inside. Hand prints.
They weren't sharp, but they were clear enough, smudged out lions,
like the kind left on cold glass after breathing against it,
five fingers, one full handprint from the inside. I stood there,
stirring at them, not moving, just letting the cold settle
into my chest while my brain tried to deny what
I was seeing. After maybe thirty seconds, I turned, grabbed
my bag, my keys, and my phone. I didn't check
the drawers, I didn't turn off the lights. I just
walked straight out, unlocked a car, and drove. Didn't stop
until I hit a chain gas station in Tennessee, and
even then I sat in the parking lot for fifteen
minutes before I could breathe properly again. When I got home,
I didn't leave a review, I didn't report anything, but
I couldn't stop wondering. I started looking into the property,
just basic public records. At first, I found a name
that match Marty's last name, a Mayan listid as deceased,
no cause of death. Eight August twenty eleven. Then I
found a tiny local paper article, just a couple lines.
It mentioned a teenager named Lacy Winstead who had gone
missing that same month, last seen walking home from a
bonfire in the Alberger area. She was never found. Her
last known outfit blue jeans and a green hoodie that
denim scrap in a cabinet. I think about it more
than I should. Since then, I haven't stayed in a
rental and that is the end. Thank you for listening,
and I will see you in the next one.