Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. I just left a job I
couldn't stand in Richmond and signed a short term lease
on this old cabin up in the hills of Greenborough County,
West Virginia. My sister had passed away earlier that spring,
and being in my apartment just made it worse. A
stuff was everywhere, her laugh was still in the wall summer.
I needed space, even if it meant running from the
memories instead of dealing with them. The owner of the place,
an older lady named missess Ouga Kinley, mailed me the
key with a short note Britain and shaky handwriting hasn't
been used in a while, watch out for the critters.
I should have asked more questions, but I didn't. I
just packed up my car and left. The drive was long,
almost nine hours. There were a few other cabins along
the same road, but they looked like no one had
touched them in years. One had a truck parked up
front that was completely overtaken by moss. That first night,
nothing dramatic happened. I unpacked a little made some lu
quanti on the old gasp Berna and fell asleep in
the couch with a book I wasn't really reading. Round
three a m I woke up to the sound of
the front door creaking open, not slamming, just along slow drag,
like old woods graping against the frame. I sat up fast.
The door was still locked when I checked, but it
stuck in a way it hadn't earlier, like the frame
had shifted or swollen. I figured it was just humidity
and went back to sleep, trying to convince myself the
sund had come from a dream. The second night was
harder to shrug off. I was dozing off when I
heard footsteps on the front deck, slow deliberate four steps,
then nothing, then three more. It wasn't a raccoon or
some deer. It was way too paced for that. I
stood there in the dark with my hand hovering over
the light switch, debating what out of look. When I
finally turned on the porch light and peeped through the curtain,
there was nothing, just trees and moonlight hiding a creek.
But I stayed up the rest of the night. By nightfour,
I was jumpy enough that I started sleeping with the
radio on, windows shut a chair pushed into the door knob.
I even dragged my dresser across the back door that
opened the woods. That's how not okay I felt. Night six, though,
that's the one that changed everything. When I got up
that morning, I found the dresser pushed out of place,
not a lot, just off like some one had nudged it,
and then thought better of it. I checked a door,
still locked, but there were new marks on the bottom edge,
long rough scrapes, like it had been dragged. My first
thought sleep walking. I hadn't done it since I was
a kid, but suddenly that made more sense than anything else.
I spent the whole day trying to convince myself that's
all it was. That evening, I found an old motion
sense so light in one of the kitchen drawers and
hooked it up just outside the back door, pointing toward
the trees. Then I sat in the living room with
a baseball bat across my lap, pretending to read. Around
four in the morning, the light clicked on. I jumped
up and ran to the window. At first I didn't
see anything, just trees, but when I squintid, I noticed
a shape. Some one was squatting way back between two trees.
They weren't facing me. They weren't moving at all. She
just crouched low, arms draped over their knees, like they
were resting or waiting. I stood there, staring, breath caught
until the light shut off again. When I looked back,
they were gone. The next morning I walked behind the cabin.
I found barefoot prints in the dirt, not deep, not messy,
just clean impressions, like some one had been standing still
for a long time. Some faced the house, some faced away,
no drought in, no leaves kicked up, just feet. That night,
I poured flier into a pipe han and left it
out on the deck. I'd seen that trek online somewhere,
meant to catch Prince. I didn't sleep, just listened. I
too am. The light flipped on again. I didn't move.
The next morning, there it was one clear foot print
in the flower, not bare at this time, some kind
of boot deep at the heel, twisted at the till,
like the person had shifted their weight. But that wasn't
even the worst part. The lock on the tool shed
had been cut. I'd never opened it, didn't even have
the key, But now the padlock was lying on the ground,
clean as liced. Inside the shed, there wasn't much and
all chains of that didn't look like it worked, a
few empty oil cans, a frayed rope, and an army
caught with a thin, dirty blanket. There were fresh prints
in the dirt leading in and out. That same day,
I drove twenty miles to the closest gas station and
asked the guy at the register if anyone lived near
the cabin I was renting. He looked at me for
a second, then just said not. For a while, I
told him about the footprints, the share everything. He leaned
in a little and said, you shouldn't stay out there alone.
That land's not right. Then he just turned away and
stopped talking to me. When I got back to the cabin,
I found something tied to the back doorknop, A piece
of string stretched from the handle to a branch overhead,
then almost invisible if you aren't looking for it. It
was poll tight, tied in a neat little knot. I
hadn't put it there, I hadn't seen it when I
left the morning. I stared at it for a long time,
not really thinking, just staring. Then I grabbed a knife,
cut the string and wrapped it in a paper towel.
I didn't sleep it all that night. The next morning
I packed up everything, my clothes, my books, the bat,
the flyer pan before I left. What the property won
last time? I don't know what I was hoping to find.
We're assurance clover near the creek, half bared in the mud.
A spot of something metal catching the light. I dig
it out an all military canteen dentist cratched initials carved
into the side or dye. I called missus Kinley to
tell her I was leaving early. She asked if something
had happened. I told her I thought some one had
been living out where the shed. She went really quiet,
Then she said, did you find the cot iye said yes.
She hesitated, then told me it belonged to her brother,
that he used to stay at the some times before Epas.
Then she said, I thought we took all as things
with us. I asked her when he died. She said, oh,
years ago, before we ever put the cabin up for rent.
I left the key on the porch and didn't look back.
I drove straight back to Richmond, paid out the rest
of the lease and never asked for a refund. A
body of mine name marked this old family cabin beary
deep in the mountains, somewhere near the line between Tennessee
and Virginia. His grandfather had built it with hand hills
back in the sixties, mostly for hunting trips, and apparently
no one in his family had been up there in
over a decade. We were all fried for school, so
the idea of no service actually sounded nice. We parked lights,
leaping backs, coolers, canned food, flass lights. The drive took
most of the afternoon. We lost reception somewhere around a
gas station that still had one of those old analoge
pumps that click while they count the gallons. After that,
a GPS just froze, and we followed a print at
Matt Marke had found in his dad's glove box. The
road turned to dirt and kept winding up hell until
the trees started pressing in close enough to scrape the
sides of the car. It felt like driving through a
tunnel of branches. By the time we found the clearing
of the cabin, the sun was already gone, and that
last bit of twilight mid the woods look washed out
and silent, like everything was holding its breath. The place
looked exactly like I expected. All looks stack tight, a
crooked porch, one window cracked down the center. The door
hung slightly crooked, too, so you had to lift it
a little to get it to close. Inside was a
single room with a small loft, a couple of sacking couches,
and a heavy iron stove sitting dead center. There was
no electricity, no plumbing, not even a working lantern, just
the faint musty smell that every old building has, mixed
with a cold bite of wood smoke. We dumped our
stuff in a pile, lit some candles, and sot around
the stove, drinking from the cooler. The kind of night
where everyone's tired enough to laugh too hard at dumb jokes.
By midnight, one guy was already passed out on the couch,
another on the floor. I tried to sleep, but the
quiet was too loud. Every few minutes i'd hear this
soft snat, like a tweet, breaking somewhere outside, not close,
but not furry either, sometimes too in a row. I
told myself it was just animals, dear raccoons, whatever, but
I couldn't shake the rhythm of it. I'd start to
drift off, then snap. I even tried plugging my ears
with part of my hoodie, but the sounds seemed to
crawl through anyway. Eventually I must have dozed off, because
I woke up to sunlight cutting through the window and
the sound of someone clattering pans. Mark was making instant
coffee over the sove. The air and side was freezing
our breath visible. We higg data that morning, follow in
a trail that led up to a ridge where the
trees thinned out and you could see valleys rolling forever
in both directions. Mark pointed to a couple of rusted
hooks nailed into a tree and said his family used
to haindier there. I tried to laugh, but something about
the way he said it, like it was still recent,
made me uneasy. By the time we got back, the
shadows were long and the air felt heavier. That's when
we noticed the cabin door was shut. We were sure
we'd left it open, because it never stayed close properly.
Mark asked if anyone had gone back for something, but
everyone shook their heads. The door was too heavy to
swing on its own, and there was no lock. We
pushed it open slowly. Inside looked the same, nothing missing,
nothing moved. We stood there for a moment, each of
us pretending it wasn't weird. Mark mumbles something about the wind.
We all nodded like that explained anything. That night, we
got the stove going again, played cards, and tried to
ignore the creaks of the place. Settling round midnight, I
went out back to take a leak. The air had
the sharp mount and chilled its stings. Here of LUNs.
That's when I saw it. A small stack of stones
right passitory line, seven or eight of them, flat and
balanced in a perfect little tower. At first I thought
one of the guys had been crewing around, But when
I asked, everyone came outside to look, and nobody claimed it.
Mark's face went kind of blank. He said his uncle
used to make rock stacks whenever he camped up here.
It was just something he did. The thing is his
uncle had died years ago. Nobody said much After that,
we left the stones alone and went back inside. The
next morning, I was the first one up again. I
opened the door to get some order from the joke.
At a froze. There were two new stacks, one beside
the fire pit, on another ride in front of the
cabin door close enough that I had to step over
it to get outside. Same style, same height, perfectly balanced.
I woke the others and we stood their half dress,
just stirring at them. The dirt around them was smooth,
no footprints, no signs of anything moved. It didn't even
look like anyone had touched the ground nearby. We talked
about leaving, but Mark said the dirt road would be
slick after the rain from the night before. He promised
we'd go first thing in the morning once it dried out.
That day dragged. We barely talked. Every sound outside made
someone flinch. By evening, the tensruon was so thick we
gave up pretending to have fun. We made Chilly ate
in silence and moved all our stuff into one room
so we could sleep together. I jerked that it was
like a middle school sleepover, except every one looked like
they were waiting for something to happen. Nobody laughed. At
some point past midnight, I heard a heavy thud in
the porch. Not a knock, not footsteps, just a single
solid drop, like something heavy had fallen from a few
feet up. My eyes snapped open, across the room drew
was awake too. His face was pale, and he whispered.
You heard that. We both held our breath. Nothing followed,
no creak, no wind, just the faint ticking of the
stove as it cold. We stayed like that for what
felt like ires. Eventually I lay back down, but every
nerve in my body was still waiting for another sound.
It never came. When I stepped outside at dawn, the
light was thin and gray. The first thing I saw
was a single stone sitting dead Santo on the porch, round, smooth,
gray like the others, but alone. This time. We didn't speak.
Nobody even finished packing. We just grabbed what was nearest, keys, wallets, jackets,
and left everything else behind, sleeping bags, cool as lanterns,
all of it. When we finally hid highway and our
phones let up again, a tension broke, just enough for
us to start breeding normally. We stopped at gas station,
and that's when Drew pulled me aside. He looked like
he was about to be sick. He showed me his phone.
There was a foreto in his camera role. He swore
he hadn't taken. It was dark and grainy, but the
shapes were clear enough you could see four people sleeping
in a small room lit by a single lamp. It
was us. He deleted it right there. None of us
said a word for the rest of the drive. That
was over three years ago, and I haven't been back
anywhere near that Mountain Rain Saints. Last fall, I was
managing a small cluster of rental cabins tucked deep in
Appalachian hills. Then one group arrived that broke the rhythm
a little. Four guys surveys hired by some energy company
to map new ruts for transmission lines. They booked two
cabins for a few weeks, and I remember thinking they
looked more like college buddies than contractors. Loud, but friend
They laughed a lot, cooked out in the fire pit
every night, and left empty beer cans lined up like
trophies in the porch rail all except for one of them.
His name was Eric. Eric was quiet in a way
that didn't seem forced. He just listened more than he talked.
While the others joked and argued about football. He'd be
sitting off to the side, sketching something in a small
notebook or tightening a strap on his pack. The first
time I met him, he asked if there was a
trail that leaped down by the creek behind cabin free.
He said he liked walking alone before sunrise because it
helped him or set I remember thinking that was a
strange word to use, Rossett, but it stuck with me
Over time, I started trusting him. He'd offer to help
carry cleaning supplies or move lumber if he saw me struggling. Once,
when one of the porch hines snapped, he fixed it
without being asked. Didn't even mention it until I noticed.
He just said, couldn't stand the noise it made. There
was something very steady about him, the way he moved,
the way he spoke. I figured he was one of
those quiet, capable types he rarely meet anymore. Lena, my coworker,
noticed him too. She worked my dishifts, cleaning and restocking
the cabins. She was younger than me, early twenty's, trying
to put her life together again after what she called
a rough patch. She'd laughed when she said it, but
there was something brittle about the way she smiled. After
a week or two, Eric started leaving little things for her,
nothing huge. A theramis of coffee, a protein bar, a
folded note that just said thanks for keeping things nice.
I teased her about her secret admirer told her she
was going to get herself proposed to in the woods
one day, and she just laughed, said tea was sweet,
not weird. I wanted to believe that. When the surveys
finished their job, they said they'd be relocating about an
iron north closer tou Boon. They packed up on a
Friday morning. I remember watching their truck drive off and
thinking how strangely quiet it got afterward, like the wood
swallowed the sound. That afternoon I went to inspect the cabins.
Calvin four was fine, a little muddy, a few bottles
left behind, but the cabin five looked like no one
had stayed there at all. The sheets were touched perfectly, dishes,
washtawels folded, and there was this faint smell of bleach
that hadn't been there before, and a kitchen tonto was
a top piece of note for paper with Lena written
needy across the top by I didn't read it, just
left it in the office desk where she'd see it.
That night, she came back to grab her paycheck and
spotted the note ride away She read it quietly, then
looked up at me. He said, he's going back to Pennsylvania,
She said softly, said he's sorry he didn't say goodbye,
and nodded. Guess he's a gentleman. We both kind of laughed,
but she didn't sound amused. Two nights later, I was
finishing up some guest logaters when Lena came bursting into
the office, white as chalk and holding her phone. You
need to see this, she said, and shoved it toward me.
The service barely held, but the headline loaded. Man arrested
after killing three coworkers in mountain lodging near Boone. It
was Eric. At first I thought it had to be
a mix up, maybe a different Eric, but the photo
was unmistakable, the same commie's, same faint smile. The article
said he'd been fired for attacking a supervisor earlier that week,
then gone back to their new rental house after midnight.
He'd forced his way in and kill three the men
he'd been working with. A fourth survived but was in
critical condition. My hands started shaking so badly I nearly
dropped the phone. All I could think about was how
he'd stood on the portier quiet polite, offering to help
fix things. The same hands that fixed that Hinch had
beaten three people to death. As more news came out,
the picture got worse. He'd had priors, all charges, mental
health evaluations, even a restraining order once none of it
showed up when they rented the cabins. But what really
made me sick was realizing he'd left that note Felina.
After the killings. He must have driven back here. When
I told her that, she didn't react the way I expected.
She didn't scream or cry. She just stared down at
the note, tracing the writing with her finger. He didn't
seem dangerous, she said quietly. He seemed lonely. After that,
something in her changed. She started printing articles about him
from the library. She told me she'd written him a letter.
I told her to stop, that it wasn't healthy, that
he didn't deserve her sympathy. She said, you don't understand
people break. Sometimes. Over the next few weeks, she got
more distant. On cleaning days, i'd catch her standing by
cabin five, staring at the porch railing where he used
to leave those notes. Sometimes she stayed there for minutes
without moving. When I asked what she was thinking. She'd say,
he wasn't like the others. I started to dread being
alone out there. Every creak in the four boards made
me tense up. Sometimes I'd find little things out of
plays A rag folded differently at the back door and locked,
even though I saw I had locked it. Maybe it
was just my nose, but it started to feel like
he'd left something behind, some invisible rescue to clung to
that space. The last time I saw Lena, she was
sitting in the office lawn after closing. The note spread
out in front of her. The lamp made her face
loo colla. I told her again to let it go,
that this wasn't love, it was obsession. She didn't even
look up. A week later she quit, No goodbye, just
her key in the counter. I tried not to think
about her after that, tried to just keep working like
nothing had happened. Now, when guests check in, I always
tell them the same thing. Don't talk to anyone who
is impart of your group, don't open the door a
few here footsteps, and if someone knocks after dark, don't answer.
Reverend handled maintenance for a string of old research shacks
along a quiet stretch of the blackwater rain, and my
week always started before sunrise. The sharks were left of
us from a discontinued forestry project, scattered miles apart, linked
by barely visible service trails that were mostly used by
elkan occasional lost hiker. A couple was still structurally sound
enough to use as temporary shelters during fire season, but
most of them just needed some one to make sure
they hadn't rotted through or been cleaned by squatters. Every Monday,
I packed a week's worth of food, slum my gear
and followed the ridge. The rough covered nine cabin's total,
looping back to my own bunk house at the base.
By Sunday evening that fall, everything started to drift a little.
The first thing that stood up happened at the third
shack on a Tuesday morning. I stopped at the door,
went to unlock it, and noticed the key hole was
cleaner than usual. The rest of the door was covered
in dust and pangret, but some one had wiped the
area around the loch. At first I thought I might
have brushed it myself somehow, but then I spotted the
window latch and the side cracked halfway open. I had
shot it the previous week. It's the kind of thing
I double check without thinking. I marked the difference in
my log, secured the latch, and stepped inside the furnitures,
out of exactly where it always did. Narrow cot, metal table,
two crates near the heater. Nothing felt moved, but on
the table sat a plastic cup. I recognized, a cheap
one from the country's bulk supplies, bright orange and thin
at the rim. I had thrown it away over a
month ago, carried it all the way back to the
main road, and dropped it in the bin myself. Yet
here it was sitting upright like some one had just
used it. I picked it up and flipped it over,
same brand, same scene. I didn't want to overthink it,
so I shoved it into my pack and figured some
one must have left the matching one behind. I rode
it down, finished the inspection and locked up the fourth
shacks at another mile or so deeper into the ridge.
When I reached it, I saw something new. A piece
of twine tied tightly around the door handle, not just slooped,
but pulled into a knot that looked intentional. It had
tension to it like cevitied it had wrapped it around
their wrist or anchored it to keep pressure. No signs
of any one around, though. I slipped it into my pocket,
unlocked the door, and stepped inside the room, looked and
touched cot, still folded crate, still sealed dust even across
the floor. I added the twine to the log and
moved on, telling myself maybe some hiker had gotten creative
with a makeshift leegh or something. It didn't feel likely,
but it was easier than thinking too hard about it.
The next morning, after a long trek through the Midpoint markers,
I got up early to prep gear for the day.
My pack was still zip shut from the night before.
I unzipped it, pulled it open, and there was the twine,
not tangled, not loose coiled, sitting neatly beside my boots,
like it had been placed there on purpose. I stared
at it longer than I should have. My door had
been locked. I always checked it twice. No signs of damage,
no prints in the dirt. I didn't want it near me.
I walked it back up to the second shack of
the day and dropped it into one of the storage crates,
sealed the lid tight. I finished the rest of that
day's checks without incident. My heart didn't settle down for iars.
By Friday, things had shifted again. I stopped at Chack
six and opened the logbook to record a busted hinge
on one of the crates. Except the log wasn't where
I left it. The drawer that held it was empty.
I found it ten minutes later, on the oppos sit
side of the shack, resting on a window sole that
hadn't been opened in weeks. I didn't write anything, just
stared at the pages. The last four inchuries my own
handwriting were gone, not torn, not scribbled out, just missing.
The dates jumped backward like someone had turned the clock back.
I wrote what I could remember, even though it felt strangery.
The County didn't exactly audit the logs, but the habit
was drilled into me. You saw something, he lowered it. Still,
I couldn't shake the idea that someone else had flipped
through the book, read it, erased what they didn't want there.
When I reached the seven check, I started to hear
things I couldn't quite name, not voices or footsteps, just rearrangements,
like small things being nudged in other rooms, clicks of
shifting weight. I told myself it was cabin settling on
my own nerves. But when I opened the door, I
stopped cold. The crate that usually sat under the back
window had been dragged into the center of the room.
Nothing else disturbed, no food wrappers, no bedding, no gear.
Just a single round stone, perfectly centered and the caught
like a placeholder. I picked it up, smooth and cold
in my hand. I left it on the table and
got out. The last shacks did past the old forestry boundary,
the only one with a basement silgeers back because of
water damage and mold. My job was to make sure
no one had broken the lock. I usually dreaded the
hack there, but that day I wanted answers. When I
reached the clearing, I stopped short. There were tracks, not footprints, indentations.
They started at the edge of the tree line and
ended at the hatch, spaced two evenly for footsteps. Each
won the same depth, the same shape, like some one
had pressed pipe or post into the ground with careful force,
again and again in a perfect line. I followed them
to the hatch. The lock holm loose. The shackle had
been popped and wreathreaded, but not snatch shut. I stared
at it for a long time. My keys had never
left my belt. I relocked it close to the hatch,
but didn't snap it tight. Inside the shack was too tidy.
The crates had been pulled from the walls and opened.
The cot was laid out, pillows entered. The table had
been cleared, and sitting dead center on it was my
lop book. I always kept it with my tools in
the first shack. I hadn't brought it here. I opened
it blank, not a single entry, all my repair notes,
date's supply requests gone, the entire past month, erased. I
shoved it into my pack and stepped outside, needing to
check the hatch again. It was open, not swinging open,
no wind, no footsteps, just open. I walked over, pressed
it ship with my foot and locked it again. This
time I double checked the latch before backing away. Then
I made for the trail. Half way to the main junction.
Something skidded across the dirt ahead of me. I stopped.
The plastic cup, bright orange rolled to a stop right
in my path. It shouldn't have been there. The slope
of the trail angled downhill away from where it came.
My test felt heavy. I opened my pack. The cup
I had picked up days ago was gone. I reached down,
picked up the one on the ground, and carried it
the rest of the way. I couldn't stand the idea
of it being behind me. When I finally made it
back to my own quarters, the door was cracked open.
I hadn't left it that way. Inside every single tool
I owned had been pulled out and lined up on
the floor in a perfect row. My sleeping bag lay
flat against the wall, smoothed out, not a wrinkle, and
on top of it, dead center sat the twine, same nott,
same coil. I didn't write anything down. I picked up
my gear, left the radio on the post by the
main trail head, and started walking. I didn't stop until
I hit the pavement four miles down the slope. My
shifts started at six. I remember that because the sun
had just started edging over the trees. When I parked
my truck at the base trailhead and began the hike,
the first cabin looked normal, shutters latched, lock still in place,
lower clothes like I had left it. I made a
note check the supplies. Moved on easy, but when I
headed toward the second cabin, the trail didn't feel right.
I've walked that stretch of path more times than I
can camp twenty minutes tops gentle slope, a little footbridge
across a dry wash, But that morning a trail led
me into a clearing that looked like some one had
shuffled the terrain around while I was blinking. The incline
sloped down instead of up. The storage showed same collar,
same cabin type, sat a weary angle, like it had
been rotated or flipped. My first thought was that I
must have taken a wrong turn. Happens even to people
who know the trails. So I turned around, walked all
the way back to the tree with the old timarka
nailed into it our trail marker, the one that never moved.
I stood there staring at it, still the same rusty sign,
still on the right trail. I tried again, followed the
exact road. I landed in that same mon clearing, same
off kilter layout, say merely quiet. By then I was annoyed.
I figured the terrain had shifted over the years, and
I was just noticing I'd seen hikers get turned round
on far simple trails. I shocked it up to that
and headed straight for the cabin, pushing aside the weirdness.
The padlock was open, just dangling there. That through me.
I'd locked the cabin two days earlier, and there were
no guests book until next week. I stepped inside, careful
not to touch anything. At first. The love book lay
open on the center table. We always close them after
we signed an our outstand of policy. I didn't even
need to flip through the pages. One sentence had been
written across the most recent line, do not repeat the
route that was in neat handwriting, no signature, no date.
I checked the rest of the cabin's supplies and touched beds,
made nothing missing, no sign of forced entry. I stood
in the doorway for a few minutes, debating whether to
call it in. I should have, I didn't. I convinced
myself maybe someone from another department had stopped in, maybe
a trinny or a backup tack. I locked the place
again and moved on. To get to the third cabin,
I had to cross a little bridge. Two long wooden
planks laid over a shallow stream, been there as long
as I've worked the job that day, the whole thing
had shifted about three feet to the left. And I
don't mean the planks were moved a little. I mean
the whole bridge, both planks and the anchor logs had
been physically shifted over the stream. Fresh gouges lined the
stones with they been dragged, and deep tracks in the
mud on both banks said whoever moved them had strength
to spare. No way happened on its own still across,
and once I did, I noticed something else that didn't
sit right. A line of tracks, spare, flat and small,
ran along the left side of the trail. They weren't prints,
two narrow, too evenly space and no variation, same depth,
same shape, like someone had walked perfectly straight without lifting
their feet. I followed them because honestly, I didn't know
what else to do. The Prince ended in front of
the third cabin's porch, just stopped at the first step.
The door was slightly open. Inside, the room looked and
touched except for a backpack in the chair. That was
a problem. No guest had checked in there for over
two weeks, and we log algear left behind. I inspected
the bag carefully inside I found a small flasklight, dead batteries,
a folded piece of cappensationary, and a laminated ID badge
for the county. Only the name didn't match any one
I'd ever worked with, and the photo was scraped off clean.
I unfolded the note. It had five lines of handwriting,
same stuff as the last one. The first line read,
do not repeat the rope. The next four were half
finished sentences, as if the writer had started them and
then stopped half way through. I set it down, backed out,
tried the radio. Nothing. Usually at that elevation I had
at least one working channel, not that day, just static.
I should have turned around, bun straight back to the track,
but instead I kept going. I told myself maybe the
power relay was down near the last cabin, and that's
why the signal wasn't reaching. A trail from cabin three
to Cabin four leaped around the outer ridge, a narrow
bend with a wall on one side and a steep
drop on the other. That day it felt tighter than
it had before, less room to breathe. Half Way across
I saw the same narrow prints again. This time they
ran along the inner edge, hugging the cliff wall. The
weight they were pressed into the dirt made me stop cold.
Each print was deeper than you'd expect from a light foot,
like something heavy had been dragging itself just enough to
leave those impressions. The fourth cabin appeared just past the bend.
All shutters shut, but the door had been propped open
with a stone. That cabin supposed to stay locked. Its
door's emergency gear at lanterns Merckitt's back rations, no one
opens it unless there is a documented emergency. I went
in slow. Every shelf was cleared. All the gear was
piled in the center of the room, like someone had
made a display out of it. Nothing missing, nothing scattered,
just stacked and on top the love boat from the
second cabin. I picked it up. The warning page was gone.
In its place, a new note in the same handwriting
stopped closing what is opened. I stood there a long moment,
no clue what it meant. Eventually I left the book
where it lay and did one last weep of the room.
Back door, seld shut for years because of a warped frame,
was wide open. The same narrow princes let out through
it into the trees. I didn't follow. I grabbed one
of the working mountains and stepped back on to the trayer,
intending to backtrack the way it came. Only the trail
didn't go the way it was supposed to. It slanted
off in the opposite direction. Now and the landmarks I
relied on bouldered bent Pine's trio signs were gone. The
only familiar thing left was the line of narrow prints
waiting again, just ahead in the dirt. So I followed them.
They led me into a clayon I'd never seen, definitely
not on any map. In the middle stoo the cabin
that looked exactly like the other, the same built, same layer,
but the lumber was near the walls, unsaying but years
the sun and rain, there was no number plate, nor marking,
no record of this cabine systing in any of our looks.
Still eyes stepped inside the rooms were mirror images of
the standard lay. It left became ey, right became left.
Every detail reversed on the table was the torn page
from the second look book. A new sentence had been added,
you or repeating the rave. I was still staring at
it when I heard movement behind me, just a soft
shift like wade sittling on old would I turned The
backpacker had left in the third cabin was sitting in
the doorway. It wasn't a second zelo. The straps lifted
slightly the way they might have someone hutching its beneath them,
but no one was. The eyebaut up hand and the
door framed the back drop with a muffled thump, then
rolled on to its side. Behind it, the narrow prints
started forming again fresh in the dut One after the other.
They curved into a new path that led away from
the cabin. I followed and stop to think. After a while,
the trees thind at, and I found myself back when
the main trail, the one lead into the service road.
The Prince stopped exactly at the edge. No more strange cabins,
no more notes. I climbed down. The radio came back
to life the moment I cleared the ridge, I called
in and said the cabins needed a full safety sweep,
nothing more. I didn't mention the tracks or the messages.
The counties shut down access to the cabins for the
rest of the season. When we went back up as
a team, everything was normal. The trails were were it
they should be supplies untouched, no weird prints. I left
the job after that. That fall, my co worker cover
handled most of the empty houses near the main road,
so I was the one driving out to the more
isolated rentals. My shift that day started around noon a
cabin tuck way up near Lake Briar. It was about
an hour of County rough twenty seven past to Bailey.
Their trail. The curve threw a lot of thick brush
before opening into a clearing. I did maintenance for a
small company that owned hand fullification properties scattered through the
appalation backwards. The cabin itself was simple, same as the
others would frame, a little porch, no real utilities beyond
the base of generated out in the shed. I didn't
bother with it unless something need testing. One main room,
a kitchenette, and a sleeping loth above the fireplace. I
popped next to a squat walk by the porch, hauled
my tool bag up the steps, and started the usual sweep.
Then I heard it, a single thump from outside. Not loud,
just a short, heavy sound like something dropping, clean and
close enough to stop me mid checklist. I stepped out
onto the porch and scanned the clearing. Nothing moved, trees
stood still, no rustling, no wind. I figured it might
have been a branch, could have been anything. I shrugged
it off and went back inside. I saved the shed
for last, always did, mostly because the haspen. The generator
door jammed like cat and I hated messing with it.
But when I got there, it opened easy, too easy.
The padlock had been misset, not knew, just different. A
wrapper strip of orange final tape around the latch when
I finished a job, just to keep track. This time,
that tape was on the ground beside my boot, torn
in half a crouch trying to get a better look.
That's when I saw the footprint, fresh clear, pressed into
the soft dirt near the threshold, bigger than mine, two
to fine, to be more than an ile or two old.
I turned and placed, slowly scanning the trees. Not one
bird's sand, not one leaf twitching. I didn't yell, didn't
call out, just backed away and closed the shed door
without bothering to lock it. I didn't want to stand
there fiddling with keys. Then I saw it, A piece
of twine tied tightly around the railing on the cabin's porch.
It wasn't there when I arrived. I would have noticed,
especially with that little wouldn't be dangling from the knot
looked hand coved, like something off a charm bracelet. I
didn't touch it, just step wide around it and went
back inside. I figured i'd finished the last couple checks
fast and get up before anything else felt wrong. But
the inside of the cabin didn't feel quite the same
any more. The ladder to the loft was leaning only
a little, but I climbed it earlier and it hadn't
been like that. I remember things like that. My notes
were still where I left them on the table, but
the ladder just looked off like it had been nutched.
I pulled it straight and went up to check. Didn't
expect much. Most of it was normal, blanket folded at
the edge of the matdress. Nothing shifted or moved, but
in the far corner, near the boards, there was a
smear of dirt shaped like a hand wide fingers, but
the thumb was angled strangely, like someone had pressed it
down hard while dragging it across the wood. That's when
I knew I wasn't alone out there. I got down
the ladder fast, packed up my kit without checking half
the stuff I should have, and headed for the door.
Right as I stepped onto the porch, I heard a
faint clack behind me. It came from under the loft,
somewhere near the baseboard where the water line passed into
the cabin. I turned and looked through the window, but
nothing moved. Then another sound, sharp, with this time like
something tapping deliberate. I pressed my ear to the window
and listened. Three taps piled, two taps, two taps, pause one.
I backed off. I walked the perimeter, slowly, checking under
the cabin. When I reached the far side, I saw
them more footprints, a few sets, all pointed toward the
coal space hatch. The hatch itself wasn't shut all the way,
it was proped just enough that someone could be underneath.
I didn't go closer. I just stepped back, took out
my keys, and started toward the trail. Slower first. I
didn't want to make noise, But the second the clearing
dipped out of sight, I moved faster. I kept glancing back.
Nothing followed. About half way down, there's a fork in
the trail that doesn't look like one. Locals know it,
most others walk right past it, thinking it to run off.
I'd taken it before when dead full blocked them in path.
That day, I didn't hesitate. It's narrower, darker, and slower going,
but it was off the main line and harder to track.
That's when I heard it again, a dragging sound, A
dragging sound, soft but steady. Not footsteps, more like something
being pulled, catching on roots, pausing to adjust, then dragging again.
I didn't turn around, just kept my eyes ahead. The
sounds day behind me, too faint to be sure, but
I could tell it was keeping pace. Near the creek bed,
trail widened a little. I rest to look back. Nothing
but in the right a clump of branches shook, ever
so slightly. No wind, just movement. Whatever it was, it
had stopped moving and was watching. I pushed on the brush,
gave way to a gravel, turned out, and that's when
I saw my truck still there, but the driver's door
it was open. I always lock it, always, and out
here second nature. I froze and scanned the clearing. My
own bootprints were visible, pointing from the truck to the
cabin next to them, new ones, deeper, more spread out,
like someone had paced circles around the vehicle. I backed
away from the lot and crutched low near the ditch.
The tree line was dense there, but I knew the
woods better than whoever was tracking me. I stayed in
the brush and moved through the undergrowth, keeping parallel with
the gravel road. Then I heard it, a soft food
behind me. Then another something had stepped on to the gravel.
I dropped flat face against the dirt and peered through
the ferns. There it was a figure walking toward my truck. There,
dressed in muddy green and brown clothes that blended into
the wood. Shoulders hunched, arms a little too long. The
way it moved was fast, but it had that slow certainty,
like it knew exactly where it wanted to be. It
reached the truck and leaned inside. That was my chance.
I crawled through the brush, barely breathing, until the trees
curved up toward the ridge. From there, A straightened and
walked quick but control toward the next cabin over. It
belonged to a guy named Vernon, retired lanceervea kind man
kept to himself. When I knocked, he answered with a
cautious look. But once I told him some one had
followed me. He didn't hesitate, locked the door, ground his radio,
and told me to stay put. The deputy showed up
about an hour or later. What the woods found nothing,
rode it off as a trespasser, maybe a poacher. I
filled out my reports. Management asked if I wanted to
rotate to another district. I didn't think twice. I was
twenty seven when I spent a long weekend checking on
this rental cabin my uncle managed way up in the Alleganies.
He usually looked after it himself, but he thrown out
his back left something heavy at his shop, and didn't
want to leave his sitting unattended. He figured I could
handle it. Just basic cup keep staff are the place out,
checked the plumbing, make sure no windows were broken, and
that the propan tank hadn't been tampered with. Honestly, it
sounded easy enough. I'd done it a couple times before
I got there late in the afternoon. Sun was already
starting to dip behind the ridge, which meant I have
a couple good eyos of daylight left if I moved fast.
I unlocked the door, stepped inside with my backpack still on,
and stood there for a second. It was exactly as
I remembered it. One room plus a tiny bathroom to
the side, a short lad I led to the sleeping loft,
which wasn't more than a platform with a mattress and
a plastic bin for extra sheets. Downstairs, the furniture hadn't
moved in chineeer's little table near the window. Two wooden chairs,
wall shelf with folded blankets, kitchenet with the gastow of
an adentic kettle still sitting on the burner. The boards
creaked under my boots in the usual way. When I
dragged the broom under the table, the bristles caught on
something soft. I crouched down and saw a dish towel
folded neatly, looked clean. I figured someone must have left it, maybe,
I guess, tucked it away and forgot. I picked it up,
tossed it on the counter by the sink, and went
back to sweeping. The thing didn't stick in my mind
at all. Cabins like this always collect random stuff. Next
up was the bathroom. Door was partly open, but it
didn't want to stay that way. Each time I stepped
toward it, it eased itself closed an inch or two,
like it was gently falling on the hinges. I checked them.
Seemed solid, nothing loose, nothing warped. I opened the door
fully and let it go. It held for a second,
then drifted again. I just left it and moved on outside.
The air was cool and clean. The propane tank looked fine,
no rust, no sign of leaks. I circled around the back,
checked the siding, tapped a couple spots with the back
of my knuckles to make sure the boards were still dry.
Everything looked good. I stepped back inside. That's when I
noticed the dish towel was no longer on the counter.
It was back under the table, folded the same way,
same exact spot. I just stood there looking at it,
trying to remember if maybe I hadn't actually moved it
after all. But I knew I had. I'd walked it
over and set it down clear stay. I'd even remembered
brushing my fingers across the edge of the sink. Still,
I figured I was being forgetful. It had been a
long drive, and a quiet always did weud things to
my sense of time. So I picked it up again,
opened the cabinet ab of the sink and shoved it
inside out of sight. I moved on checking the plumbing
were in, the faucet, flushed the toilet, checked a water heater.
Everything worked fine. I grabbed my clipboard and started ticking
off boxes. Then I heard a noise from the loft,
just a soft thump, not loud, but sudden. I looked
up the ladder. The loft was empty for as I
could see. Probably a squirrel, I thought, or maybe something shifted.
I climbed up to check. The mattress was dusty, still
pressing into the far corner like it always was. The
pastic bin had it moved. I peeked behind it. Nothing,
no droppings, no nests. No. I noticed the bathroom door
had shifted again. It was half way closed this time.
I dragged one of the chairs across the floor and
wedged it right up against the edge. Heard its grape
blood against the wood. I even leaned my weight on
it to make sure it wouldn't budge with that handle.
I went back outside to check the foundation beams near
the porch luke solid, no signs of shifting or erosion.
Walked the perimeter one last time, then stepped back inside
the chair I had wedged under the bathroom door gone.
It wasn't just moved. It was now sitting next to
the kitchenette, right under the cabinet where I stashed the towel,
and that cabinet door wide open. The towel was back
on the counter, same fold. At that point, my brain
started buzzing, like it was trying to catch up with
what I was seeing. I didn't panic, not right away.
I checked every window, lopped, checked under the table behind
the door in the loft again. Nothing, no footprints, no
open entry, no sign of an animal. The air didn't
feel colder, It didn't feel weird exactly, It just felt watch.
I kept moving, finished the checkist even though my hands
felt jumpy. When I passed the table, I noticed my
tools screwdriver, flasklight, wrench all had moved slightly. They were
sitting closer to the edge than before, not hanging off,
just enough to notice. I nodged them back into place
and stared at the ladder. The top wrong was tilted,
only a little, but enough to catch my eye. I
hadn't touched it, swore I hadn't. Swore I hadn't. I
climbed doune careful, and it was straight before I stood
dead still in the center of the room and tried
to listen. Nothing. Not a creek, not a shift, not
even a breeze. I tried to shake it off, told
myself the house was old things, settle woodwarps all that.
I gathered my things, packed my tools, and headed for
the door. I was half way down the gravel path
before I remembered the clipboard. I needed it to file
the report. Cursing under my breath, I turned around, climbed
the porch steps again, unlocked the door. The cabin was silent.
Everything the towel, the chair, the tills, even the penn
I'd use, was now lined up neatly on the tabletop,
perfectly spaced, like someone had arranged them to be seen.
The bathroom door was closed high. I didn't take a
step inside, just reached and grabbed the clipboard off the
hook near the door and pulled back. I closed the door, slowly,
locked it again, and didn't look through the window the
hall walk back down. My spine felt tight, like something
was leaning just a little too close behind me. I
never told my uncle what really happened, just said the
cabin felt off now. I avoided every cabin check after that,
especially the remote ones. I was twenty nine years old
when I took the care take a job watching over
the ridge cabins. It sounded straightforward, keep the unit stocked,
do you walk throughs after guess jector report anything weird
to the owners. By the time I got to the
service shed that first morning, the sky was still gray.
The guy I was replacing looked like he couldn't get
out of there fast enough. There were six cabins scattered
across the stretch of ridge, all old but solid use,
mostly hunters and hikers who didn't mind the luck of
cell signal. The owners lived a few hours away and
only came up every couple months. Most of the time,
it was just me. That morning felt like any other.
I loaded up my pack Lubbock floslight, spare batteries, extra
cabin keys, a couple of prope intesters, and headed down
the trail toward Cabin three first. It sat the farthest
from the main loop, nestled near the edge of the
forest line, surrounded by trees that grew so close they
almost brushed the roof. The hike out there was steep
in a few places, but not bad. The square darted
across the porch. As I stepped up, the shutters were
where I left them last time. Looked normal. The last
guest had check out two days before, and according to
the notes, everything should have been in order. Inside it
was tidy, linens folded, no dishes in the sink. The
key sat on the table like it was supposed to.
I checked the windows and moved to the back door.
That latch had a habit of slipping loose, so I
gave it a couple test closures, and for once, it
clicked shut perfectly. Too perfectly. That thing never lined up
on the first try. I squatted down and tested it again,
smooth as butter. That's when I noticed the rug, just
a small one by the back door, the kind people
used to wipe off their boots. It was maybe six
inches off from where it should have been Normally. I
wouldn't care, but I had fixed it last time because
it always bunched up near the door. It never stayed
in place unless some one walked on it. I stood
up and looked round again, slower this time. Nothing seemed
out of place. I convinced myself maybe a clean air
had come in and reset things, or maybe I guess
left it like that, and the detail just hadn't made
it on to the report. I told myself that I
moved on, but I glanced over my shoulder one more
time before heading out. On the step outside, the mud
looked fresh, not like mudy footprint fresh, more like the
kind of disruption that happens when something heavy brushes it.
I bent down, but whatever mark had been there was
already fading. The soil around Cabin three usually held impressions well,
but I couldn't make out a shape, just a vague smudge,
like something had disturbed it then quickly vanished. Cabin Fall
was afire, just a fifteen minute walk along a winding
trail that curve around a massive split boulder. The trees
were thicker here and the lie dimmer, but the effelt
still dead still. The only sounds were creaks from far
away branches and the soft crunch of my boots on
the path. That cabin was locked, shudders drawn, no signs
of disturbance. I walked the perimeter, checked the propane tank,
signed off in the lug book, and kept going. Cabin
Fave always made my skin crawl a bit, not because
of anything that happened there. Just the lay it. It
sat low in a dip of land, like it had
sunk there and never climbed back out. The road curved
in a weird way as it approached, like it was
bending around something that didn't want to be seen. Even
the birds stayed quiet in their pocket. As I stepped
onto the slope, bleeding to the porch, I saw the
front door was nearly closed but not latched. That happened
sometimes guests would forget to lock it, or guest of
wind might tug it open a crack. Still, it gave
me pause. I pushed it open and stepped inside. First
thing that caught my eye was the lantern on the table.
These cabins all had a battery powered emergency lantern, but
this one was turned toward the door angle, like it
was intentionally facing me. Normally, it sat in the middle
of the table, centered neatly. I picked it up. The
battery was almost dead, weird but not necessarily alarming. I
made a mental note to replace it and move to
the bedroom. The bed bed was pulled back just slightly,
like some one had sat on the edge. The pillow
had that telltale dip where a head might have rested.
Now I've seen messy cabins before, but this one was
supposed to have been cleaned a week ago. The law
confirmed no one had been, no sense. I lifted the
edge of the mattress and saw something tucked between the
wooden slats, A tiny square of paper, clean and folded.
I unfolded it blank, no words, no smudge, just plain white.
I left it on the night scent. At that point
I felt it, not fear exactly, just a pressure in
the air, like something leaning over my shoulder. I wrapped
up the inspection quickly and stepped back outside. The clearing
in front of cabin. Five are changed white. In the
middle of the odd layer, long peel piece of tree
bark the palings I turned up, not form peel, too clean,
too deliberate. I'd walked that same patch minutes earlier, and
it hadn't been there. I walked over slowly. The devil
around the buck was marked dragged maty, not for prince,
just streaks, shallow and wide, as if something had slid
or been pulled. My pulse quickened. I left it alone
and backed away. On the path back to the loop,
I stopped at the utility shack. We kept spare filters, propane,
odds and ends in there. The padlock was undone, dangling loosely.
That hit me like a splash of cold water. I
knew i'd locked it last time. I swung it open.
Nothing missing, shelves still stalked. Even the faulty canister marked
with tape was untouched. But then I saw the broom
leaning by the wall. Mud stained the handle about half
way up, as if someone had gripped it with a
filthy hand. I stepped back and took a breath. I
locked the shack tight and returned to the shad to radioderners.
No signal, just static and faint blips that happened sometimes.
I decided to push through the last cabin, then try again.
Cabin six was the newest, set high on the ridge.
Getting up there took effort, especially with your nervese fraying.
Every few steps. I felt like something was watching me.
Nothing obvious, no crunch of branches or shifting shadows, just
a constant pull to look behind me. I didn't. I
reached a cabin, walked the perimeter, found no signs of tampering.
The ground was firm, the windows clean. Everything still inside
the cabin was as plain as ever modern sterile. Almost
I moved toward the back door to check the frame,
and that's when I saw it. Another folded piece of
paper topped under the bottom edge, identical to the one
at Cabin five, same size, same blank face. I opened
the door and stepped on to the porch. The ridge
sloped downward, trees line in the narrow view, like a hallway,
and at the very end of it, just before the
underbrush took over her, something stood. Not a deer, not
a person. It looked like a figure in a long coat,
but there was no head, just a collar standing stiff.
The arm didn't hang naturally, the coat didn't sway, it
just stood there like it had been waiting. I didn't move,
I didn't call out, I didn't blink. I closed the
door calmly, gently and walked back toward the front of
the cabin. I left everything, my till's, my notes. I
didn't check anything else. I just walked half way down
the ridge. I heard a step behind me, not loud,
just a soft crunch, then silence. I didn't stop another
step a minute later, then again, even spacing always behind me.
I never looked back. When I finally reached the service shed,
I slammed the door and locked it. The radio worked
this time. I told the owners what I'd seen. I
used phrases like an authorized presence and possible trespasser, even
though none of that felt accurate. They said they'd send
someone else up by morning, told me to stay put
and secure the cabins if I could. I didn't go
back out. I sat in nashead until I shift ended.
When the sun dip low, I got in my truck
and drove. I didn't check cabin five, I didn't check
the ridge. I drove without stopping. I grew up in
a small town, but I had never experienced the kind
of vselation I felt when I rented a cabin in
the Appalachian Mountains. I thought it would be a perfect
we can get away, just a chance to unplock, get
away from the noise of the city and breathe a
little bit of fresh mountain air, some time alone to
clear my head, and we sat simple. I'd heard the stories.
Of course, everyone in town has the version of some
creepy cabin tail, something spooky about the woods, but at
the time I brushed them off, they were just that stores.
The cabin looked old, but there was something charming about it,
maybe too charming. The wood was weathered like it had
been three years of storms and sunrises, and the porch
creaked under my weight. When I stepped up to the door,
the smelt of pine and damp earth, the kind of fresh,
earthy smell you only get when you're in the woods.
Inside the place was surprisingly cozy. The fireplace had freshly
chopped would stack next to it, and there was even
a handred in welcome notes sitting on the kitchen table,
which I thought was a nice touch. The floors creaked
in all the right places, but I expected that this
was a five star hotel. The place had that rustic,
lived and feel. I was ready to relax, maybe read
a book, take a walk through the woods, enjoy the silence,
simple stuff. But then things started to feel off. The
first night, I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't
quite right. It wasn't anything I could put my finger on.
It wasn't like hearing voices or seeing things. It was
just this snagging feeling that I was alone, even though
I was. The wind was howling outside, the trees rustling
in the dark, but there were other sounds too. Footsteps
soft and slow on the porch, like someone was standing
just outside listening. I checked the locks in the door,
pulled the curtains tighter, and told myself it was nothing,
just nerves. But it didn't feel like nothing. It felt
like something like someone was waiting. The second night was worse.
I woke up in the middle of the night to
a faint sound scratching. It was soft at first, like
something with calls was drugging them along the side of
the cabin. It wasn't loud enough to be a bear
or raccoon. It wasn't like any animal sound and I'd
ever heard. My first thought was to dismiss it, but
it didn't fade away. It lingered, just enough to make
my heart race. I grew out a flashlight, my handshaking
a little as I swung open the door and stepped outside.
The wood was silent, completely still except for the wind.
I scanned the dark trees, trying to catch a glimpse
of whatever was making that noise. Nothing. Then, just as
I was about to turn back inside, I saw them,
a pair of glowing eyes deep in the woods. Just watching.
I froze. The eyes blinked, then they were gone. My
pulse was pounding in my ears as I backed inside,
locked the door, and sat in a chair for the
rest of the night, staring out at the trees. The
silence outside was unsettling, but it wasn't the same as before.
Now it felt different, like there was something out there,
something waiting. By morning, I felt ridiculous. It was probably
just my nerves. It's easy to imagine things when you're
out in the woods all alone. I made myself a
cup of coffee, tried to shake off the weirdness, and
decided to go for a hike. I figured getting some
fresh air would help clear my mind. But the deeper
I hiked into the woods, the more I felt it,
that weird sensation of being watched. At first, it was subtle,
just a strange feeling in the back of my mind,
but the farther I went, the more it grew. My
steps quickened. I kept turning around, half expecting to see
someone standing there, but there was never anyone. Still, I
couldn't shake the feeling. I didn't get far before I
turned around. As I made my way back to the cabin,
I tried to tell myself I was just being paranoid.
But when I got back to the parch, I froze.
There in front of the door was a fresh pile
of dirrit, like some one had recently dug a small
hole and filled it in quickly. There was no reason
for it to be there. It hadn't been there when
I left, I hadn't seen it earlier. I spent the
rest of the day pacing inside the cabin, trying to
stay calm. Every creak of the floorboards made me jump.
Every gust of wind outside made the trees grow like
they were whispering. Night fell, and with it came the
strange weight of everything, the silence, the isolation, the growing
a knees. I didn't know what I was afraid of,
but I couldn't ignore the feeling that something was watching,
something that wasn't supposed to be there. And then that
night the tapping started. It was softer, first, barely noticeable,
like a tree branch brushing against the window, But then
it got louder, moving from window to window, as if
someone of something was trying to get inside. The footsteps
on the porch I could, again slow and deliberate. And
then the scratching sound, but this time it wasn't just
on the walls. It was at the door. I couldn't breathe.
I stared out the window, hard in my throat. There
in the dim light was a figure. It was too
tall to be heuman, too thin to be anything. I
recognized the outline of it shifted in the darkness, a silowuette,
standing just beyond the glass. I couldn't move. I don't
know how long I sat there, just frozen, staring. Eventually
the figure disappeared, and with yet the sounds. The silence
that followed felt suffocating. I didn't sleep that night, not
a single minute. By morning, I couldn't stand it any more.
I packed up everything, shoved my stuff into the car,
and drove away as fast as I could. I just
moved out to a small town Palatia, after years of
city noise and constant motion. A friend of a friend
mentioned as cabin he'd stayed in once, way out in
the woods, barely even on the map. He said it
was perfect for being alone. I figure, why not. The
drive out there wasn't long in terms of miles, but
it dragged on like I was slipping backward in time.
The roads turned from pavement to gravel, entered durret and
then to something that barely counted as a road at all.
I pulled in as the sky started dimming into disk.
The cabin looked older than I expected. Nothing spooky at
first glance, but definitely not part of any rental service.
The porch hugged a little in the middle, and there
was moss creeping up the sides, but the windows were intact.
The roof looked solid, and I wasn't exactly picky. Inside
it smelt like old wood and dust, not musty, just
still like no one had opened a window in years.
The floors creaked a little under my boots, and there
was a thick old rug in the center that probably
hadn't been vacuumed since the nineties. But it had heat well,
a stone firepless that still worked, and the basics a bed,
a chair, and a little kitchen. No TV, no a WiFi.
That was kind of the point high unpacks. Started a
fire and made myself some dinner from the supplies I bought.
After a while, I killed the music and let the
silence take over. The fire crackled, and for the first
time in a while, I felt like I could actually breathe.
Then I heard it At first I thought it was
just the when, the kind that comes out of nowhere
and slips the trees in weird ways. But then I
heard it again, a knock, light almost hesitant. One knock,
then another. I froze, Not like I was terrified, just confused.
It was remote out here, no one should have been around.
I got up, walked to the window and looked out,
but saw nothing, just woods in fading light. Still, I
opened the front door and stepped out. The cold air
hit me immediately. It wasn't just cold, it was sharp,
like it didn't want me there. I stood there for
a minute, scanning the trees, but there was no movement,
no footsteps, nothing, just silence. I went back inside, told
myself it was probably a branch or an animal bumping
against the wood. I tried to settle back in. Then
the knock came again. This time it wasn't subtle, it
was louder, more direct. My chest tightened. I stood again,
slower this time. I didn't say anything, just listened. The
sound had come from the back wall, which didn't make sense.
The porch was in the front, the back just faced
the woods. I growled a flask light and step outside
circling around the cabin. There were no footprints, no broken branches,
no signs that anyone or anything had been back there.
I even checked under the deck nothing. But as I
was walking back to the front door, something shifted in
the trees. Not sound, just a feeling like someone had
moved just outside my line of sight. To stop walking,
my mouth when dry. I turned the flashlight toward the trees,
but the being barely cut through the shadows. And then
I heard the knock again, This time it came from
deeper in the woods. Against every ounce of better judgment,
I followed it. It wasn't like I had some brave impulse.
I think it was more that it didn't feel entirely
real yet, and part of me thought I could make
it make sense if I just saw whatever it was.
So I walked flat light in hand deeper into the forest.
The trees closed in tight, the branches catching my sleeves.
If wasn't even a path, just patches of bare ground
between the brush. That's when I saw it. Another cabin,
smaller than the first, almost hidden behind vines and undergrowth,
like it didn't want to be found. The front door
was cracked open just enough to see that faint flicker
of yellow light coming from inside. It didn't make sense.
I hadn't passed any other structures on my way in.
I didn't even know this one existed. But there it was, waiting.
I should have turned around. I know that now, but
I stepped closer, heart thudding against my ribs, flashlight flickering slightly.
I pushed the door open with one hand. The air
inside was colder than it should have been. A single
bulb dangled from the ceiling, swaying just enough to make
the shadows shift along the walls. There was a catch
hold sagging in the middle, some broken furniture and us
covering everything In the walls. They were covered in carvings,
not drawing scratches, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, like someone
had spend year slowly etching shapes and marks into the wood.
Some of it looked like writing, but not in any
language I recognized. It felt frantic, desperate, not decorative. And
then there was the chair. It was in the corner,
facing the wall, nothing else around it, just the chair
turned toward the wooden paneling, like someone had been made
to sit there and stare. I was about to leave
when I saw it. Something bundled up on the floor
near the wall, wrapped in cloth or maybe old burl
up about the size of a small dog. It was moving,
but something about it made my stomach twist. I don't
know what I thought it was, but I stepped closer
and then the door slam shut behind me. I spun
around so fast I dropped the flashlight. I scrambled to
pick it up, pointed at the door, still closed. No
one there. I rushed over, twisted the handle, yanked it hard. Nothing.
It wouldn't budge. It didn't even rattle, like it had
been sealed from the outside. Then came the knock, but
it was inside, somewhere behind me. Then the voice lo
like someone speaking through sand, one word head out. My
whole body locked up. I couldn't even scream. My legs
just moved like they knew what to do, even if
my brain hadn't caught up. I don't remember opening the door,
but somehow I was outside running. Branches tore up my clothes.
The cold didn't even register any more. I didn't look back,
not once I burst into the main cabin and slammed
the door behind me. I didn't turn on the lights.
I didn't go near the windows. I just sat there
in the dark, knees to my chest, until the sky
started to lighten. At dawn, I threw everything back in
my car and drove without stopping. I didn't care that
I hadn't showered, hadn't in I didn't even check the mirrors.
I just drove. When I got to the nearest town,
I stopped at a diner. I must have looked like
al The woman behind the counter asked if I was okay,
and I told her a bit, just that i'd heard
something in the woods, that I found a cabin that
wasn't on the map. Her face changed. She didn't ax shocked,
just tired. You're not the first, she said. That's all
she told me. I didn't ask for more. I didn't
want to know. I never went back. I never even
asked for a reefend. And that is the end. Thank
you for listening, and I will see in the next one.