I never believed in haunted cabins. That is, until I stayed in one.
It was supposed to be a relaxing getaway—just me, my sketchbook, and silence. I found the cabin online. Secluded, surrounded by dense forest, and cheap. Too cheap.
Red flag? Probably. But I was desperate.
The listing said “Rustic Writer’s Retreat — No Neighbors for 20 Miles!”
Sounded perfect.
The first few hours were peaceful. A winding dirt road led me there. The air smelled like pine, and the quiet was thick, comforting even.
The cabin was old, but charming—wood creaked, shutters clicked in the breeze, and inside there was no TV, no Wi-Fi. Just a fireplace, a small kitchen, and a bedroom upstairs. Exactly what I needed.
I unpacked and took a walk around the area. There was a strange tree line behind the cabin. The trees grew in an almost perfect circle—too symmetrical to be natural.
At the center was a pile of rocks, stacked like a little altar. Something about it made me uneasy. I told myself it was just an old campfire site.
That night, I lit a fire in the hearth and sat down to draw.
That’s when the noises started.
At first, it was soft. Something tapping on the window.
I looked. No one.
A few minutes later—again. A light knock, but this time on the opposite window.
I stood up, went outside, flashlight in hand.
Nothing. Just trees swaying in the wind.
I went back inside and locked the doors.
At midnight, I heard footsteps upstairs.
But I hadn’t gone up there since I arrived.
I froze, listening.
The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and then… stopped directly above me.
I grabbed a fire poker and crept up the stairs.
The bedroom was empty.
The window was open.
I shut it, locked it, and tried to sleep on the couch downstairs.
At 2:47 a.m., I woke up to the front door wide open.
The fire had gone out.
And in the ashes… were footprints. Bare feet. Small. Child-like.
The next morning, I searched the property again. This time I noticed strange carvings on the trees—symbols I didn’t recognize. Circles, lines, and jagged arrows pointing toward the rock altar in the woods.
I called the owner. No answer. The number was out of service.
I tried to leave.
My car wouldn’t start. No signal on my phone.
I was stuck.
Back in the cabin, the atmosphere had changed.
It felt watched.
The mirrors fogged up even though there was no heat or steam.
And in the fog… fingerprints. From the inside.
I wiped them, but they came back an hour later.
I started hearing whispers.
First, just barely audible under the creaking wood.
Then louder. Clearer.
A child’s voice.
“Are you him?”
It asked.
“Him who?” I whispered aloud.
No answer.
Just laughter. Giggling, echoing through the cabin.
I packed my things. I didn’t care if I had to walk 20 miles out—I was leaving.
But when I stepped outside, the woods had changed.
The tree line looked different. Closer. As if the forest had moved.
I tried walking, but no matter how far I went, I ended up back at the cabin.
Over. And over.
It was a loop.
That night, I lit every candle I found and huddled in the center of the room with my back to the wall.
At 3:00 a.m., the whispers became screams.
The walls shook. The lights flickered. Shadows danced across the floor even though nothing was moving.
Then, silence.
And then—her.
A girl, maybe ten, appeared in the doorway. Pale skin, soaked in mud. Hair matted. Her eyes were hollow, sunken, black as night.
“Are you him?” she asked again.
I couldn’t speak.
She took a step forward, and suddenly dozens of voices whispered in unison.
“HE’S COME BACK.”
The candles blew out.
I saw her eyes up close.
They weren’t black from shadow. They were empty sockets. Torn open.
I screamed, threw my lantern, and ran.
But I didn’t make it far.
The front door slammed shut on its own. The windows sealed.
I was trapped.
The next morning, everything was normal.
The cabin clean. Firewood stacked. Dishes washed.
No sign of the girl. No symbols on the trees.
My phone had one bar. Enough to get a call through.
I called the police.
An officer picked me up later that day.
When I asked him about the cabin, he went silent.
“That place… should’ve been torn down years ago,” he said. “A man built it in the 1960s. Said he wanted to raise his daughter off-grid. People in town warned him about those woods.”
“What happened?”
“They both went missing. We found blood, hair, claw marks on the walls. No bodies.”
I swallowed hard.
“The girl… I saw her.”
The officer looked me dead in the eyes.
“You didn’t see her. You survived her.”
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