CABIN HORROR STORY

Everyone warned us not to stay in Black Pines Cabin—not because of ghosts or urban legends, but because no one ever came back from it. At least, no one sane. But we weren’t the kind of people who believed in ghost stories.

It was supposed to be a weekend retreat. Just the four of us—me, my girlfriend Allie, her brother Kyle, and our best friend Sarah. A chance to unplug, hike, drink, laugh. That was the plan.

We found the listing online—no reviews, just a single photo of a crooked little cabin deep in the Black Pines forest. The owner responded fast, almost too fast. Said we could take it for free if we left a review afterward.

We should’ve known.

We arrived just before dusk. The road was narrow and winding, barely wide enough for our SUV. The trees grew so close together they blocked out most of the sky. It felt like driving into another world.

The cabin looked just like the picture—small, leaning slightly to one side, with rotting wood and windows stained yellow. It had no electricity, no Wi-Fi, no phone signal. Just oil lamps, a fireplace, and silence.

The first red flag was the scratches on the front door. Deep, uneven claw marks. Like something had been trying to get in. Or out.

Kyle made a joke—“Probably just a bear.” But none of us laughed.

Inside, it smelled like damp wood and mold. The living room had a dusty couch, a broken grandfather clock, and a fireplace full of old ash. The kitchen had jars with faded labels and spoons still on the table, like someone left in a hurry.

Allie found a diary in the bedroom drawer. She opened it, read a few lines, then slammed it shut and said nothing. When I asked, she just shook her head and said, “It’s fake. Someone trying to be spooky.”

But her face said otherwise.

That night, the wind howled through the trees like a living thing. We lit a fire and sat close together, drinking from a bottle of cheap whiskey and trying to shake the growing sense that we weren’t alone.

Then, just past midnight, the clock struck once.

Just once.

The grandfather clock hadn’t worked in decades, according to the diary. We checked it earlier. It had no hands. But somehow… it struck.

And then we heard the sound.

A dragging noise on the roof.

Long, slow. Like someone—or something—was crawling across it on all fours.

We froze.

Sarah whispered, “Is it an animal?”

I grabbed the flashlight, but the batteries had already died. So we used the lamp and stepped outside to look.

Nothing.

The roof was empty. The forest was dead silent. Not even crickets.

Then, Allie noticed something in the dirt—footprints. But they weren’t shaped like feet. They were elongated, narrow, with deep claw-like impressions at the front.

And they led around the side of the cabin… then stopped.

Like whatever made them had vanished into thin air.

We locked the doors. Bolted the windows. No one slept.

The next morning, we decided to leave. We packed up and got in the car—only to find the tires slashed, torn open like paper. No way to call for help. No way out.

And that’s when we realized—we were trapped.

That night, Sarah screamed.

We rushed into the bedroom to find her pointing at the wall. Scratched into the wood—deep, fresh, and bleeding sap—was a message:

“FOUR CAME. ONE STAYS.”

Sarah was shaking. “It was scratched in while I was sitting here… I didn’t hear anything…”

None of us did.

Then came the knocking.

Soft, slow. From the front door.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Kyle peeked through the peephole.

“There’s nobody there,” he whispered.

But the knocking didn’t stop.

Then it moved—around the side of the cabin, to the back door. Then the windows. It was like it was circling us.

And the strange part? There were no footsteps this time. Just the knocking. As if it wasn’t walking on the ground at all.

We stayed huddled in the living room, weapons in hand—an old fire poker, a broken chair leg, a kitchen knife. Useless, really.

At 3:00 a.m., the knocking stopped.

Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

And that’s when we heard the whisper.

From the fireplace.

A voice… soft, broken, like dry leaves in the wind.

“He… still… burns…”

Allie dropped her lamp, and the flame went out.

In total darkness, we heard something crawl out of the fireplace.

Something wet.

Something breathing.

We ran. Slammed the bedroom door shut. Blocked it with the dresser.

Whatever it was… it didn’t try to break in.

It just stood there, scratching lightly on the other side of the wood.

And whispering.

Over and over.

“He still burns… he still burns…”

When the sun came up, it stopped.

The scratching. The whispers. All of it.

We dared to open the door.

No one was there. Just ashes on the floor.

But something was missing.

Kyle.

His bed was empty. No blood, no signs of struggle. Just a single message written on the mirror in soot:

“ONE GONE.”

We searched the woods for hours. Called his name until our throats bled.

No answer.

But the trees felt like they were watching. Closing in.

That night, Allie finally told us what the diary said.

It belonged to a girl named Grace, who stayed in the cabin with her friends in 1972. Just like us—four people. And one by one, they vanished.

She wrote about a presence that lived in the woods. Something that hated light. That hunted groups of four. Always four.

And it didn’t kill them.

It took them.

One per night.

Until one was left behind.

Alone.

Then it left… until the next four arrived.

We didn’t sleep that night. We just waited.

And at 2:00 a.m., the fireplace lit up on its own.

Flames, dancing without wood or spark.

Inside the flames… we saw Kyle’s face.

Burning. Screaming.

But his eyes weren’t in pain. They were empty.

He looked at us.

Then the fire went out.

Sarah started sobbing. Allie collapsed.

And from the hallway… came footsteps.

But not walking.

Dragging.

Like someone pulling broken limbs across the floor.

We locked ourselves in the attic. Stayed there until dawn.

And when we came down…

Sarah was gone.

Her bag was still there. Her shoes. Everything.

Except her.

On the wall, written in dried blood:

“TWO GONE.”

Allie was losing it. She started talking to shadows. Sitting by the fireplace at night. Whispering back at it.

I begged her to leave with me. To run through the woods if we had to.

But she just smiled.

“He told me you’re the one who stays,” she said.

That night, she vanished too.

No blood. No scream.

Just her voice echoing through the trees:

“He still burns…”

I’m writing this now, alone in the cabin.

It’s day four.

The diary was right.

Four come. One stays.

I hear it scratching under the floorboards now.

Waiting.

And I know tonight, it will take me too.

Or maybe it won’t.

Maybe I’m the one who stays this time.

Maybe I become part of the cabin. Part of the story.

So if you ever find this note… and you’re thinking about staying in Black Pines Cabin…

Don’t.

Because the fire never goes out.

And he still burns.