Cabin on the Lake

I had come to the cabin to write and was left alone.

It was the last month of fall, the kind of weather that smelled like stale wood smoke and wet pine. I had six weeks of vacation, a suitcase, five unread novels, and every intention of going back to my old self. No phone. No internet. Just books and silence.

The cabin was located on the shore of a long-forgotten lake in northern Vermont, accessible only by a dirt road and a half-decayed dock. It was exactly what the listing promised: “Quiet. Remote. Secluded.”

I arrived on a Wednesday afternoon. The sun was low in the sky and gold, and the lake reflected it like cracked glass. There was a sense of peace in the air.

As night fell, I unpacked, lit the wood stove, and sauntered into the corner of the porch swing with a thick paperback in hand. A mug of tea lay on the armrest beside me.

I sighed and pulled down the brim of my hat.

“Just a few more chapters…”

The first few days passed in blissful silence.

No emails. No push notifications. Just me, my books and more.

It wasn’t until the fourth night that anything felt… closed.

I had just finished a novel and was flipping through a fresh one when I noticed that the cabin door was open.

I knew I had locked it. I even remembered turning the little brass latch.

Maybe it was?

I got up, locked it, and tried not to think too hard.

The next morning, I found footprints on the dock.

Barefoot footprints.

I hadn’t been down since I got there, and there wouldn’t be anyone else for miles. I went down to inspect them. They were faint, wet impressions—too small to be mine, but still adults. They stopped at the edge of the dock… and didn’t come back.

No boat. No kayak.

Just footsteps on the shore and then nothing.

I told myself it was a trick of the dew and my anxious imagination.

I didn’t believe myself.

That night, I locked the door, closed the windows, and pulled the curtains tight.

Still, around 2 a.m., I woke up with the feeling of being watched.

I heard nothing. No screams, no footsteps. Just… silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

When I peered through the blinds, the lake was completely still.

But on the dock, where the footprints had been, I saw something.

No one. Nothing.

It looked like a person—but very tall. Very thin. Pale and completely still. As if carved from the fog.

It stood there for a full ten seconds. Then it disappeared into the fog.

I should have left the next morning. Packed up and driven away.

But I didn’t.

Because when I woke up, there was a note on the porch table.

It was written in my handwriting.

“Just a few more chapters…”

I hadn’t written it. I know I hadn’t.

Yet the ink was fresh.

The books I brought started to feel different.

The pages were dog-eared, untouched. I couldn’t remember reading the underlined sentences. And then, halfway through the third novel, I came across a line that shouldn’t have been there.

“He stayed longer than he should have. And now, the lake remembers.”

I checked the back cover. The synopsis had changed, too.

Now it ended with: “And in the end, the lake takes back what it gave.”

I closed the book.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

On the seventh day, I stopped pretending I wasn’t afraid.

I began to hear whispers from the trees—soft, like paper being twisted.

Every night, at exactly 3:17 a.m., I woke up to a tap on the porch.

Once, I thought I saw a figure sitting in a swing.

Reading.

I started writing in a journal to stay grounded. But that, too, began to work against me.

I read an entry I’d never written:

“He tried to finish the chapter, but the story had already written it.”

I tried to leave on the tenth day.

The car wouldn’t start.

I walked three miles down the road—only to turn back and find myself in the same cabin again.

The lake was watching me now. I could feel it. Breathing beneath the surface.

I threw the books into the fire.

But they were back on the bookshelf by morning.

Today is the fourteenth day.

I found a new novel sitting on the porch table.

No title on the spine. No author's name.

Just a plain cover. And a bookmark about halfway through.

I opened it.

The story began:

"A man came to the cabin to write, and was left alone..."

I turned the page.

"He sighed and pulled the brim of his hat down. Just a few more chapters..."

I stopped.

The next line hadn't come yet:

"He looked up, saw the figure standing at the tree line, and finally understood - he was no longer the reader, he was the story."

I put the book down.

Then I looked up.

And there was someone standing at the tree line.

Smiling.