Beneath the Perfect View

It was the kind of view travel bloggers spend hours editing filters to replicate.

From the wide glass windows of Cabin 17, the world looked painted. Mountains with powdered snow fringes rose like sleeping gods in the distance. Pine trees flanked the valley below, their spires dusted with white. A frozen lake lay perfectly still, reflecting the twilight like silver glass. The air was crisp, fresh, the sky blooming into shades of rose and indigo.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

“God, look at that,” whispered Anya, her breath fogging the window slightly as she leaned against it. “It doesn’t even look real.”

Callum sipped his coffee, his flannel collar brushing his chin. “Like a postcard. Can’t believe we got this place so cheap.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just kept staring.

There was a silence between them—not awkward, but expectant, like the stillness before snowfall.

“Did you hear that?” she said suddenly.

Callum turned. “Hear what?”

“That... weird sound. Like... humming.”

He paused. “Nope. Just the wind.”

Anya pressed her ear to the glass. “It didn’t sound like the wind.”

Callum raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not just spooking yourself? You’ve been on edge since we got here.”

She pulled back from the window and wrapped her arms around herself. “I know. I just... something feels off.”

He laughed softly, trying to shake her mood. “It’s a luxury cabin in the middle of nowhere. We’re finally alone. There’s a fireplace. There’s wine. There’s no signal, no social media, and no emails. You should be thrilled.”

Anya nodded, but her lips tightened. “That’s exactly what’s bothering me.”

They had booked the trip on a whim.

Well—Callum had. As a surprise. Their relationship had hit a sort of still water. No fights. No heat. Just drift. So, when he found the ad for “ScenicSoul Retreats – Disconnect to Reconnect!” on an obscure travel blog, he booked it instantly.

No cell towers. No neighbors for twenty miles. Snowshoes and board games provided. A stocked fireplace. Self-check-in. A getaway that promised “authentic isolation with five-star comfort.”

The drive had been long, winding, and nearly GPS-less. The final stretch was a dirt road, and the woods seemed to loom closer with every mile. But the view, when they arrived, really was astonishing. The kind that takes your breath and slows your heart.

It was the kind of view that made you believe again. In nature. In love. In the beginning.

So why did Anya keep waking up in the middle of the night?

The second night, Callum woke to find her side of the bed empty.

He sat up, heart lurching at the quiet. Then he saw her silhouette, backlit by moonlight, standing at the window.

He blinked sleep away. “Anya? What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer at first.

When she finally turned around, her voice was flat. “A man is standing in the trees.”

Callum was out of bed instantly, rushing to her side. “What? Where?”

She pointed. “Near that bent pine. Left side of the lake. Just at the edge of the trees.”

He squinted into the dark. The moonlight was generous tonight. The scene outside looked almost painted in blue. But there was no man.

“Anya, there’s no one there.”

“I saw him.”

He looked again. Nothing moved. Just the gentle drift of snow. “Maybe it was a shadow? Or a deer?”

“No. It was a man. He was... watching the house.”

The third morning, the tracks appeared.

Tiny, neat footprints in the snow. Not animals. Not boots. Bare feet.

They circled the cabin and then vanished into the trees.

Callum crouched to look at them more closely. “What kind of idiot walks barefoot in snow?”

“They look like children’s feet,” Anya said quietly.

He glanced at her. “Maybe kids playing a prank?”

“In this kind of cold? With no houses around for miles?”

Callum didn’t respond.

The air felt different that morning. The kind of silence where you start to hear your pulse.

By the fourth day, Anya stopped commenting on the view.

She avoided the windows and spent more time near the fire. Flipping through magazines without reading them. Asking questions she didn’t want answered.

“What if someone’s watching us?”

“Why haven’t we seen the owners or staff once since we got here?”

“Why did this place have zero reviews online?”

Callum brushed them off with logic. The place was meant to be private. That was the whole point. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? A break from everything.

But even he had to admit—some things weren’t adding up.

Like how the power flickered at 3:17 a.m. every night, exactly.

Or how the fireplace re-stocked itself every morning, even though they never heard anyone come in.

Or how the snowman appeared.

It was standing in the center of the lake.

Perfectly built. Three balls of snow are stacked with symmetry. Coal eyes, a carrot nose, stick arms.

Anya spotted it first. “That wasn’t there yesterday.”

“Maybe someone made it before we arrived,” Callum said. “And the wind uncovered it.”

“There was a storm last night.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look at the snow. There’s no trail. No footprints. It’s just there.”

He wanted to say it was just snow. A prank. A coincidence.

But something about it felt wrong.

Like it was watching.

That night, they didn’t sleep.

They lay in bed, eyes wide open, not speaking, barely breathing.

At exactly 3:17 a.m., the power flickered.

And this time, they heard footsteps above them.

Callum’s heart stuttered. “There’s no second floor,” he whispered.

Anya gripped his hand tightly, her nails digging into his skin. “I know.”

The footsteps creaked slowly across the ceiling.

Then they stopped.

Then a knock at the window.

Three soft taps.

They didn’t move. Didn’t dare turn.

But they knew—they were no longer alone.

The knock came again.

Three soft taps against the glass.

Then silence.

Callum sat up slowly, his body rigid with cold and fear. Anya didn’t move, barely breathing under the covers. The knock hadn’t been loud. It was... deliberate. Just enough to let them know they were being watched.

He turned his head, heart thudding. The curtains swayed slightly, the kind of movement that’s too subtle for a breeze.

With trembling fingers, he reached out and drew the curtain aside.

Nothing.

Just the snow. And the same perfect view. The lake. The trees. The mountains.

Except—

“The snowman’s gone,” he whispered.

Anya sat up. “What?”

He pointed out the window. “The snowman. In the middle of the lake. It’s not there anymore.”

She joined him, peering through the glass.

He was right. The center of the frozen lake was smooth, undisturbed.

But something else caught her attention. Footprints. Not child-sized this time. Bigger. Deep impressions in the snow led directly from the lake to their cabin.

And then... stopping.

At the base of the window.

The next morning, Callum found the camera.

It hadn’t been there before—he was certain of that. It was a small black wildlife camera, half-buried in snow just off the porch. He knelt to pick it up, brushing the frost from the lens. No markings. No brand. Just a blinking red light.

“Someone’s been recording us,” he muttered.

He showed it to Anya, who looked at it like it might bite her.

“This isn’t part of the retreat,” she said. “There’s no mention of surveillance. Nothing in the welcome folder.”

“I’m going to the woodshed,” Callum said. “See if I can find any tools. Something sharp. I’m not spending another night without a weapon.”

He stomped off through the snow, boots crunching in that too-loud way snow makes when the world is quiet. The trees looked darker now, more crowded. And for the first time, he noticed something he hadn’t before:

There were no birds.

No chirps. No rustling.

Not even a single crow.

In the woodshed, he found a rusted axe and a crowbar. The place was colder than outside, and it smelled of damp earth and something faintly metallic.

He turned to leave—

And stopped.

There were photos pinned to the wall.

Crisp, glossy prints. A dozen or more.

They were of him and Anya.

Sleeping. Eating. Standing by the window.

Some taken from outside. Others... from inside the cabin.

One, in particular, made his blood run cold: it showed him sleeping, mouth slightly open, and in the corner of the photo, half-hidden in shadow, was a face.

Pale. Smiling.

Watching him.

He ran back to the cabin, heart pounding, lungs burning.

Anya met him at the door, pale and frantic. “Callum! There’s something in the walls!”

“What?!”

“Listen!”

She dragged him to the corner near the fireplace and placed his hand against the paneling.

There. A hum. Soft, but rhythmic. Mechanical. Like gears turning.

“I thought it was just the heater,” she said. “But it’s not. It’s inside the wall. And it moves.”

He stared at her.

“Anya, someone’s been in the house.”

He showed her the photos. She flipped through them, hands trembling.

“We have to leave,” she whispered. “Now. I don’t care if there’s no signal. We can walk until we find a road. Or help.”

“But—”

“No arguments, Callum. Please. Something is wrong here. This place... It’s not a retreat. It’s a trap.”

They packed in ten minutes.

Essentials only. Boots, coats, food bars, and matches.

As they opened the cabin door to leave, Anya gasped.

There were three snowmen on the porch.

Perfectly built. Arms outstretched.

Each of them had something in their twig hands.

One held a strand of blonde hair.

One held a tooth.

The third held Anya’s scarf.

That was it.

They ran.

The snow was deeper than they expected. It clawed at their legs, slowing their pace. The path back to the road was gone, swallowed by the last night’s storm.

But they pushed on. Into the woods. Away from the cabin. Away from the lake.

After twenty minutes, they stopped to rest.

Anya leaned against a tree, gasping. “Do you hear it?”

Callum nodded.

The humming.

It was in the forest now. Not from one direction—but all around.

A low, vibrating hum. Almost musical.

And under it, something else.

Voices.

Children’s laughter. Soft. Faint.

Then silence.

They walked for what felt like hours. The light began to fade, the sky turning that familiar dusky purple.

And then they saw it.

Another cabin.

Identical to the one they had left.

Same wood. Same windows. Same view of the lake.

“No,” Anya said, backing away. “We didn’t loop. We walked straight.”

Callum ran to the front. Checked the door. It was locked.

On the porch was a welcome mat that read: “Cabin 17 – ScenicSoul Retreats.”

Anya stared in horror. “This isn’t a different cabin. This is the same one.”

He opened the door, despite everything inside him screaming not to.

Inside, it was warm.

The fire crackled.

On the table were two fresh mugs of cocoa, steaming.

And sitting on the windowsill was the snowman.

Only now, it was smaller.

Almost child-sized.

Its coal eyes turned inward. Smiling.

They didn't sleep that night.

They sat with their backs to the wall, weapons in hand.

At 3:17 a.m., the power flickered again.

And this time, the knock wasn’t on the window.

It was on the inside of the closet door.

Three slow taps

The knock on the closet door was soft, but it echoed like a gunshot.

Three slow taps.

Callum’s grip tightened around the crowbar. Anya was frozen beside him, eyes wide, lips parted in a silent breath. The knock didn’t come again.

The silence afterward was worse.

He stood up slowly, limbs stiff with fear and cold.

“I’m going to open it,” he whispered.

“No,” Anya said, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t. Please.”

“There could be someone trapped. Or something watching. I need to know.”

Before she could argue, he flung the closet door open.

Empty.

Just coats. Snow boots. A flashlight.

But the back wall was slightly open, as if it had been moved recently. He tugged it aside—and found a narrow crawlspace leading into darkness.

From deep inside came a faint noise.

Not humming.

Not laughter.

A recording.

His voice. Clear and unmistakable.

“You should be thrilled.”

It was on their first night. A playback of what he’d said to Anya. The exact words.

And then, her voice:

“That’s exactly what’s bothering me.”

Anya stepped back. “They’re listening. They’ve been recording everything.”

“There’s something behind the walls,” Callum muttered. “Some kind of system. Wires, cameras. Hidden passages.”

She was shaking. “Who would build that into a rental cabin?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he crawled in.

The passage smelled of rust and damp wood. His flashlight beam caught glimpses of wires strung across beams, small speakers, and even more hidden cameras. The tunnel twisted and narrowed until he reached a hatch.

He pushed it open—and found himself inside another cabin.

Not the one they just left.

This one was rotting. Abandoned. Dust-covered furniture. Broken windows. Cobwebs.

But on the far wall, tacked up with pins, were more photos. Black-and-white. Old.

They showed other couples. Dozens of them. Some smiling by the lake. Others are asleep in the same bed that Callum and Anya used.

Each photo had a date written in red marker. And a word:

“View: Acceptable.”

“View: Perfect.”

“View: Defective.”

Then he saw the ones labeled “Taken.”

Their eyes were scratched out.

Back in the cabin, Anya wandered toward the window.

The lake looked different now. Not frozen. Not calm.

It was rippling.

Like something was stirring beneath.

She blinked—and saw figures standing just at the edge of the trees.

Dozens of them.

All wearing guest robes. Still. Watching.

One of them lifted a hand and waved.

Her scream brought Callum running back.

“There are people out there,” she gasped. “Or things. I don’t know. They’re watching.”

He pulled her away from the window. “We’re not staying another second.”

They ran again.

This time, they didn’t follow any trail. Just bolted into the woods, crashing through snow and branches.

They didn’t stop until they stumbled upon a plowed road, empty and shining under the moonlight.

And a sign.

WELCOME TO HARTWIN PEAKS – EST. 1932

SCENICSOUL RETREATS – CLOSED PERMANENTLY

Below it, taped crudely to the wood, was a yellowing newspaper article.

Callum leaned in to read. It was dated 1998.

“MOUNTAIN RESORT SHUT DOWN AFTER MULTIPLE GUESTS VANISH.”

“Authorities report 14 unexplained disappearances in under two years. Locals whisper of experiments, surveillance, and strange noises from the woods. ScenicSoul Retreats denies wrongdoing but has closed all properties indefinitely.”

He looked at Anya.

“We were never supposed to find this place.”

The two of them walked the road until dawn. Eventually, a snowplow spotted them. They were brought into town, wrapped in blankets, and given cocoa.

No one believed their story, of course.

The ranger said Cabin 17 had been boarded up for years.

The road leading there? Closed by an avalanche.

“There’s no way you stayed there,” he told them, brow creased in confusion. “It’s not even structurally sound anymore.”

When they returned—against advice—to show proof, the cabin was gone.

Just rubble.

Collapsed.

No porch. No snowmen. No signs of life.

But in the snow, beneath the ruins, Anya found something.

A single coal eye.

Two months later, back in the city, Callum took down the last of the curtains in their apartment.

Sunlight streamed through the window. The view was nothing special—just a skyline of buildings, cars below, and a flicker of birds in the distance.

“Normal,” he said aloud. “Boring. Thank God.”

He turned to make coffee.

Behind him, the TV turned on by itself.

Static. Then snow.

Then audio.

“God, look at that... it doesn’t even look real.”

He froze.

“It’s a luxury cabin in the middle of nowhere... You should be thrilled.”

He turned—

The screen was black again.

In the window’s reflection, he saw it.

A snowman. On the balcony.

Smiling. Watching.