Cabin on the Other Side of the Lake

I first saw it in the fog—just a vague outline beyond the shimmering water, nestled in a curtain of pines on the far bank. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, the kind of illusion that happens when dawn and mist dance too close to the lake’s surface. But the shape stayed. It solidified.

A cabin. Weather-worn. Wooden. Watching.

I stood on the porch of my rental cabin, coffee growing cold in my hand, and squinted into the haze. I had chosen this lake precisely because of its isolation. No cell service. No nearby towns. Just one narrow road in and out, and the promise of silence.

The property manager, an elderly man named Mr. Granger, had assured me I’d be the only one on the lake this time of year. “Too cold for tourists,” he’d said, with a smile that seemed too knowing.

That was yesterday.

Today, there was another cabin across the lake. And it hadn’t been there before.

I tried to ignore it at first. I even convinced myself I’d simply missed it during my arrival. Maybe the trees had hidden it. Maybe my fatigue had fogged my vision.

But when I looked through my binoculars, I saw details—torn lace curtains in the windows, a swing on the porch, and what looked like a single dim lantern glowing in the window. Like someone had been expecting me.

Still, I told myself it was just an empty building. An old hunting shack or maybe a long-abandoned homestead.

Then, at exactly 9:00 that night, a light flicked on inside the cabin.

And I saw someone standing in the window.

I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed of walking across the lake, not over ice or in a boat, but directly on the water, my feet sinking into moonlit ripples. In the dream, the cabin door opened before I could knock. A woman with silver hair and blank eyes took my hand and whispered, “You left something here.”

I woke up gasping, heart pounding. The dream felt real. Tangible.

I tried to brush it off. I even drove into town the next day to clear my head. But the townspeople didn’t help.

When I asked about the cabin across the lake, the woman at the general store froze mid-scan of my granola bars.

“There’s no cabin across the lake,” she said without looking at me.

“I saw one,” I insisted. “It was lit up last night.”

Her eyes met mine, sharp and unreadable. “No one’s built over there for decades. Not since the fire.”

“What fire?”

She didn’t answer. Just handed me my change and turned away.

That night, I couldn’t help myself. I took the canoe.

It was foolish, reckless even. The moon was thin, and fog clung low to the water. But I paddled slowly, my breath visible in the cool air, heart loud in my chest.

When I reached the far side, the cabin looked...different. Older. Closer to ruin than it had from a distance. The wood was blackened in places, the porch sagging. But the light was still on inside.

I tied the canoe to a tree and approached.

The door creaked open before I touched it.

No one stood there.

Inside, it was dustless. Warm. Familiar.

A kettle hissed softly on the stove. A single chair sat by the fire, and on the wall was a photograph of a young boy and his mother.

My mother.

Me.

I backed away, nearly tripping over the rug. My skin crawled. I hadn’t seen that photograph since I was a child—long before the fire that claimed our old lakeside home. But this cabin wasn’t the same one. Ours had been on the other side of the lake.

Unless…

Unless this was the same lake.

Unless I had unknowingly returned, driven by some quiet instinct, to a place I thought was long gone.

I turned to leave—but the door had closed behind me.

And in the corner of the room, where shadows danced deepest, a figure emerged. A woman with silver hair. Her eyes were hollow.

“You left something here,” she whispered.

I couldn’t speak.

“You forgot to remember.”

She stepped forward. Her hand touched my chest—light as ash—and suddenly, I was a boy again. The crackling fire. The smell of burnt sugar cookies. My mother’s humming. The sudden flare of light. Smoke. Screams. Cold water and blackness.

And then nothing.

Until now.

I stumbled backward. My adult mind warring with childhood trauma, everything crashing together in waves of memory.

“You’re not real,” I choked out.

The woman tilted her head. “Then why did you come?”

The walls of the cabin shimmered, flickered—like film on a projector, stuck between frames. The floor creaked with footsteps that didn’t belong to me. Whispers leaked from the walls like water.

I ran.

I burst out of the cabin and into the night, not caring that I scraped my knees on roots, not caring that the canoe drifted a few feet from shore. I waded in and paddled back with shaking arms.

The cabin remained still. Watching.

When dawn broke, it was gone.

No trace. No scorch marks. No swing. Just trees and silence.

Mr. Granger met me when I returned the cabin key.

“You didn’t go across the lake, did you?” he asked softly, not accusatory—just sad.

“I think I did,” I said. “I think I had to.”

He nodded. “Some things wait. Grief. Memory. They take root in places. That old cabin’s been showing up for years. Only to the ones who remember it. To the ones who left something behind.”

I looked back toward the lake.

“I think I found what I left.”