I Rented a Cabin in the Woods to Escape My Life—But I Wasn’t Alone

I Just Wanted Silence

I booked the cabin through a no-frills website that promised privacy, seclusion, and no cell reception—exactly what I was looking for after the worst month of my life.

Burned out.

Recently heartbroken.

Disillusioned with everything.

I wanted space. Solitude.

What I got instead... was something else entirely.

The first night was uneventful.

Crickets. Wind. The occasional branch cracking in the distance.

It felt healing — the kind of quiet that wraps around your brain and squeezes out the noise of city life.

But on the second morning, I noticed something strange.

There were footprints in the mud. Fresh. Deep. Leading toward the cabin — not away.

I Told Myself It Was Nothing

Maybe a park ranger. Or maybe old tracks.

I tried to focus on reading, writing, even meditating. I refused to let paranoia creep in.

But that night, things escalated.

So, yeah—2:17 in the morning and something yanked me out of sleep. Not your average creak or raccoon rummaging, either. Three knocks. No rush, just this slow, almost deliberate rhythm. Someone at the front door.

My lungs just… paused. I didn’t even twitch. Who the hell would’ve tracked me down way out here? Middle of nowhere, buried in the trees. Nah. Couldn’t be.

Everything went dead quiet.

For a split second, I almost convinced myself I’d made it up.

But then, right by the window—somebody whispering. Too soft, all hiss and breath, words tangled up in the dark. No clue what they said. Didn’t sound friendly.

I Should Have Left That Morning

But I stayed.

Honestly, who the hell knows? Pride, maybe. Stubbornness? Could be. Or maybe I just didn’t wanna face the fact that I was scared outta my mind.

That day barely made a sound. I wandered around, journal glued to my side. Every time the wind rattled those trees, I jumped like a kid who just watched his first horror movie.

Night three? Oh, it went downhill fast.

The whispers? Yeah, they weren’t outside anymore.

They were right there in the damn cabin with me.

And, lucky me, this time I actually caught what they said:

“Why did you come here?”

I ran. Barefoot. No bag. No keys.

Just my phone, which still had no signal.

I sprinted through the trees, the fog clinging to me like wet cloth. My lungs burned. Branches clawed at my skin.

And behind me… footsteps.

Not fast. Not running.

Just walking, steadily — like whoever it was knew they’d catch up eventually.

They Found Me at a Gas Station

I burst into a station off Route 19 at sunrise. I must’ve looked insane — barefoot, shaking, rambling about being followed.

The clerk called the sheriff. They sent a team out to the cabin.

They found it undisturbed.

No footprints. No knocked-over furniture.

Just my stuff exactly where I left it.

Except for one thing:

My journal.

Gone.

And Then I Got a Letter

Two weeks later, a brown envelope showed up at my apartment.

No return address. Inside was a single page.

From my journal.

The page where I’d written:

“I feel like something in this forest is watching me. Like it’s waiting.”

But under my handwriting, in a second script I didn’t recognize, someone had added:

“It was.”