A Night to Forget

It began as any other weekend getaway would. The strategy was straightforward: get away from the city, unplug, and spend a peaceful night in a rented cabin in the forest. I had no idea that peace would give way to panic. But I'll never forget that cold, stormy, and absolutely terrifying night.

In daylight, the cabin was charming. Rustic wood panels, a crackling fireplace, and a wraparound porch that overlooked an endless sea of pines. But by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky had turned mean. Winds howled through the trees like they had something to say, and rain slammed on the roof like it had a dispute to settle when a storm rolled in without any warning.

The power then went out.

With the lights gone, the cabin transformed. Shadows grew teeth. Every floorboard creak sounded like a footstep. In the hope of finding solace, I started the fireplace and some candles I found in a drawer. However, the glimmering light only made the night dance. That's when I heard the knock.

There was a single, loud knock at the door. No footsteps before it. The gravel driveway has no cars in it. There is no voice or follow-up. Simply knock. I froze. My gut told me to keep my mouth shut and not respond. Nothing came in through the window. I opened the door a crack. Still nothing. Only the wind and a forest that suddenly seemed much more alive.

As I closed the door, I caught something—a glimpse of movement at the edge of the trees. I told myself it was just the wind in the branches. That night, I told myself a lot of things. An hour passed. Maybe two. The storm didn’t let up. Thunder cracked so loud it shook the windows. Then, the scratching started.

It came from the back wall. A slow, deliberate scraping—like claws dragging across wood. I compelled myself to examine. No animals. There are none. Nothing. But the marks were real. Fresh. Deep.

I tried calling for help, but with the power out, my phone had no signal. I was truly by myself. I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the living room, poker from the fireplace in hand, facing the door. Just in case. I listened to every sound—most explainable, some not. The scratching stopped, but I swear I heard whispering once. Faint. like a conversation that is just too far away. The storm stopped like a switch had been flipped when dawn finally broke. I stepped outside, and everything looked normal again. The sound of birds chirping, the scent of pine and wet earth, and sunlight piercing the canopy The nightmare was over—or maybe just paused.

In the light, I looked around the cabin. The back wall where the scratching was heard? Deep gouges in the wood. Not animal claw marks. Something else. Something I couldn't explain.

I left that morning and never went back.

I still don't know what I ran into out there. Maybe it was just a mix of isolation, fear, and storm-fueled imagination. But sometimes, when it’s quiet at night, I still hear that knock in my mind.

And I never, ever ignore it.