The Cabin Was Never Empty

The stairs creaked again.

I stood motionless in the cabin’s small kitchen, my hand still clutching the diary. I hadn’t moved for what felt like minutes, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

I wasn’t alone.

I stepped quietly, barefoot across the cold wooden floor. The cabin was silent except for the slow groan of old wood — like it was breathing with me. I grabbed the fireplace poker and crept toward the staircase.

“Just wind,” I whispered to myself. “Old house. Nothing’s here.”

But the stairs creaked once more.

And this time… it wasn’t the wind.

Upstairs was darker. The hallway was narrow, walls lined with peeling wallpaper and family photos — none of which I recognized. They looked old, too old. Black-and-white portraits of people with stiff smiles and hollow eyes.

As I reached the top step, I noticed one photo was missing from its frame. Just an outline remained, along with two words scratched into the wood behind the glass:

“Turn back.”

Something was wrong with this place. The diary had led me here, but it hadn’t warned me what was inside.

I stepped into the bedroom at the end of the hall — the only door slightly ajar. Inside, the room was cold. The bed untouched. But the window was wide open, letting in the wind… and something else.

Sitting on the desk by the window was the photo.

The one of me and my father.

Only now, the man in grey was in the photo again.

Closer.

His hand on my shoulder.

I dropped it and backed away.

That’s when I heard the floorboards shift behind me.

I spun around — no one. But I could feel it. A presence. Watching. Breathing.

I bolted downstairs, grabbed the car keys, and ran outside. The forest swallowed the cabin behind me, thick with fog. I didn’t look back until I reached the car.

But the car door wouldn’t open.

It was already unlocked.

I glanced into the driver’s seat.

The diary was there.

Open to a page I hadn’t written.

“July 22 — He tries to leave, but the road leads nowhere. The forest turns him around. The cabin calls him back.”

I looked up.

The forest road ahead was gone.

The trees… had moved.

I drove anyway. Fast. Blind.

The forest grew thicker. No signs. No turns. I drove for what felt like hours. Until suddenly — headlights caught something.

A figure.

In the middle of the road.

Wearing a grey coat.

I swerved, tires screeching, and crashed into a ditch.

When I crawled out, dazed, the man was gone.

But something else was there.

A note. Nailed to a nearby tree.

“You can’t leave yet. You haven’t finished writing.”

I’m back at the cabin now.

I don’t know how. I don’t remember driving back. The diary was waiting on the table, as if I never left. Open to a new blank page.

And this time, the handwriting is mine.

I’ve been writing for hours.

Because every time I stop — I hear the stairs again.

The diary seems to know more than I do. It’s not just predicting anymore — it’s controlling. It wants me to finish something.

But I don’t know what.

Not yet.

There’s a basement in the cabin.

I didn’t notice it before. The rug near the fireplace was covering the hatch.

I only noticed because the diary mentioned it:

“He finally opens the basement. And finds what was left behind.”

I don’t want to know what that means.

But I know I’ll open it.

Maybe tonight. Maybe after I finish this page.

The last entry says:

“July 23 — He finally remembers what he did. And why the man in grey is watching.”

I don’t remember doing anything.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe… I don’t want to.

If I write again — you’ll know I survived.

But if not…

Don’t come looking for me.

The cabin was never empty.

And now, neither am I.