The House at Blackwater Bend

The road to Blackwater Bend was always empty after sunset—local people said the forest swallowed sound after dark. Avery didn’t believe in such things, but after four hours of driving through endless pines, even she felt the weight of something watching from between the trees.

She had come here because of her brother, Noah.

Two weeks ago, he stopped answering calls. One day he posted a strange message on his social feed—just one blurry photo of the woods with a caption:

“It keeps calling me.”

Then silence.

Tonight, Avery finally reached his remote cabin, determined to drag him home if she had to.

The cabin sat hunched against the treeline like it was trying to hide. The porch light flickered weakly, casting a thin yellow glow over the crooked steps. When Avery pushed the front door, it creaked open on its own.

“Noah?” her voice trembled slightly.

Only the hollow echo replied.

The interior was a mess—chairs overturned, papers scattered, a coffee mug shattered across the floor. But the strangest thing was the smell: damp earth, like someone had brought the forest inside.

Avery moved slowly, finding Noah’s journal on the table. The last entry stopped her breath.

“It stands outside at 3:17 every night. Doesn’t knock. Doesn’t move. Just watches.”

Another line, written with a shaky hand:

“Its face changes every time I blink.”

A chill raced down her spine. She closed the journal and stepped back, only to hear something shift on the porch behind her.

A heavy footstep.

Then another.

Avery spun around. The porch light blinked once, twice—then went out completely.

Silence filled the cabin.

She reached for her flashlight and clicked it on. A narrow beam spread across the room, cutting through the dark. She moved slowly toward the window, fighting the urge to run.

The forest outside looked still. Too still.

Then she saw it—something tall standing just beyond the last tree.

A shape. A silhouette.

It looked like a man, except it was wrong. Shoulders too broad, head tilted at an unnatural angle. When the flashlight beam touched it, the figure slowly stepped backward into darkness, melting into the trees as if the forest swallowed it whole.

Avery dropped the curtain, breath shaking. She grabbed Noah’s journal and her phone and ran toward the stairs, heading to his bedroom. Maybe there were answers somewhere.

At the top of the stairs, something cold brushed her neck.

She froze.

Very slowly, she turned her head.

Nothing behind her.

But Noah’s bedroom door—closed before—now stood open, a faint blue glow seeping out.

“Noah?” she whispered again.

This time someone answered.

A voice came from the room. Soft. Familiar. Broken.

“Avery… don’t look at it…”

She rushed inside. The room was empty except for Noah’s voice echoing from somewhere she couldn’t find. The blue glow came from his computer screen, where a video file was paused on the last frame.

She pressed play.

Noah appeared on screen, eyes wild, face pale, breathing hard.

“It mimics voices,” he whispered. “Don’t answer if it calls you by name. Don’t follow it. And whatever you do, don’t let it inside.”

The screen glitched, static bursting across it.

Then Noah’s terrified voice:

“It knows you’re coming.”

Avery’s blood ran cold.

A loud creaking sound came from downstairs—like the front door slowly opening.

The thing had come inside.

She turned off the flashlight, slipped into the corner, and held her breath. Something heavy moved across the floorboards below, each step deliberate and dragging, like it wasn’t used to walking in a human body.

The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.

Stopped.

Then a voice floated up—smooth, warm, and horribly familiar.

“Avery… it’s me. I found Noah. Come down.”

Her heart hammered.

That was her mother’s voice.

Her mother had been dead for seven years.

The steps resumed, slow… slow… climbing.

Avery backed toward the window. The second floor was high, but staying meant death. She pushed the window open, cold air hitting her face.

The thing reached the top step.

“Avery…”

Now it was using Noah’s voice—perfectly.

She didn’t look.

She didn’t breathe.

She jumped.

The landing knocked the air out of her, but she ran—through the trees, into the dark road, not stopping until the cabin was far behind.

Hours later, when sheriff deputies found her wandering the highway, shaking and incoherent, she repeated just one line:

“It wears your memories like a mask.”

Noah was never found.

And at Blackwater Bend, the locals still avoid the woods after sunset.

Because something tall still stands there at 3:17 every night, waiting for a new voice to steal.