The old cabin creaked under the weight of the storm outside, wind howling through the pines like a chorus of restless spirits. I’d rented the place for a quiet weekend, a chance to unplug and clear my head. The bathroom was small, with chipped tiles and a shower that sputtered before spitting out lukewarm water. I stepped in, letting the spray wash away the day’s hike, steam curling around me like a shroud.
The bulb overhead flickered once, twice, then held steady. I ignored it—old wiring, probably. The water felt good, soothing my aching muscles. I closed my eyes, humming softly, the sound muffled by the patter of droplets. Then, a sharp *click*. The light went out, plunging the room into pitch black.
I froze, water still streaming down my face. “Great,” I muttered, reaching for the faucet. My fingers fumbled in the dark, slipping on the wet knob. The shower kept running, but the air felt heavier now, like someone had stepped into the room. I strained to listen over the water’s drone. Nothing. Just my imagination, right?
I turned off the shower, the sudden silence deafening. My hand groped for the towel hanging nearby, but it brushed something else—cold, slick, like damp skin. I yanked my hand back, heart hammering. “Who’s there?” I called, voice trembling. No answer, but the darkness seemed to pulse, alive with something I couldn’t see.
I stumbled out of the shower, feet slipping on the tiles. The bathroom door was somewhere to my left—I hoped. My hands found the wall, guiding me forward, but the surface felt wrong, spongy, like it was breathing under my touch. I yanked my hand away, suppressing a scream. The air grew colder, thicker, pressing against my bare skin. A faint whisper slithered through the dark, not words, just a low, guttural hum that made my stomach twist.
I lunged for where I thought the door was, fingers scrabbling until they hit the knob. It turned, but the door wouldn’t budge, like something was holding it shut. Panic clawed at me. I pounded on the wood, shouting, my voice echoing in the tiny space. The whisper grew louder, closer, curling around my ears like icy fingers. I swear I felt breath on my neck, damp and sour.
Desperate, I threw my weight against the door. It gave way, spilling me into the cabin’s main room. The lights there were still on, warm and steady. I spun around, expecting to see someone—or something—in the bathroom. Nothing. Just darkness beyond the doorway, thicker than it should’ve been.
I didn’t sleep that night. The storm raged on, and every creak of the cabin felt like a warning. I left at dawn, never looking back. But even now, weeks later, I feel it sometimes—a cold breath on my neck when I shower, a whisper in the dark when the lights flicker. It followed me. And it’s waiting.
TomT2.0 