The Seventh Night

I’d never been to this place before.

The gravel cracked under the tires like bones. I parked and stepped out into silence. Real silence—not just quiet, but the kind that makes your ears ring. The trees stood still. The wind didn’t move.

I always thought cabins were sanctuaries. Quiet places tucked far from the noise. A place to breathe. To think. To write.

I was wrong.

By the time I booked the cabin, I was a wreck. I hadn’t slept in weeks. Missed three deadlines. My agent stopped returning messages. I owed rent. My fridge was empty except for expired mustard and baking soda. When I saw the ad—“Remote. Private. No distractions.”—I clicked ‘Book Now’ without even checking the reviews.

The photos made it look charming. Rustic. Cozy, in that off-the-grid way writers romanticize when they’re desperate. I told myself I’d finish the book here. Finally. Just me, the trees, and a blinking cursor.

But now I was standing on the porch of a place that looked like it hadn’t been lived in for years.

The wood was warped. The windows were dull and streaked with dirt. Ivy twisted around the railings like veins. A shutter flapped in the wind, tapping out a rhythm as if it were warning me away. The front door leaned slightly off its hinges.

I unlocked it and stepped inside.

The air smelled like metal and mildew. Dust floated in thick beams of light. Every board under my feet creaked. The living room had a sagging couch, a dead fireplace, and a crooked bookshelf filled with swollen paperbacks. Something had chewed the corners of the rug.

A rocking chair in the corner moved slightly as if it had just been used.

I shook off the nerves. It was just a cabin. A fixer-upper, maybe. Nothing sinister. I'd lived in worse places.

I unpacked my laptop and set it on the dining table. Sat. Opened the document I’d been stuck on for months. Stared at the blinking cursor.

Nothing came.

I typed a sentence. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.

By sunset, I’d written twenty-one words and hated all of them. I microwaved a can of soup, ate it in silence, and crawled into bed. I left the blinds closed and kept the kitchen knife next to the pillow. Just in case.

That night, I heard scratching.

Soft. Fingertips on wood.

I froze. Held my breath. The sound moved slowly around the walls. Tapped lightly at the window. Paused at the door.

I told myself it was a raccoon.

I woke up hours later. No memory of falling asleep. No dreams. Just silence.

The next morning, I noticed my mug had been moved. Not far—just a few inches to the left. I stared at it for a long time. Tried to convince myself I hadn’t placed it there to begin with.

I walked through the woods to clear my head. The trail behind the cabin looped through thick trees. Cold air bit at my face. I walked for an hour but didn’t see a single bird, squirrel, or person.

Back inside, I tried to write again.

Nothing.

That night, I left a sentence on the screen before bed: “He came here to be alone.”

When I woke up, a new line had been added underneath:

“He’s not.”

I stared at it for a long time. My fingers hovered over the keys, but I didn’t type. I closed the laptop and didn’t open it for the rest of the day.

The couch had moved. It was subtle, but I noticed. Maybe two inches back. I hadn’t touched it.

That evening, I lit a fire in the hearth. It smoked, coughed, and died within twenty minutes. The smoke lingered.

At 2:13 a.m., I heard footsteps. Not outside. Inside. Light. Bare.

I held the knife and waited in the dark. The noise stopped just outside my door. I held my breath so long I almost passed out.

Nothing happened. The sun rose.

The next few days blurred. I stopped checking the date. I ate whatever was left in the pantry. Mostly crackers and soup. I found a drawer open that I hadn’t touched. My toothbrush was wet. My reflection blinked slower than me.

Then came the sixth night.

I woke up on the floor.

I was cold. My laptop was open. A document I didn’t remember typing sat full of words. Over and over:

LET HIM IN.

I deleted it. Or tried to. The backspace didn’t work. The letters stayed there, pulsing.

I shut the laptop.

The phone rang.

It shouldn’t have. I hadn’t seen a landline here before.

I picked it up slowly.

“Caleb?” said my agent’s voice. “You’re late again.”

“I—I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost track of time.”

“You always do.”

Then the line buzzed. Shifted.

“You’re not alone,” she said. Only it wasn’t her voice anymore. It was mine.

I dropped the phone. It kept ringing.

Later, behind a loose panel near the fireplace, I found a notebook.

Yellowed. Torn. Its first few pages were dates and meals. Then it shifted.

“Day 12 – I think it knows I want to leave.”

“Day 14 – I heard myself talking in another room.”

“Day 15 – If you find this, don’t stay past the seventh night.”

The journal ended mid-sentence.

I packed my bag. Grabbed the knife. Ran.

The tires were slashed.

I walked.

The road bent in ways it hadn’t before. I kept seeing the same stump. The same rusted sign. I turned around and ended up back where I started.

Then I reached the clearing.

There it was.

The cabin.

Not just a cabin. The same one.

The rocking chair moved gently.

I climbed the steps. Reached for the knob.

The door opened.

And there I was.

Standing in the doorway. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Smiling.

“Welcome back,” I—he—said.

I stumbled away. The trees closed in.

The woods swallowed me.

I woke up on the cabin floor.

The laptop sat open.

The clock blinked 00:00.

The scratching had started again.

Only now, it was inside.

It whispered my name from the walls. From under the bed. From behind the mirror.

And when I whispered back... the voice whispered, “Welcome home.”