"The Stranger":
I remember the day like it was yesterday—the thrill of escaping to a new city in search of peace and quiet. Life had been a relentless cycle of deadlines and stress, and this trip felt like a gift to myself, a rare opportunity to step back and breathe. After weeks of browsing countless options, I had finally chosen an Airbnb in a quiet neighborhood, a cozy little apartment that looked perfect in the photos. It had glowing reviews, and the host, Mark, seemed friendly and reliable. His responses to my questions were always quick and polite, making me feel confident in my choice.
“Welcome to my place!” his last message read before I arrived. “Hope you enjoy your stay. Here’s the code for the lockbox: 2468. Let me know if you need anything!”
I arrived just after sunset. The neighborhood was peaceful, with narrow streets lined by charming brick homes and the occasional garden. Streetlights cast long, golden shadows across the empty sidewalks, adding a surreal quality to the quiet. The apartment itself was just as it appeared in the photos—clean, inviting, and with a large window offering a spectacular view of the city skyline. I felt a small sense of pride in my choice.
I texted Mark, “Made it safely, the place looks amazing!”
His response came almost immediately: “Great to hear! Relax and enjoy. I’m just a message away if you need anything.”
That first night was uneventful. I spent the evening on the plush couch with a cup of tea, staring out at the glittering skyline and feeling the weight of daily life melt away. For the first time in weeks, I felt truly at ease. Little did I know that this calm wouldn’t last.
The next morning, I woke up early, eager to explore. But as I got ready to leave, I noticed something strange. The front door lock, which had seemed sturdy the night before, now felt loose, almost like it had been tampered with. I wiggled the handle a few times and inspected the mechanism, but nothing looked obviously broken. Telling myself I was overthinking it, I brushed off the unease and headed out.
The city was everything I had hoped for—vibrant yet serene, full of quaint cafes and lush parks where I spent hours people-watching and reading. By the time I returned to the apartment, the sky was painted in deep oranges and purples, the sun sinking below the horizon. I walked up the stairs to the front door, only to find it slightly ajar.
My heart stopped. I stood frozen on the doorstep, trying to process what I was seeing. Had I forgotten to close it properly? That didn’t seem possible—I distinctly remembered locking it before I left. Slowly, I pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges echoing ominously in the silence.
“Hello?” I called out hesitantly. The apartment was eerily quiet. My gaze darted around the room, searching for anything out of place, but everything looked untouched. My suitcase was still by the bed, the book I’d left on the coffee table was undisturbed, and even the window remained closed. But the sense of unease lingered.
I inspected the lock again, and this time I was certain it had been tampered with. The edges of the mechanism looked scratched, as though someone had tried to force it open. My stomach churned. I quickly snapped a photo and texted Mark:
“Hey, did you stop by? The door was open when I got back, and the lock looks... weird.”
His reply came after a long pause: “No, that’s strange. I’ll check the security footage.”
Security footage? I froze. I hadn’t noticed any cameras when I arrived. Where were they? How many were there? A chill ran down my spine at the thought of being watched. Suddenly, the cozy apartment felt more like a trap.
That evening, I decided to stay in. My nerves were frayed, and every creak of the building made me jump. I tried to distract myself by watching TV, but my eyes kept drifting toward the windows and the door, half-expecting something—or someone—to appear.
Around midnight, as I was starting to drift off, I heard a noise. It was faint, coming from the back room—a shuffle, like someone rummaging through drawers. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it might drown out the sound.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice trembling.
Silence. The kind of silence that felt alive, heavy with tension. I grabbed my phone, my fingers fumbling as I tried to dial the police, but before I could, it vibrated in my hand. It was a message from Mark:
“I saw someone on the camera. I’m coming over.”
Someone on the camera? My mind raced. Who was it? Why hadn’t he called the police himself?
Minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I hesitated, staring at the peephole, my breath shallow. It was Mark. He looked calm, too calm, as though he had rehearsed this moment.
“I think we should call the police,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“That won’t be necessary,” he replied smoothly. “Let’s check if anything’s missing first.”
His demeanor set off alarm bells in my head, but I didn’t argue. Together, we did a quick inventory of the apartment. Nothing seemed to be missing, but the feeling of violation lingered. Mark offered to replace the lock immediately, and though I didn’t trust him, I agreed—what choice did I have? He worked quickly, and when he finished, he gave me a forced smile.
“Sorry about this. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
I barely slept that night, every noise outside making me jump. By morning, I had made up my mind to leave. As I packed my things, my phone buzzed with a news alert: a string of burglaries had been reported in the area, all targeting Airbnb properties. My blood ran cold. Was this connected to what had happened here?
I texted Mark, “Did you know about the burglaries in the area?”
This time, his response was slower than ever: “I heard something about it. Didn’t think it was relevant.”
Relevant? I felt a surge of anger and fear. I left the apartment as quickly as I could, locking the door behind me and vowing never to return.
Weeks later, curiosity got the better of me. I started digging into reviews of Mark’s listing and found disturbing patterns. Guests had mentioned odd occurrences—tampered locks, strange noises, and even encounters with Mark at unexpected hours. Some even claimed to have seen him lurking near the property when he wasn’t supposed to be there. Though no charges had ever been filed, it was clear that something was deeply wrong.
The experience stayed with me, a harsh reminder of the risks of trusting strangers online. I still use Airbnb occasionally, but now I approach it with far more caution—extensive research, detailed questions for the host, and a healthy dose of skepticism. Trust, I’ve learned, is a fragile thing, especially when you’re far from home.
"The Shadows":
I decided to share my Airbnb horror story because it’s one of those things that creeps into your thoughts when you least expect it. You think it’s going to be a funny tale to share later, but it ends up being the kind of memory that keeps you up at night.
This was supposed to be a simple weekend getaway. My friend Jake and I had been planning to go to a music festival in Austin for months. We’d found what seemed like the perfect Airbnb—a cute little house near the festival grounds. The pictures made it look warm and welcoming: a tidy garden, cozy furniture, and enough space for the two of us to relax.
We arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon, the last bits of daylight casting deep shadows across the neighborhood. The street was eerily quiet, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. As instructed, we found the key under a fake rock near the door. It felt a bit cliché, but it worked.
“Not bad, huh?” Jake said, his voice carrying a mix of excitement and relief.
“Yeah, seems nice,” I replied, trying to ignore the odd feeling in my gut as I stared at the dark windows.
When we stepped inside, the atmosphere hit us like a wall. It wasn’t welcoming—it was heavy, stale, and suffocating. The air smelled faintly of mildew, and there was a sharp metallic tang that lingered just beneath it, like old pipes or rust.
Jake shrugged it off. “Maybe they haven’t opened the place up in a while.”
We split up to explore. The house wasn’t large, but it felt disjointed. The living room was cluttered with mismatched furniture, and the walls were adorned with strange artwork—abstract faces with hollow eyes and jagged lines that seemed to follow you around the room. The kitchen was dimly lit, and the fridge hummed louder than it should, like a distant growl.
The bedrooms weren’t much better. One of them had a heavy wooden door with a lock—an actual bolt-style lock. “Dibs on this one,” Jake said with a laugh, though his tone sounded forced.
“Why would someone put a lock on the inside of a bedroom door?” I muttered. Jake shrugged and tossed his bag onto the bed.
In my room, the window was sealed shut. The latch wouldn’t budge no matter how hard I tried, and the glass was smudged with something that looked like greasy fingerprints. It gave me the creeps, but I didn’t want to seem paranoid, so I kept quiet.
After unpacking, we decided to head out for dinner and enjoy the first night of the festival. The lively crowd and music quickly lifted our spirits, and for a while, I forgot about the house.
When we returned around midnight, the street was silent, bathed in a ghostly glow from the streetlights. As we walked up the driveway, I froze.
The front door was slightly open.
“I know we locked this,” I said, my voice shaking.
“So do I,” Jake whispered, his face pale.
We exchanged nervous glances, and then Jake grabbed a heavy flashlight from his backpack. I picked up a rock from the garden, feeling ridiculous but too scared to go in empty-handed.
The air inside the house was even heavier than before. Every creak of the floorboards sounded deafening in the silence. My throat felt dry as we moved through the living room, whispering each other’s names to stay close.
Then, from the back of the house, we heard it—a faint shuffling sound, like footsteps dragging on the floor.
“Who’s there?” Jake called out, trying to sound brave.
No answer.
We followed the sound down the hallway, each step feeling like an eternity. When we reached Jake’s room, the door was ajar, the lock dangling uselessly from its bolt. Inside, the bed was unmade, and the air smelled of sweat. A backpack lay open on the floor, spilling out clothes and something that looked like a knife handle.
Then we heard the sound again—behind us this time.
We spun around to see a man standing at the end of the hallway. His face was partially hidden in the shadows, but his wide, unblinking eyes shone in the dim light. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he stared at us.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I thought…this was my place,” he stammered, his voice raspy and low.
Jake stepped forward, flashlight aimed at the man’s chest. “Get out,” he said firmly.
The man didn’t move. His eyes darted between us, and then his lips curled into a smile—small at first, but it grew wider and wider until it didn’t seem natural.
“I don’t think you should be here,” he said, his tone suddenly cold.
Before we could respond, he bolted toward the back of the house. Jake and I ran after him, but by the time we reached the back door, he was gone, swallowed by the darkness outside.
We didn’t waste any time. We locked every door and window we could, our hands trembling. When we called the police, the dispatcher told us they’d send someone over, but it could take a while.
As we waited, we sat in the living room, every shadow and creak putting us on edge. Then we noticed something we hadn’t before—a faint red smear on the front doorframe, like a handprint.
When the police finally arrived, they found no sign of the man, but they did find more smudges, some on the windows outside and others inside the house. It was like he’d been watching us the whole time.
We called Sam, the host, in the middle of the night. He sounded groggy and confused but apologized profusely. “I had no idea this could happen,” he said. “I’ll refund everything, and I’ll make sure this is reported to Airbnb.”
But no apology could erase the terror of that night. We packed our things and left, driving to a hotel as the first light of dawn broke the horizon.
“Never again,” Jake muttered as we checked into our room. “Never.”
The festival wasn’t the same after that. Every sound and every stranger made my heart race. Even now, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, convinced I hear shuffling footsteps or see a figure standing in the shadows.
Some experiences stay with you, not as memories but as scars. This was one of them.
"The Cabin":
I never imagined that a vacation could turn into a waking nightmare. The plan was simple—just me and my girlfriend, Lily, taking a much-needed break from the chaos of city life. We’d been juggling work deadlines and late-night calls for weeks, and the stress was eating away at us.
Scrolling through Airbnb one night, we found it—a charming little cabin tucked away in the woods near a small, sleepy town. The pictures made it look like a postcard come to life: a cozy wooden cabin with a stone fireplace, a quaint porch swing, and trees stretching as far as the eye could see. It felt like the perfect escape.
The host, Tom, had decent reviews. Most guests mentioned how quiet and secluded the place was, which sounded perfect for us. The listing described it as “a peaceful retreat from the modern world.” It sounded too good to be true, but we convinced ourselves it wasn’t.
We arrived late in the evening after a long drive. By the time we reached the cabin, the sun had set, and the only light came from the faint glow of the porch lamp. The cabin looked exactly like the pictures—charming, rustic, and surrounded by an almost eerie silence. There were no neighbors in sight, just dense woods stretching into the darkness.
Tom wasn’t there to greet us. He had left a message saying he couldn’t meet us in person but had hidden the key under a flat rock by the door. Sure enough, we found the key, let ourselves in, and began settling down.
The cabin was cozy but small, with worn wooden floors that creaked with every step. The fireplace dominated the living room, and there were old, faded photographs on the walls—black-and-white pictures of people who looked like they belonged to another era. “Adds to the charm,” I joked to Lily.
That first night passed uneventfully. We cooked a quick dinner, sat by the fire, and listened to the sounds of the forest. The quiet was a bit unsettling at first, but we told ourselves that was part of the charm.
The next day was perfect. We woke up to sunlight streaming through the cabin windows, ate breakfast on the porch, and spent the day hiking trails that twisted through the woods. We laughed, took pictures, and felt miles away from the stress of city life. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe again.
But as the sun set and darkness crept in, the cabin began to feel... different.
The comforting quiet from earlier now felt oppressive, almost stifling. Every creak of the wooden floorboards made us jump, and shadows seemed to stretch further than they should. We lit a fire in the fireplace and tried to shake the unease.
Around 10 PM, the sound of a car engine broke the silence.
I froze, straining to listen. The crunch of tires on gravel grew louder, and headlights flooded the front of the cabin. Lily and I exchanged nervous glances. Tom hadn’t mentioned anyone else coming.
Peeking through the curtain, I saw an old, battered truck parked in front of the cabin. Two men climbed out. Both looked rough—one tall and wiry, the other short and stocky. Their clothes were dirty, and they moved with a confidence that made my stomach tighten.
“What do they want?” Lily whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing the poker from the fireplace.
The men didn’t knock. They just stood outside the door, talking to each other in low voices. Finally, the taller one stepped forward and banged on the door.
I opened it a crack, just enough to see them. “Can I help you?”
The taller man, who had a long scar running down his cheek, grinned. “We’re friends of Tom. He said we could crash here tonight.”
“That’s not what Tom told us,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He said the cabin was just for us.”
The shorter man, who hadn’t spoken yet, stepped forward. His expression was cold. “Look, we won’t be a problem. Just let us crash for the night.”
I hesitated. Something about their tone, their posture, made me uneasy. “I’m sorry, but we’re not comfortable with that. You’ll have to find somewhere else.”
The taller man’s grin faded. “You sure about that? It’s a long way back to town.”
I tightened my grip on the poker behind the door. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
They exchanged a look, then shrugged. “Suit yourself,” the shorter man said, his voice flat. They walked back to their truck, but instead of leaving, they just sat there, the headlights glaring into the cabin.
“What do we do?” Lily asked, her voice shaking.
“We wait,” I said, though I wasn’t sure how long we’d have to wait.
Hours crawled by. The truck didn’t move, and neither did we. Around 2 AM, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Tom:
“I didn’t tell anyone they could stay. Be careful.”
My heart raced. Who were these guys? Were they lying about knowing Tom? Or was Tom lying to us?
Eventually, the truck left, its taillights disappearing into the night. But the sense of relief was fleeting. When I stepped outside the next morning to load our bags into the car, something caught my eye—a small camera, hidden among the branches of a tree. It was pointed directly at the cabin’s front door.
My stomach turned. Who had put it there? And why?
We packed up in a hurry, leaving the cabin behind. As we drove away, I called Airbnb to report what had happened. The representative was apologetic, promising to investigate and offering a full refund.
Back home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. A little digging revealed a troubling history: Tom had been arrested years ago for running a small-time drug operation. The cabin, it seemed, wasn’t just a cozy retreat. It was part of something darker.
To this day, I don’t know who those men were or what their intentions might have been. I don’t know if Tom was involved or if we were just unlucky. But I do know this: I’ll never look at a charming cabin in the woods the same way again.