"Six Points, One Circle":
I loved my cabin in the woods. It was my haven, a place where I could escape the grind of city life. Tall pines surrounded it, their branches whispering in the breeze, and a small stream gurgled just beyond the backyard. The cabin itself was warm and inviting—wooden walls polished to a soft glow, a stone fireplace that crackled with life when lit, and big windows that let in the dappled light of the forest. I bought it a few years ago, poured my heart into fixing it up, and started renting it out on Airbnb when I wasn’t there. It felt good to share its peace with others, and the extra income helped keep it mine.
Last spring, I got a booking request from a group of five young men, all in their early twenties, looking for a weekend getaway. The leader, Tom, had a solid profile—four-star reviews, verified ID, and a friendly tone in his messages. He asked about nearby hiking trails and fishing spots, saying they wanted a “chill weekend in nature.” The other four had similar profiles, all with positive feedback from past hosts. Nothing seemed off, so I approved the booking and sent Tom the usual instructions: check-in details, house rules, and a reminder to leave the place tidy by Sunday afternoon. He replied, “Thanks! We’ll take good care of it.”
The weekend passed without a hitch, or so I thought. I was swamped with work, so I didn’t check my phone much. No messages from Tom, no complaints from neighbors. Monday afternoon, I drove up to the cabin to clean and prep for the next guests. The drive was familiar, the winding road through the forest calming my nerves after a hectic week. As I pulled into the gravel driveway, the cabin looked normal. The porch was clear, the curtains drawn, no broken windows or obvious damage. I grabbed my cleaning supplies from the trunk and headed to the door.
But as I stepped out of the car, a foul smell hit me. It was sharp and rotten, like spoiled meat left out too long. I gagged, covering my nose with my sleeve, and glanced around. Maybe a deer or raccoon had died nearby, I thought. It happened sometimes in the woods. I shook it off and unlocked the front door, but the smell followed me inside, stronger now, heavy and suffocating. My eyes watered as I set my bag down in the entryway.
The living room was a disaster. Empty beer bottles cluttered the coffee table, some tipped over, leaving sticky rings on the wood. Pizza boxes were stacked haphazardly on the floor, crusts and grease stains inside. Chip bags and candy wrappers littered the couch, and a half-eaten sub sandwich sat on the armrest, ants already crawling over it. I groaned, my annoyance growing. I’d have to message Tom about this—they clearly hadn’t even tried to clean up. I snapped a few photos for evidence, just in case I needed to file a claim.
I moved to the kitchen, hoping to find the source of the smell. The sink was piled with dirty dishes, pots crusted with food, and a cutting board with dried ketchup smears. But nothing was rotting—no spoiled meat, no forgotten trash. The bathrooms were messy too—towels crumpled on the floor, toothpaste splattered on the sink, but no obvious cause for the stench. I opened every window, letting the forest air in, but the smell didn’t budge. It was like it had soaked into the walls.
Standing in the living room, I rubbed my temples, puzzled. Then it hit me: the crawl space under the cabin. I’d found a dead possum there once, and it stank for weeks until I removed it. Maybe something bigger had gotten trapped this time. I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, a pair of gloves, and a scarf to tie over my face. The smell was bad enough to make me dizzy, and I wasn’t taking chances.
Outside, I walked to the side of the cabin where the crawl space access was—a small wooden panel near the ground. As I got closer, the smell became unbearable, a thick cloud of decay that made my stomach lurch. I knelt down, my scarf pressed tight against my nose, and pried the panel open. The darkness under the cabin swallowed the light at first, but I aimed the flashlight and leaned in.
What I saw froze me. Six dead deer lay there, arranged in a perfect circle, their heads pointing inward like the spokes of a wheel. Their eyes were wide open, glassy and unblinking, reflecting the flashlight’s beam. Their bodies were stiff, legs folded unnaturally, as if someone had spent time posing them. Blood had pooled beneath them, dark and sticky, soaking into the dirt. The sight was so wrong, so deliberate, that my brain couldn’t process it. I dropped the flashlight and scrambled back, my breath coming in short gasps. My heart pounded like it would burst.
I sat on the ground, staring at the open panel, too shocked to move. Who would do this? Why? My mind raced—maybe it was a prank, a sick joke by the guests. Or something darker, something I couldn’t wrap my head around. I fumbled for my phone and called 911, my voice trembling. “Hello, I need help at my cabin. I found… six dead deer under it, arranged in a circle. I think someone did this on purpose.”
The operator’s voice was steady, professional. “Sir, can you confirm your address? And stay outside, away from the scene. Officers will be there soon.”
I gave the address, my eyes fixed on the crawl space, half-expecting something to crawl out. I moved to the porch, sitting on the steps, trying to calm down. The smell clung to my clothes, my skin, my mind. I kept seeing those deer, their lifeless stares burned into my memory.
Two police officers, Davis and Martinez, arrived about half an hour later. Davis, a tall man with a serious face, carried a notepad. “You the owner?” he asked, glancing at the cabin.
I nodded, standing up. “Yes. I found… it’s under the cabin. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Walk us through it,” Martinez said, his voice softer but firm. He was shorter, with a flashlight already in hand.
“I rented to five guys for the weekend. They checked out yesterday, I think. I came to clean today and noticed the smell. I thought it was a dead animal, so I checked the crawl space. That’s when I saw the deer.”
“You didn’t touch anything?” Davis asked.
“No, just opened the panel and looked. I called you right after.”
They nodded and went to the crawl space, shining their lights under. Martinez let out a low whistle. “That’s not something you see every day,” he said, his face grim. Davis took photos, the camera flash stark against the shadows.
“We’ll need the renters’ details,” Davis said, turning to me. “Names, contact info, anything you have.”
“I’ve got it all on Airbnb,” I said, pulling up Tom’s booking on my phone. “I can send it to you.”
“Anything else strange inside?” Martinez asked, standing up.
“It’s messy—beer bottles, food wrappers, dishes. I haven’t checked the bedrooms yet. The smell was too much.”
“Let’s take a look,” Davis said. “You stay here for now.”
I waited on the porch, my stomach still churning. The officers went inside, and I heard their muffled voices as they moved through the cabin. After a few minutes, they came back out. “Nothing obvious,” Martinez said. “But we’ll need animal control to handle the deer. This is… unusual, to say the least.”
They called for backup and animal control, and I sat there, feeling helpless. The cabin, my place of peace, felt violated. I decided to clean inside while waiting, needing to do something. I started in the living room, bagging up the trash, scrubbing the coffee table. Under the couch, I found something that made my skin crawl—a small leather book, no bigger than a notebook, with strange symbols carved into the cover. I opened it, and the pages were filled with drawings: circles with arrows, triangles inside stars, and words in a language I didn’t recognize. Some pages had notes in English, like “center the focus” and “align the points.” It looked like something occult, but not supernatural—just creepy, like someone’s twisted hobby. I set it on the counter, deciding to give it to the police.
I called my neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, who lived down the road. “Hey, Mrs. Johnson, it’s me from the cabin. Did you notice anything odd over the weekend?”
She paused, her voice hesitant. “Well, now that you mention it, Saturday night was loud. Music, shouting, like a big party. I looked out my window around midnight and saw a few young men outside your place. They were carrying something heavy, wrapped in a tarp, toward the side of the cabin. I thought it was maybe camping gear or firewood, but it looked… odd. Bulky.”
My blood ran cold. “Did you see anything else?”
“No, it was dark. I went back to bed. Should I have called you?”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks for telling me.”
I hung up, my mind racing. A tarp? Heavy and bulky? It had to be the deer. But how did they get six deer, and why arrange them like that? I called Tom next, my hands still shaking. He answered on the third ring, his voice casual. “Hey, this is the cabin owner. Did we leave something behind?”
“No, Tom, it’s not that. I found six dead deer under the cabin, arranged in a circle. Do you know anything about it?”
He went silent for a moment, then let out a nervous laugh. “What? That’s crazy. No way, man. We just hung out, drank some beers, played cards. Dead deer? That’s not us.”
“Did you have other people over? Anyone else at the cabin?”
“Just us five, and maybe two friends stopped by for a bit Saturday night. Look, we got a little loud, left a mess, I’m sorry about that. But we didn’t do anything like… what you’re saying.”
His voice sounded genuine, but there was an edge to it, like he was hiding something. “What about a tarp?” I pressed. “My neighbor saw you carrying something heavy, wrapped up.”
“A tarp? Oh, yeah, we had some camping gear we moved around. Tents, sleeping bags. That’s probably it.”
I didn’t buy it, but I didn’t push further. “Okay. The police are involved now. They’ll probably call you.”
“Police?” His voice spiked. “Look, we didn’t do anything wrong. I swear.”
We hung up, and I sat there, staring at the leather book. The police came back with animal control, who removed the deer. I couldn’t watch, but I overheard them saying the deer were killed elsewhere, likely with a knife, then moved to the cabin. The cuts were clean, precise, not like an animal attack. I gave the officers the book, and Davis flipped through it, frowning. “Could be nothing,” he said. “Or some kind of weird ritual thing. We’ll send it to the station.”
The investigation didn’t go far. The guests all denied knowing about the deer, and there was no physical evidence linking them to it. The book was just a curiosity—no fingerprints, no clear connection. Mrs. Johnson’s story about the tarp wasn’t enough to prove anything. The police closed the case, calling it a “disturbing prank” with no leads.
I couldn’t go back to the cabin after that. The smell lingered in my mind, even after professionals cleaned the crawl space. Those deer, their staring eyes, haunted my dreams. The leather book, the tarp, Tom’s nervous laugh—it all swirled together, leaving me with questions I’d never answer. Was it a sick joke, or something darker, something planned? I sold the cabin a few months later, unable to set foot in it again. My sanctuary was gone, replaced by a shadow of fear that still follows me.
"The House Wasn't Empty":
I needed a break from my hectic life, so I scrolled through Airbnb for a quiet escape. A small house in a sleepy town caught my eye. The listing showed a charming place with a wide backyard, a porch swing, and a living room with a brick fireplace. The reviews glowed with praise—guests loved the “homey vibe” and “peaceful setting.” I booked it for the weekend, imagining long hours with my books and a glass of wine.
When I pulled up to the house, it looked like the photos, but the street felt eerie. The neighbor’s house across the road had plywood over the windows, and the lawn was overgrown with weeds. A rusty bike lay abandoned in the ditch. I shook off the unease, grabbed my suitcase, and found the key in a lockbox by the door. Inside, the house was dim. The air smelled sharp, like bleach mixed with something sour, almost chemical. I wrinkled my nose and cracked open the living room windows, letting in a breeze.
The place was cozy but worn. The couch sagged in the middle, and the coffee table had deep scratches, like someone had dragged a knife across it. The carpet had faint brown stains near the edges, barely visible unless you looked closely. I told myself old houses have quirks and started unpacking. I set my books on the table, plugged in my phone, and made a cup of tea. As I sat down, a low thump echoed from somewhere below. I froze, teacup halfway to my mouth. Another thump followed, then a dragging sound, like something heavy sliding across a floor.
I checked the Airbnb listing on my phone. No mention of a basement. I walked through the house, looking for answers. In the kitchen, behind a faded curtain, I found a door I hadn’t noticed. It was wooden, splintered, with a rusty padlock securing it. The noises seemed to come from there. My pulse quickened. Why was this locked? Why wasn’t it in the description? I pulled out my phone and messaged the host.
“Hi, I just arrived. There’s a locked door in the kitchen. Is that a basement? I’m hearing noises from it.”
The host replied within minutes: “No need to worry! That’s just a storage area. Old houses creak and groan. You’re perfectly safe.”
The message felt too cheery, like a canned response. I stared at the door, the thumping growing faint but steady. I tried to distract myself by unpacking my clothes into the bedroom dresser. The drawers stuck, and one had a crumpled receipt inside, dated months ago, for a hardware store purchase—nails and a padlock. I frowned. Was this for the basement door?
I went back to the living room and opened my book, but the noises kept pulling me away. Thump. Scrape. Thump. I turned on the TV, cranking the volume to mask the sounds, but my eyes kept darting to the kitchen. I felt watched, even though I was alone. I double-checked the front and back doors, making sure they were locked.
That night, I climbed into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. The house was too quiet between the basement noises, which now sounded deliberate, like someone moving furniture. Around midnight, I heard a new sound—footsteps crunching outside. I slipped out of bed and crept to the window, peeling back the curtain. In the backyard, a man stood under the porch light. He was thin, his face hidden by a hoodie. He stared at the house, hands in his pockets. My breath caught. I ducked below the sill, heart hammering. When I peeked again, he was gone.
I didn’t sleep after that. I sat on the bed, phone in hand, debating whether to call the police. But what would I say? A man stood outside? It didn’t feel like enough. At dawn, I went to the backyard. The grass was damp, and there were footprints—deep, uneven, leading from the fence to the back door and back again. My stomach twisted. Someone had been right outside while I slept.
I messaged the host again: “There was a man in the backyard last night. I found footprints by the door. What’s going on here?”
The reply took an hour: “That’s strange. Probably a neighbor’s kid playing around. I’ll ask around. Keep the doors locked, and you’ll be fine.”
The host’s casual tone made my skin crawl. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something. I grabbed my laptop and searched the house’s address online. After a few clicks, I found a local news article from last year. My blood ran cold. The house had been an Airbnb before, and police had raided it after neighbors reported “suspicious activity.” They found stolen goods—electronics, jewelry, even car parts—stashed in the basement. The renter at the time had no idea, thinking the noises were just “old house sounds.” The article mentioned the host claimed ignorance, but neighbors said strange people came and went at odd hours.
I felt nauseous. Were the noises I heard someone hiding stolen goods? Was the man in the backyard part of it? I went to the kitchen and stared at the basement door. The padlock looked old, but the wood around it had fresh scratches, like someone had pried at it. I grabbed a flashlight from my car and shined it on the door. The scratches were deep, and there was a smudge of dirt on the handle, like a fingerprint.
I called the host, my hands shaking.
“Hello, this is the guest at your rental,” I said when he answered. “I’m hearing noises from the basement, and I saw a man in the backyard. There are footprints. I found an article about a police raid here last year. What’s going on?”
His voice was smooth, almost rehearsed. “You’re letting your imagination run wild. That raid was ages ago. The basement’s empty, just old junk. I’ll check on the property tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I said, my voice rising. “I’m scared now. Can you come today?”
“I’m out of town,” he said. “Lock the doors, stay calm. You’re safe.”
I didn’t feel safe. I hung up and paced the living room. The noises started again—louder, more urgent, like someone stacking boxes. Thump. Scrape. Thump. I grabbed my keys, ready to leave, but I couldn’t stop staring at the basement door. What if someone was down there right now?
Then I heard a click. I spun toward the kitchen. The basement door was ajar, the padlock on the floor, broken in half. My legs felt like jelly. I backed toward the front door, eyes glued to the kitchen. Footsteps creaked on the basement stairs—slow, deliberate. I fumbled with the front door lock, my fingers slipping. The footsteps grew louder, closer.
I yanked the door open just as a man appeared at the top of the stairs. He was the same man from the backyard, his hoodie stained with grease. He held a duffel bag, heavy with something inside. His eyes locked on mine.
“Hey, wait!” he yelled, stepping forward.
I screamed and ran to my car, slamming the door and locking it. My hands shook as I jammed the key into the ignition. The man stood on the porch, watching me. I peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching, and didn’t stop until I reached a gas station a few miles away. I called the police, my voice trembling.
“Someone’s in the house I’m renting,” I said. “He came from the basement. I think he broke in. There’s stolen stuff down there, I read about it.”
The police told me to stay put. They went to the house and called me later. They found two men in the basement, surrounded by stolen goods—laptops, cameras, even a car stereo. The men had been using a crawlspace under the house to sneak in, thinking the place was empty between rentals. The host swore he didn’t know, but the police were skeptical. They said I was lucky to get out when I did.
I drove home that day, my heart still racing. I deleted the Airbnb app and vowed never to rent again. I can’t forget the sound of those footsteps, the smell of that house, or the man’s eyes staring at me from the porch. I was supposed to find peace that weekend, but instead, I found fear I’ll never shake.
"Don’t Open the Door":
I needed a break from the city, from the endless grind of work and noise. My friend Emily suggested we try an Airbnb for a change, something unique to help us unwind. We spent hours scrolling through listings until we found one that caught our eye: a small, rustic cabin nestled in a quiet rural area, surrounded by dense trees. The photos showed a cozy living room with a stone fireplace, a tidy kitchen with wooden cabinets, and a bedroom with a quilt-covered bed and a large window overlooking a meadow. The reviews were glowing, praising the host’s hospitality and the cabin’s charm. The host, a woman named Lisa, responded quickly to our questions, her messages warm and welcoming. The price was affordable, so we booked it for two nights, excited for a peaceful weekend.
We arrived at the cabin in the late afternoon after a long drive. The dirt road leading to it was narrow, lined with overgrown bushes that scraped the sides of our car. The cabin looked just like the pictures, with weathered wooden walls and a slanted roof covered in moss. A single flowerpot sat by the front door, where Lisa had said we’d find the key. I lifted it, grabbed the cold metal key, and unlocked the door. It creaked loudly as we stepped inside, the sound echoing in the stillness.
The air inside was thick and musty, like the cabin hadn’t been aired out in weeks. I wrinkled my nose but figured it was normal for an old place like this. The living room was inviting, with a worn leather couch, a knitted blanket draped over it, and a small TV on a wooden stand. A stack of dusty board games sat in the corner, untouched. The kitchen was just off the living room, its countertops clean but cluttered with odd items: a cracked ceramic mug, a half-empty jar of pickles, and a single fork lying on a dishtowel. I noticed a chair at the small dining table had a piece of rope loosely tied around its back, the ends frayed. It looked out of place, like someone had been messing with it.
Emily chuckled, running her finger along the rope. “What’s this? Someone practicing for a cowboy audition?”
I forced a smile, but my skin prickled. It was such a small thing, but it felt wrong. We decided to explore the rest of the cabin before unpacking. The bedroom was down a short hallway, simple but cozy, with a double bed covered in a faded quilt and a nightstand holding a lamp with a crooked shade. The large window let in soft light, showing a view of tall grass swaying in the meadow. But at the end of the hallway was another door, heavy and wooden, secured with a shiny padlock that looked newer than the rest of the cabin. I tried the handle, but it didn’t move.
“Probably just storage,” Emily said, shrugging. “Or maybe Lisa’s secret wine cellar.”
I laughed, but my unease grew. Lisa hadn’t mentioned a locked room in the listing or her messages. We returned to the living room, and I pushed the door from my mind. We unpacked our bags, and I started pulling out ingredients for dinner—pasta and sauce we’d brought from home. As I filled a pot with water, I heard a faint sound, like nails scratching against wood, coming from the direction of the locked door. I froze, the pot nearly slipping from my hands.
“Emily, did you hear that?” I called, my voice sharper than I intended.
She was arranging her clothes in the bedroom but poked her head out. “Hear what? You okay?”
“It sounded like scratching, from that locked door in the hallway.”
She walked over, her sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor. “Maybe it’s mice. Old cabins like this always have critters, right?”
I nodded slowly, but my heart was beating faster. Mice didn’t explain the slow, deliberate sound I’d heard. We went back to making dinner, but I kept glancing at the hallway, half-expecting to see the door creak open. The water boiled, and we ate our pasta at the table, the rope-tied chair pushed aside. Emily chatted about her plans to hike nearby trails, but I could barely focus. The cabin felt too quiet, like it was watching us.
After dinner, we washed the dishes, and Emily suggested we watch a movie to unwind. I agreed, hoping it would calm my nerves. We settled on the couch, the TV casting a flickering glow across the room. Halfway through the movie, I heard it again—scratch, scratch, scratch. Slow and rhythmic, unmistakable, coming from the locked door. My breath caught in my throat.
“Emily,” I whispered, grabbing the remote to mute the TV. “You heard that, right?”
Her eyes were wide, her body tense. “Yeah, I did. That’s not mice.”
We sat in silence, staring at the hallway. The scratching stopped, replaced by a low, muffled thump, like something heavy being dragged across the floor. My hands shook as I set the remote down. “We need to check it out,” I said, my voice barely steady.
“Are you crazy?” Emily hissed. “What if it’s... I don’t know, a raccoon or something worse?”
“We can’t just sit here,” I said, standing up. I grabbed a flashlight from my bag, its beam cutting through the dim light. Emily followed reluctantly, clutching her phone. We crept down the hallway, the floorboards creaking under our weight. The padlock gleamed, cold and unyielding. I pressed my ear to the door, holding my breath. Nothing. But the silence felt alive, like someone was holding their breath on the other side.
I knocked lightly. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
No answer. Emily tugged my sleeve. “Let’s call Lisa. This is too weird.”
I nodded and dialed Lisa’s number. She answered after a few rings, her voice bright. “Hi! How’s the cabin treating you?”
“There’s a locked door in the hallway,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “We’re hearing noises—scratching, thumping. What’s in there?”
A pause, longer than I liked. “Oh, that’s just the utility room,” she said, her cheerfulness fading. “Probably the water heater or some pipes acting up. Old cabins make all sorts of noises.”
“Pipes don’t scratch,” I said, my grip tightening on the phone. “Can you come check it out?”
“I’m actually out of town,” she admitted. “But I can send my brother to look tomorrow morning. Just ignore it for now, okay? You’re perfectly safe.”
I didn’t feel safe. I hung up, relaying the conversation to Emily. Her face paled. “Her brother? Tomorrow? What are we supposed to do until then?”
I didn’t have an answer. It was too late to drive to a hotel, and the nearest town was over an hour away. We decided to lock ourselves in the bedroom for the night. I dragged a chair from the kitchen—the one without the rope—and wedged it under the bedroom door handle. Emily watched, her arms crossed tightly. “This feels like a horror movie,” she muttered.
We climbed into bed, keeping the lamp on. Emily fell asleep eventually, her breathing soft and steady, but I couldn’t close my eyes. The cabin was silent, but my mind raced, replaying the scratching, the thumping, Lisa’s vague answers. I stared at the ceiling, the shadows from the lamp stretching across it like fingers.
Around 2 a.m., I heard a new sound—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like someone knocking gently on the locked door. I sat up, my heart hammering. The tapping grew louder, more urgent. I shook Emily awake. “Listen,” I whispered.
Her eyes snapped open, and she clutched the blanket. “What is that?” she breathed.
The tapping stopped, and for a moment, I thought it was over. Then came the worst sound yet—a faint, raspy voice, muffled behind the door, saying, “Help... please... let me out.”
My blood turned to ice. Emily gasped, pulling the blanket to her chest. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
I nodded, my mouth dry. Was someone trapped in there? Or was this a trick, someone luring us closer? My mind spun with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. I grabbed my phone to call the police, but the signal was gone. Emily checked hers—nothing. The cabin felt like a trap, closing in around us.
“We need to leave,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Right now.”
Emily didn’t argue. We scrambled out of bed, throwing our clothes into our bags. My hands shook as I pulled on my shoes, the tapping starting again, louder now, like a fist pounding. I grabbed the flashlight, and we moved to the bedroom door. I removed the chair, my heart in my throat, and cracked the door open.
The hallway was dark, the padlock glinting faintly. As we stepped out, the locked door rattled violently, like someone was slamming against it. A loud bang echoed, followed by another plea, “Please... open the door!” The voice was desperate, but it sent chills down my spine.
We didn’t wait. We ran through the living room, past the rope-tied chair, and out the front door. The night air hit us as we threw our bags into the car. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped them. As I started the engine, I glanced at the cabin. A shadow moved behind the bedroom window, tall and human-shaped, watching us.
I floored the gas, the car lurching down the dirt road. Emily kept looking back, her face pale. “What was that?” she said, her voice breaking. “Who was in there?”
I didn’t answer. I just drove, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds, expecting to see headlights or that shadow chasing us. We didn’t stop until we reached a hotel in town, its neon sign a beacon in the darkness. The clerk gave us a room, and we locked the door behind us, collapsing onto the beds. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
The next morning, I contacted Airbnb through the hotel’s Wi-Fi. I explained everything—the noises, the voice, the shadow. They promised to investigate and issued a full refund, but it felt hollow. Later that week, I searched online and found a local news article about the cabin. Lisa’s brother, who was supposed to “check” the place, had been living there, struggling with severe mental health issues. He’d been locked in that room, unknown to guests, because Lisa thought he was harmless. The article said he’d sometimes call out to guests, thinking they could free him. Lisa claimed she didn’t know he was there during our stay, but the police were looking into her story.
That weekend was supposed to be a relaxing escape, but it became a nightmare I’ll never forget. The sound of that voice, the rattle of the door, the shadow in the window—they haunt me. I haven’t booked an Airbnb since, and I don’t think I ever will. Some places hide secrets too dark to uncover.
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