"The Last Christmas in the Cabin":
The cabin smelled of pine and firewood, a cozy retreat nestled deep in the Utah mountains. It was December 22, 1990, and our family had rented it for a Christmas vacation. I was 16, thrilled to escape the city with my parents, my older sister, and my grandmother. The wooden walls were adorned with old photos, and a stone fireplace crackled, casting warm shadows. We spent our first few days decorating a small tree, laughing over hot cocoa, and planning our holiday feast. It felt perfect—until it wasn’t.
That morning, we decided to drive into town for last-minute shopping. My dad stayed behind, saying he wanted to read by the fire. “Don’t buy out the whole store,” he teased as we piled into the car.
“Only if they start selling your bad jokes,” I shot back, grinning.
The drive was peaceful, the snow-dusted pines stretching endlessly around us. We returned around 3:30 p.m., arms full of bags. As we pulled up, I noticed the front door was slightly open, swaying in the breeze. My stomach tightened.
“Mom, the door’s open,” I said, my voice low.
She frowned, clutching her bags. “Your dad probably forgot to lock it.”
“That’s not like him,” I replied. Dad was meticulous, always double-checking locks in a place this remote.
“Let’s go see,” my sister said, her tone uneasy.
We approached cautiously, the gravel crunching under our boots. I could hear my heart pounding. As we reached the porch, muffled voices came from inside—deep, unfamiliar, and definitely not Dad’s.
“Mom, someone’s in there,” I whispered, grabbing her arm.
Her face paled. “Stay back,” she said, but my sister was already pushing the door open.
The sight inside froze my blood. Two men stood in the living room, one rifling through our suitcases, the other holding a gun. Clothes and ornaments were strewn across the floor. Dad was nowhere in sight.
“What are you doing?” my sister shouted, her voice sharp with defiance.
The men spun around, startled. The one with the gun—a tall, wiry man with cold eyes—raised it without a word. A deafening bang echoed, and my grandmother crumpled to the floor, a red stain blooming on her sweater.
“No!” Mom screamed, rushing toward her.
Another shot rang out, and Mom collapsed beside her, motionless. I stood rooted, my mind blank with shock, the world narrowing to the sound of my own ragged breathing.
My sister grabbed my arm. “Run!” she hissed.
But before we could move, the second man—a stocky figure with a shaved head—lunged at us, his hands like vices. “Don’t move!” he growled, yanking us back.
“Let us go!” I cried, twisting against his grip.
“Shut up!” he snapped, his breath hot against my face.
That’s when I saw Dad, slumped against the wall near the fireplace, blood pooling around his head. My knees buckled. “Dad!” I screamed, tears blurring my vision.
The gunman kicked him hard. “He’s still breathing,” he said to his partner, his voice flat.
“Finish it,” the other man said, his tone chillingly calm.
“No, please!” I begged, my voice breaking. “Don’t hurt him!”
The gunman raised his weapon again, and I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to watch. Another shot echoed, and I choked on a sob, certain Dad was gone.
The men turned to us. “What do we do with them?” the gunman asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Take them,” the stocky man said. “They’ve seen us.”
They bound our wrists with coarse rope, the fibers biting into my skin, and dragged us toward the door. I glanced back, desperate for a sign that Dad was alive, but all I saw was the flicker of flames starting to lick the walls. They’d poured something—gasoline, maybe—and set the cabin ablaze.
They shoved us into the back of our own car, the familiar seats now a prison. As they sped down the mountain road, the cabin’s glow faded behind us, replaced by smoke curling into the sky. My sister and I sat close, our bound hands touching.
“We have to get out,” she whispered, her voice trembling but determined.
“How?” I whispered back, my eyes darting to the men in the front seats.
“I don’t know, but we will,” she said, squeezing my hand.
The car swerved along the winding road, the men arguing in low, tense voices. My mind raced, searching for a way to escape. The ropes were tight, but maybe we could loosen them. I started rubbing my wrists together, hoping to create some slack.
Suddenly, sirens wailed in the distance. The driver cursed, slamming his fist on the steering wheel. “They’re onto us!” he shouted.
“Keep driving!” the gunman barked.
The car accelerated, tires screeching. My heart pounded as the sirens grew louder. Then, out of nowhere, a figure appeared on the road ahead—a man on a snowmobile, blocking the path. It was Dad, bloodied but alive, his face set with determination.
The driver swerved to avoid him, but the car skidded, crashing into a tree with a sickening crunch. My head slammed against the seat, and everything went dark.
When I woke, I was in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic replacing the cabin’s pine scent. A police officer stood nearby, his expression kind but serious.
“You’re safe now,” he said softly. “We got them.”
Later, I learned the truth. Dad had survived the shooting, crawling to the phone to call for help despite his wounds. He’d chased after us on a snowmobile, then in another car, forcing the crash that led to the men’s capture. The burglars, parolees who’d fled a halfway house, had chosen our cabin at random, looking for easy loot. Their names were Von Lester Taylor and Edward Steven Deli, and they’d face justice for what they did.
But the cost was unbearable. My mom and grandmother were gone, their lives stolen in minutes. Dad survived, his bravery saving us, but the scars—his and ours—would never fully heal. Linae and I held each other in that hospital room, grateful to be alive but haunted by the nightmare that shattered our Christmas.
The cabin, once a place of warmth and laughter, was now a memory of terror. We never returned, but the echoes of that day linger, a reminder of how quickly safety can turn to horror in the blink of an eye.
"Jawbone Canyon":
It was supposed to be a fun hunting trip with my best friends, Will and Keyton. We had been looking forward to it for weeks—a chance to escape the city and enjoy the wilderness of the California desert. Little did we know that our adventure would turn into a nightmare.
We arrived at Will’s family cabin in Jawbone Canyon on a hot July morning in 2015. The cabin was small, made of weathered wood, tucked deep in the woods with no neighbors for miles. It felt like the perfect spot to unwind, hunt, and make memories. We unpacked our gear, laughing about old times and planning our hunt.
“Man, this place is awesome,” Keyton said, tossing his backpack onto the creaky wooden floor. “No phones, no noise—just us and the wild.”
“Yeah,” Will replied, checking his rifle. “Let’s bag something good today.”
I nodded, feeling the excitement build. We grabbed our rifles and headed into the forest, the sun high above us, the air filled with the buzz of insects and the rustle of leaves.
We were trekking through the woods, about a mile from the cabin, when it happened. A man stepped out from behind a tree, pointing a sawed-off shotgun right at us. His clothes were dirty, his hair wild, and his eyes had a crazed look that made my stomach drop.
“Don’t move,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst. I glanced at Will and Keyton, their faces pale, eyes wide with fear. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Drop your weapons,” he ordered, waving the shotgun. We let our rifles fall to the ground, the clatter echoing in the quiet woods.
“Walk,” he said, pointing toward the cabin. “Now.”
We had no choice. With the barrel of his gun at our backs, we started walking. My legs felt like jelly, and my mind raced. Who was this guy? What did he want? Was he going to rob us—or worse?
He forced us back to the cabin and pushed us inside. “Sit,” he barked, pointing to the floor. We sat, huddled together, as he slammed the door shut and started pacing. The air inside was stuffy, and the only sound was his heavy boots on the wooden floor and his muttering to himself.
“I could just kill you all right now,” he said suddenly, stopping to stare at us. “Bam, bam, bam, and you’d all be in heaven.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Keyton’s hands were shaking, and Will’s jaw was clenched tight. I wanted to say something, to reason with him, but fear kept my mouth shut.
Then I noticed something that made my blood run cold. Propane tanks—several of them—were placed around the cabin, near the walls, the door, even the windows. Was he planning to blow us up? The thought was too much to bear.
“What do you want?” Will finally asked, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes.
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “What do I want? Maybe I want to watch you squirm. Maybe I want everything you’ve got.”
He kept pacing, the shotgun never leaving his hand. Every time he looked at us, it felt like he was deciding whether to pull the trigger. My mind was screaming for a way out, but we were trapped, miles from help, with no cell service.
For what felt like hours, he paced and muttered. Sometimes he’d stop, point the gun at one of us, and say things like, “You think you’re tough, huh?” or “This could all be over quick.” Each word was like a knife, cutting deeper into our fear.
I whispered to Keyton, “We’ve got to do something.”
“I know,” he whispered back, his voice barely audible. “But what?”
Will leaned in, his eyes darting to the man. “Just stay calm. We’ll figure it out.”
The man overheard us and snapped, “Shut up! No talking!”
We fell silent, but my mind was racing. We couldn’t just sit here and wait for him to decide our fate. We had to act.
Then Will, always the quick thinker, spoke up. “Listen,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Our parents are coming to pick us up soon. They’ll be here any minute. If you take our ATV, you can get away before they arrive.”
The man stopped pacing and turned to us, his eyes narrowing. “Is that so?” he said, scratching his chin. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”
“No, sir,” Will said, keeping his voice steady. “The ATV’s out back. Keys are on the table. You can take it and go.”
For a moment, I thought he’d see through the lie. My heart was in my throat as he stared at us, his finger twitching near the trigger. Then he nodded. “Alright. Maybe I’ll do that.”
He grabbed the ATV keys from the table and headed for the door. “Don’t move,” he warned, pointing the shotgun at us one last time before stepping outside.
We waited, holding our breath, listening for the sound of the ATV. When we heard its engine roar to life, we didn’t hesitate. We bolted for the back door, stumbling over each other in our rush to get out.
We ran through the woods, branches scratching our faces, our lungs burning. Every snap of a twig made me jump, certain he was right behind us. “Keep going!” Will shouted, leading the way.
I don’t know how long we ran, but it felt like forever. My legs were heavy, my chest tight, but fear kept me moving. What if he came back? What if he was waiting for us?
Finally, we reached the main road, collapsing onto the dirt, gasping for air. We were alive, but the terror lingered. We stayed there, too scared to move, until Will’s father, Loren, found us three hours later.
Loren’s truck pulled up, and his face went white when he saw us. “What happened?” he asked, rushing over.
We told him everything, the words tumbling out in a rush. He called the police, and soon we were surrounded by officers, telling our story again and again.
Later, we learned the man’s name was Benjamin Peter Ashley, a drifter with a long history of violence. Two days after our escape, a retired dentist named David Markiewitz was found shot dead in a nearby cabin. Ashley was also suspected of shooting two SWAT officers during the manhunt that followed. It took 18 days for the police to track him down. He was killed in a confrontation in Inyokern, about 40 miles from where it all started.
That day changed me. I used to think the wilderness was a place to escape, a place to feel free. Now, I know danger can hide anywhere, even in the quiet of a remote cabin. I’m grateful we made it out alive, thanks to Will’s quick thinking and our sheer will to survive. But the fear stays with me. I still wake up some nights, hearing the echo of that man’s voice, seeing those propane tanks, and wondering what might have happened if we hadn’t escaped.
"Leave":
It was supposed to be a perfect weekend. Just me, my wife, and our two kids, escaping the city for a quiet retreat in the mountains. We’d found the cabin online—a last-minute deal, cheap for its size, tucked deep in a forest of towering pines. The pictures showed a cozy wooden structure with a stone fireplace, promising peace and relaxation. But as we pulled up the gravel driveway, a knot formed in my stomach. The cabin looked older than the photos, its wood weathered and gray, the windows dark like empty eyes.
“Looks… rustic,” my wife, Lisa, said, forcing a smile as she parked the car.
“It’ll be fine,” I replied, trying to sound confident. “The kids will love it.”
Our daughter, Emma, 10, and son, Jake, 7, were already bouncing with excitement, arguing over who got to sleep in the loft. We unloaded our bags, the porch creaking under our steps. Inside, the air was musty, with a faint smell of mildew. The living room had a sagging couch and a fireplace stacked with logs. The kitchenette was small, the fridge humming softly. Two bedrooms and a bathroom completed the layout, with a ladder leading to the loft where the kids would sleep.
“Let’s make a fire tonight!” Emma said, dropping her backpack on the floor.
“Yeah, and tell ghost stories!” Jake added, his eyes wide.
Lisa laughed. “Only if they’re not too scary.”
We spent the afternoon settling in. Lisa unpacked groceries while I checked the cabin, making sure the doors locked and the windows were secure. Everything seemed fine, though the back door’s lock felt loose, sticking when I turned the key. I made a mental note to double-check it later.
Dinner was simple—spaghetti and garlic bread. The kids ate quickly, eager to explore the loft. As they climbed the ladder, giggling, Lisa and I sat by the fire, sipping hot cocoa. The flames cast flickering shadows on the walls, and for a moment, everything felt right.
“This is nice,” Lisa said, leaning against me. “No phones, no work. Just us.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, but my eyes kept drifting to the windows. The darkness outside was absolute, swallowing the faint glow of the porch light. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched.
We went to bed early, the kids already asleep upstairs. Lisa fell asleep quickly, her breathing soft and steady. I lay awake, listening to the cabin’s sounds—the wind rattling the windows, the occasional creak of the old wood. It was normal, I told myself. Just an old cabin settling.
Then I heard it. A faint scratching, like nails dragging across wood. It was coming from the living room. My heart skipped a beat. I sat up, straining to listen. The sound stopped, then started again, slow and deliberate. I grabbed the flashlight from the nightstand and slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Lisa.
The living room was dark, the fire reduced to glowing embers. I shone the flashlight around, checking the corners, the windows, the doors. Everything looked normal—except the front door. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap.
I froze. I was sure I’d locked it. Lisa had checked it too. My pulse raced as I approached, the floorboards creaking under my feet. I pushed the door closed and turned the lock, the click loud in the silence. I shone the flashlight outside, but the beam barely pierced the darkness. Nothing moved.
Maybe the wind, I thought, but my hands were shaking. I checked the back door—still locked, though the handle felt looser than before. I returned to bed, my mind racing. Every sound seemed amplified now—the wind, the creaks, the faint hum of the fridge. Sleep didn’t come.
Morning came, and I didn’t tell Lisa about the door. I didn’t want to worry her. But at breakfast, I noticed something else. The kitchen window was open a crack, even though we’d closed it the night before. There were smudges on the glass, like someone had pressed their hands against it from the outside.
“Looks like something was trying to get in,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
Lisa glanced at the window, frowning. “Probably just raccoons. They’re curious.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, but the smudges looked too big for raccoon paws.
We decided to go hiking to shake off the unease. The trail was beautiful, winding through the forest with glimpses of a distant lake. The kids ran ahead, laughing, while Lisa and I walked hand in hand. For a few hours, I almost forgot the strange noises and the open door.
But when we returned to the cabin, my heart sank. The front door was wide open, swinging slightly on its hinges. Muddy footprints marked the porch—large, heavy prints, too big to be ours.
Lisa grabbed my arm. “What’s going on?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Stay here with the kids,” I said, my throat tight. “I’ll check inside.”
I stepped into the cabin, my flashlight shaking in my hand. The living room looked untouched, but a suffocating stillness all around, like someone had just been there. I checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, under the furniture. No one. But when I reached the kitchen, I stopped cold. On the table was a small pile of leaves and twigs, arranged in a deliberate circle, like some kind of ritual.
“Who’s there?” I called, my voice echoing. No answer.
I checked the back door. It was open too, the lock completely broken. My stomach churned. Someone had been inside while we were gone.
I ran back to Lisa and the kids. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“What’s wrong?” Emma asked, her eyes wide.
“Nothing, sweetie,” I said, forcing a smile. “We just need to go.”
We packed in a frenzy, throwing clothes and food into bags. Jake kept asking why we were leaving, but I didn’t answer. Lisa’s face was pale, her hands trembling as she helped the kids into the car.
As I started the engine, I glanced at the cabin. That’s when I saw it—on the mantel above the fireplace, visible through the open door. A single word scratched into the wood: LEAVE.
I floored the gas, the tires crunching on gravel as we sped away. None of us spoke until we reached the main road, hours later. Lisa finally broke the silence. “What was that? Who was in there?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But we’re never going back.”
At home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I searched online, digging through old news articles. That’s when I found it—a story from years ago about a family who rented that same cabin. They’d vanished, leaving behind only a few belongings and a note that said LEAVE. No bodies were ever found. The case was unsolved.
I showed the article to Lisa. She read it in silence, her face ashen. “We need to tell someone,” she said.
But what could we say? That someone broke in and left a creepy message? There was no proof, just a lingering sense of dread. We never reported it. What was the point?
Now, months later, I still wake up at night, hearing that scratching sound in my dreams. I wonder who was in that cabin, watching us, waiting. And I wonder if they’re still there, waiting for the next family to arrive.
"The Third Night":
I still remember that summer like it was yesterday, even though it’s been years. My three best friends from childhood—let’s call them Kevin, Ryan, and Tommy—and I decided to rent a cabin on Vermilion Lake in Minnesota for a weekend getaway. We were all in our early twenties, looking to escape the grind of work and relive the carefree days of our youth. The cabin was perfect: remote, surrounded by thick woods, and only accessible by boat. It felt like our own private world. But on the third night, that world turned into a nightmare.
The first two days were everything we’d hoped for. We spent our time fishing, swimming, and laughing over old memories. The cabin was old but cozy, with creaky wooden floors and big windows that gave us a clear view of the lake and the trees beyond. There were no curtains, but we didn’t care—there wasn’t another soul for miles. We grilled hot dogs, played cards, and maybe drank a bit more than we should have. It was the kind of trip that felt like it could fix anything.
By the third night, we were settled in, comfortable. Around 10 PM, we were all inside, winding down. Kevin and Tommy were sprawled on the couch, half-watching some old action movie on the TV. Ryan and I were sitting by the fireplace, talking about nothing important—work, relationships, the usual. That’s when Ryan stopped mid-sentence and pointed out the window.
“Hey, what’s that?” he said, his voice sharp enough to make me jump.
I followed his finger. Out on the lake, maybe three-quarters of a football field away, there was something floating. It looked like a head—just a dark, round shape bobbing gently on the water. My first thought was that it was a buoy or a log, but it didn’t move like either. It was too still, too deliberate.
“Probably just a duck or something,” Kevin said, leaning forward to get a better look. But his tone wasn’t convincing, and he didn’t take his eyes off it.
We all stared, the room growing quiet except for the low hum of the TV. The shape didn’t move much, but it was definitely there, and it was unsettling. Then, slowly, it started drifting closer, like it was being pulled toward the shore. Now it was maybe 30 yards away, and in the moonlight, it looked even more human-like—too big to be a duck, too smooth to be a log.
“That’s not a duck,” Tommy said, his voice low. “It’s way too big.”
My stomach twisted. There was something wrong about it, something that made the hairs on my neck stand up. We were miles from anyone. Who—or what—would be out there in the middle of the night?
“Let’s go check it out,” Tommy said, standing up, always the brave one.
“Are you out of your mind?” Ryan snapped, his eyes wide. “It’s pitch black out there, and we don’t know what that thing is!”
Tommy hesitated, then sat back down. “Fine. But we should keep watching it.”
We did, but after a few minutes, the shape seemed to vanish—either it sank beneath the water or drifted out of sight. We tried to laugh it off, make jokes about it being a lost swimmer or a weird fish, but the mood had shifted. The cabin didn’t feel cozy anymore; it felt exposed, with those big, curtainless windows staring out into the dark.
Then we heard it—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, crunching on the gravel outside the cabin. My heart stopped. We all froze, looking at each other, waiting for someone to say it was nothing.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Everyone nodded, their faces pale in the dim light. The footsteps continued, moving around the cabin, from one window to the next. It was like someone was circling us, checking each window, looking for a way in.
“Maybe it’s just an animal,” Kevin said, but his voice shook. “A deer or something.”
“Deer don’t walk like that,” Ryan said, his voice rising. “That’s a person. Those are human steps.”
The footsteps stopped right outside the window closest to us. My pulse was pounding in my ears. We all turned to look, and that’s when we saw it—a face. Pale, almost featureless, pressed against the glass. It was there for just a second, but it was enough. Ryan let out a scream, high-pitched and raw, and we all scrambled back, knocking over a chair in the chaos.
“What the hell was that?” Tommy shouted, his hands shaking.
“I don’t know, but it’s gone,” Kevin said, peering out the window. “There’s nothing there now.”
But we weren’t convinced. The face had been so clear—pale, with dark hollows where eyes should have been. It didn’t look right, but it was real. Not a ghost, not a shadow—something solid, something alive.
We didn’t sleep that night. We turned on every light in the cabin, locked the door, and took turns keeping watch. Ryan was a mess, sitting in the corner, rocking back and forth, muttering about the face. Tommy tried to calm him down, but it was no use. Kevin and I kept checking the windows, expecting to see that face again, but the night stayed quiet. Too quiet.
By morning, we were exhausted, our nerves shot. We searched around the cabin, hoping to find some clue—footprints, anything. But there was nothing. No tracks, no signs of anyone being there. It was like it had never happened, but we knew it had.
“We need to get out of here,” Ryan said, his voice hollow. “I’m not staying another night.”
None of us argued. We packed our bags in record time, loaded the boat, and left. As we pulled away from the shore, I looked back at the cabin. It looked so normal, so peaceful, but I knew better. That place was wrong.
Ryan was never the same after that. He had a nervous breakdown a few weeks later, couldn’t sleep, and ended up seeing a counselor for months. He still won’t talk about that night, and neither of us has ever gone back to that cabin. Kevin and Tommy went back once, years later, but they said it felt off, like something was still there, watching.
I’ve spent years trying to make sense of it. Was it a person? Some sick prank by a local? Or was it an animal we mistook for something human? I don’t believe in ghosts or monsters, but whatever was out there that night was real, and it wanted us to know it was there. The thought of it still keeps me up at night. Some places, I’ve learned, are better left alone.