"No Safe Place":
Last summer, my family decided to head up to our old cabin in the mountains for a few days. It was just me, my dad Adam, his new wife Molly, my little brother Gavin, and my older brother Nolen. I was fifteen then, and the place always felt like a break from everything back home. The cabin sat way out on a dirt road, surrounded by thick pines, with no neighbors for miles. We got there late in the afternoon, unpacked the car, and started settling in.
Dad lit the wood stove right away to warm things up. "Emma, help Molly with dinner," he said, smiling as he stacked logs. Molly was nice enough, always trying to make us feel like a real family since she married Dad a year ago. She handed me some potatoes to peel. "This is going to be fun," she said. "No phones, no distractions. Just us."
Nolen was quiet that first evening. He was sixteen, taller than me, with that brooding look he got sometimes. He spent most of the time outside chopping wood, even though we had plenty. When he came back in, his face was red from the effort. "What's wrong?" I asked him while we set the table. He just shrugged. "Nothing. Tired of all this family stuff." His voice had an edge, like he was holding back words.
We ate spaghetti around the small table, talking about school and plans for hikes the next day. Gavin, only eight, kept chattering about wanting to catch frogs by the stream. "Can we, Dad? Please?" Dad laughed. "Sure, buddy. First thing tomorrow." Molly reached over and ruffled Gavin's hair. Nolen barely touched his food. He stared at his plate, fork moving slow. "You okay, Nolen?" Molly asked. He looked up sharp. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" The way he said it made the room go still for a second.
After dinner, we played cards by lantern light. The cabin had no electricity, just that soft glow and the crackle from the stove. Nolen lost a few hands and got mad, slamming his cards down. "This is stupid," he muttered and went to his bunk early. Dad sighed. "He's just going through a phase. Give him space."
I shared a room with Molly and Gavin that night. The bunks were creaky, and the walls thin enough to hear every shift in the wind outside. I lay there, listening to Gavin's soft breathing, thinking about Nolen. He'd been angry a lot lately, fighting with Dad over chores and rules. Dad had grounded him before the trip for sneaking out. But here, in the cabin, it felt different. Like the anger had nowhere to go.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to a sound. A thump, like something heavy falling in the main room. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The cabin was dark, the stove fire down to embers. Molly stirred. "What was that?" she whispered. "Probably just Dad," I said, but my voice came out small. We listened. Footsteps now, slow and careful, moving toward our door.
The door creaked open. A shadow stood there. "Nolen?" I said. He stepped in, holding something in his hand. It glinted in the faint light from the window. Dad's hunting rifle. My mouth went dry. "What are you doing?" Molly asked, sitting up fast. Gavin woke then, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on?"
Nolen didn't answer. He raised the rifle. The shot was deafening in the small space. Molly jerked back, a dark stain spreading on her shirt. She gasped, hand reaching out. "Nolen... why?" Another shot. Gavin slumped against the wall, eyes wide and empty. I screamed, scrambling back on my bunk. "Stop! Please!"
He turned to me, face blank, like he wasn't even there. "You don't get it, Emma. They ruin everything." His voice was flat, no emotion. I bolted for the window, fingers fumbling with the latch. He fired again, the bullet whizzing past my ear, splintering wood. I shoved the window open and tumbled out into the dirt, feet scraping on rocks.
I ran into the trees, bare feet stinging, breath coming in gasps. Behind me, another shot echoed—from inside, maybe Dad. I hid behind a thick trunk, peeking back. The cabin door swung open, Nolen stepping out, rifle in hand. He scanned the darkness. "Emma? Come back. It's over now." His words carried on the still air, calm, like he was calling me for breakfast.
I held my breath, body shaking. He walked around the cabin, shining a flashlight into the woods. The beam swept close, leaves rustling under his boots. Minutes dragged. Then he went back inside. I waited, frozen, until I smelled it—smoke. Thick, acrid. Orange flickers danced in the windows. He was burning it. With them inside.
Flames licked up the walls, growing fast on the dry wood. The roof caught, sparks shooting into the sky. I wanted to run back, scream for Dad, but fear pinned me. Nolen came out again, standing there watching the fire spread. He tossed something—maybe a gas can—back through the door. The blaze roared louder.
He started toward the trees, calling my name. "Emma! I know you're out here." His flashlight bobbed, getting closer. I backed away slow, stepping careful to avoid twigs. A branch snapped under my foot. He swung the light my way. I dropped flat, face in the dirt, heart hammering.
The beam passed over. He muttered something and kept searching the other direction. The fire lit everything now, shadows dancing wild. Smoke stung my eyes. I crawled deeper into the brush, thorns scraping my arms. Hours seemed to pass like that, hiding, listening as he crashed around.
Finally, his footsteps faded. I heard the car start—Dad's truck—and gravel crunching as he drove off. The cabin was fully engulfed, flames high, heat reaching even where I hid. I waited until the fire died to coals, the structure collapsed in on itself. Dawn broke gray and cold. I stumbled out, legs numb, toward the road.
A passing trucker found me hours later, waving frantic. "My family... the cabin..." I choked out. Police came, sifted through the ashes. They found the bodies—shot before the fire. Arson to hide it. Nolen was picked up at school the next day, acting like nothing happened. He claimed it was intruders, but evidence pointed to him—the rifle, his prints on the gas can.
At trial, they said he was mad at Dad for grounding him, at Molly for "replacing" our mom, at Gavin for being the favorite. Small things built up until he snapped. He's in prison now, life without parole.
I live with my aunt, but nights are hard. I see the flames, hear his voice calling. That cabin was supposed to be safe. Now it's just ashes, and so is what was left of us.
"The Last Goodbye at Uncle Jim’s Cabin":
My Uncle Jim had always been like part of the family. He was Dad's best friend from way back, the kind of guy who showed up at every birthday party with gifts and jokes that made everyone laugh. His log cabin out in Boulevard was his pride, tucked away in the hills where the roads turned to dirt and houses were few and far between. It felt like a hideaway, with pine trees all around and a small creek nearby. Mom, my little brother Ethan, and I went there often for cookouts or just to hang out. But that last visit changed everything.
It started on a Friday evening in early August. Uncle Jim called Mom and said he was moving to Texas soon and wanted us over for a goodbye dinner. "Bring the kids, Tina," he told her. "I’ve got steaks and marshmallows for the fire pit." Mom agreed, and we packed up the car. Ethan was excited because Uncle Jim always let him play with his old model cars. I was 16, more into my phone and cheer practice, but I went along. When we arrived, the cabin looked the same—wooden walls, a stone fireplace inside, and that musty smell of old books and pine. Uncle Jim greeted us at the door with hugs. "Hannah, you're getting so tall," he said, holding my shoulders a bit too long. His eyes lingered, but I brushed it off. He was just being nice.
We ate dinner around the table—steaks, potatoes, salad. Ethan chattered about school, and Mom talked about work. Uncle Jim kept looking at me across the table. "You know, Hannah, if I was younger, we'd have some adventures," he said with a wink. Mom laughed it off, but it made me uncomfortable. I excused myself to text my friends. Later, as we roasted marshmallows outside, he sat next to me. "You're special, Hannah. Don't forget that." His voice was low, like he meant more than he said. I nodded and moved closer to Mom. We left around 10 p.m., waving goodbye. "See you soon," he called. That was the last time I saw Mom and Ethan alive.
The next day was Saturday. I had cheer practice in the morning at school in Lakeside. It was hot, and we worked on routines for hours. Afterward, I waited for Mom to pick me up, but she didn't show. My phone buzzed—a text from Uncle Jim. "Your mom asked me to get you. She's busy. Meet me in the parking lot." I thought it was odd, but he was family, so I went. His blue Nissan was there, windows down. "Hop in, kiddo," he said, smiling. "I need help with something at the cabin before I pack up." I got in, buckling my seatbelt. "Where's Mom?" I asked. He paused, then said, "She's meeting us there with Ethan. Surprise trip." Something felt off—his hands gripped the wheel tight, and he wasn't chatting like usual.
We drove toward Boulevard, but he took a different turn, away from the main road. "Shortcut," he muttered. The trees got thicker, and the signal on my phone dropped. I tried calling Mom—no answer. "Uncle Jim, this isn't the way to your place," I said, my voice shaky. He glanced at me, his face serious. "Change of plans, Hannah. We're going on a little adventure. You and me." My chest tightened. "What do you mean? Take me home." He shook his head. "Can't do that. Your mom and Ethan... they're not coming." His words hung in the air. I grabbed the door handle, but he sped up. "Don't try anything. I have a gun in the glove box." I froze, staring at him. This wasn't the Uncle Jim I knew. His eyes were cold now, like a stranger's.
We drove for hours, stopping only once at a gas station where he made me stay in the car. "If you run, I'll find you," he whispered. I nodded, too scared to move. He bought snacks and water, acting normal to the clerk. Back on the road, he talked more. "I've always cared about you, Hannah. More than anyone knows. Your dad doesn't deserve you all." He rambled about how he was in love with me, how we'd start fresh. It made my skin crawl. "You're crazy," I said quietly. He laughed. "Maybe. But we're together now." Night fell, and we crossed into another state. I cried silently, wondering where Mom was. Why hadn't she called?
By Sunday, we were deep in the mountains, far from anything. He pulled off into a forested area and set up a tent. "We'll camp here," he said. The place was isolated—no roads, just trees and rocks. He built a small fire, and we ate cold sandwiches. "Tell me about your day," he said, like it was normal. I barely spoke. That night, in the tent, he lay too close. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you unless you make me." I lay awake, heart racing, planning escape. But where? It was pitch black outside, and he had the keys, the gun.
Days blurred. We moved camps, driving north. He avoided highways, sticking to back roads. Once, we stopped at a lake, and he fished while I sat nearby. "See, this is nice," he said. "Just us." I faked a smile, but inside I was terrified. He started hinting at things. "Your mom and brother... they had an accident at my cabin." My blood went cold. "What accident?" He smirked. "A fire. Bad one." I pressed him. "What did you do?" He got angry. "They got in the way. Now it's you and me." I realized then—he had hurt them. Maybe worse. Tears came, but he yelled, "Stop it! Or I'll make you stop." He showed me the gun, waving it. "Anyone comes, I'll kill them and you."
We ended up in Idaho, in a vast wilderness called the River of No Return. It was endless forest, no people for miles. He hid the car under branches, removed the plates. "Smart, huh?" he said. We hiked to a spot near a lake, set up camp again. Mosquitoes bit, and the ground was hard. He made me help pitch the tent. "We're a team now." At night, he'd talk about our "future"—a house somewhere, no one finding us. "I'll protect you," he promised. But his touch on my arm made me recoil. One day, horseback riders passed in the distance. I wanted to scream, but he grabbed my wrist. "Wave nice, or else." We waved, and they rode on. I prayed they'd notice something wrong.
He grew paranoid, pacing with the gun. "If cops come, I'll shoot first." I nodded, but hoped for rescue. Food ran low—crackers, jerky. He fished more, but I ate little, stomach in knots. "Why me?" I asked once. He sat by the fire, staring into flames. "Because you're mine. Always have been." He told stories from when I was little, how he'd watch me play. It twisted everything I remembered. "Your mom knew, deep down." Lies, I thought. Mom trusted him.
On the seventh day, I heard helicopters overhead. He pulled me into the tent. "Quiet." But they passed. Later, rustling in the bushes. "Animals," he said. But I sensed people. Sunset came, and shadows grew long. He stood with his rifle, scanning. "Something's out there." Suddenly, voices—faint, but human. He aimed. "Stay down." A shot rang out—his. Then return fire, loud cracks echoing. He jerked, fell. Blood spread on his shirt. Men in gear rushed in, shouting "FBI! Hands up!" I raised mine, sobbing. "He's got a gun!" One agent grabbed me, pulled me away. "You're safe, Hannah."
They flew me out, wrapped in a blanket. At the hospital, they told me the truth. Uncle Jim had killed Mom and Ethan at his cabin. Tortured them, then set the place ablaze to hide it. The dog too. Firefighters found the bodies in the ruins. He'd planned it all—lured them there, then came for me. I broke down, imagining their pain. Why? His sick obsession. Letters he wrote, calls—evidence of his fixation.
Recovery took time. Nightmares of the wilderness, his voice. But I survived. The cabin's gone, burned to ash, like the life I knew. Now, I live careful, locking doors, avoiding remote places. Uncle Jim's dead, but the fear lingers. If a family friend acts strange, listen to that gut feeling. It might save you.
"Alone in the Ashes: Surviving the Alaska Cabin Fire":
I moved to that remote spot in Alaska back in September, looking for some peace away from the crowds. The cabin wasn't much—just tarps and planks I put together myself—but it felt like home. My dog, Buddy, kept me company, always by my side as I chopped wood or fixed things. One night around mid-December, I made a mistake that changed everything.
I woke up to a strange sound, like rain pattering on the roof, but it wasn't rain. Drops of melting plastic fell from the ceiling, sizzling as he hit the floor. I bolted up, confused at first, then smelled the smoke. The fire had started from the stove—I'd shoved a big piece of cardboard in there earlier to get the flames going stronger. A spark must have flown up the chimney and landed on the dry roof. Flames licked at the edges already, spreading fast.
"Buddy! Come on, boy!" I yelled, grabbing for his collar. He whimpered and backed away, scared by the heat. I tried to pull him out, but the fire roared louder, blocking the door. Ammunition I kept stored started popping off like gunfire in a battle, bullets whizzing everywhere. A propane tank exploded with a boom that shook the ground, sending shards flying. I barely made it outside, coughing and burned on my arms. Behind me, the cabin turned into an inferno. Buddy's howls cut through the noise—he was still inside. I ran back, shoving snow at the flames with my bare hands, screaming his name over and over. "Buddy! Get out here!" But the heat pushed me away, and his cries faded. He didn't make it.
Standing there in the dark, alone, with the fire dying down to embers, I felt the cold seep in deep. No shelter, no food, nothing but what I could salvage. I dug a hole in the snow that first night, curling up inside like an animal, shivering until morning. The next day, I scavenged what was left—some cans of food that hadn't burst open completely, though everything tasted like charred plastic when I ate it. I built a rough tent from scraps of tarp, propping it around the old wood stove to keep a small fire going. Bark and a candle were all I had for fuel at first.
Days blurred together. I talked to myself to stay sane, pretending Buddy was still there. "What do we do now, boy? Just hold on, right?" But silence answered back. The wilderness stretched out endless, no roads, no people for miles. My nearest neighbor was twenty miles away, and without a way to get there, I was stuck. Hunger gnawed at me, and the burns on my skin stung worse each day. At night, the wind howled through the trees, sounding almost like footsteps crunching in the snow. I'd sit up, staring into the black, wondering if something was out there watching. Wolves? A bear woken early? Or worse, some stranger wandering this far out? I gripped a stick like a weapon, listening hard, but nothing ever showed.
One afternoon, I heard a crack in the distance, like a branch snapping under weight. I froze, peering through the tent flap. "Who's there?" I called out, my voice hoarse. No answer, just more wind. But it happened again later, closer this time. My mind raced—maybe someone had found the ruins and was circling, waiting to see if I was weak enough to rob. I had nothing left, but desperation makes people do ugly things. I barricaded the tent entrance with snow, huddling by the stove, feeding it tiny bits of bark to keep warm. Sleep came in fits, dreams filled with fire and Buddy's face.
By the third week, weakness set in bad. My body ached from the cold, and the food ran low—just a few cans left, rationed to bites. I stamped out an SOS in the snow, big letters darkened with ash so a plane might spot it. "Help me," I muttered as I worked, knees sinking deep. "Someone see this." Loneliness pressed down, heavier than the snow. I replayed conversations from before, like the one with my friend back in Utah when I told him about moving here. "You're crazy going out there alone," he said over the phone. "What if something happens?" I laughed it off then. "I'll be fine. Got Buddy with me." Now those words haunted me.
Another night, the sounds came back—rustling outside the tent, soft but steady. I grabbed my knife, the only tool I had left sharp. "Show yourself!" I shouted, voice cracking. The rustling stopped, then started again, circling slow. My breath came quick, fogging the air. Was it an animal smelling my weakness? Or had the fire drawn someone bad, a drifter looking for easy pickings? I poked the fire higher, shadows dancing on the tarp walls, making shapes that looked like figures lurking. Hours passed like that, me tensed up, waiting for an attack that never came. Morning light showed animal tracks—maybe a fox—but the fear lingered, twisting my thoughts.
I started seeing things in the corners of my eyes, flickers in the trees. "Buddy?" I'd whisper, knowing it couldn't be. Grief mixed with the terror of dying out here, body never found. I talked aloud more, planning my escape. "If no one comes soon, I'll walk to the lake, follow it down." But deep down, I knew the cold would finish me first. The burns infected, swelling red and hot, pain shooting up my arms with every move.
Then, on the twenty-third day, a distant thump grew louder—a helicopter. I stumbled out, waving my arms wild. "Here! Down here!" The SOS must have worked. Troopers landed, shocked at my state—thin, burned, barely standing. They wrapped me in blankets, asked what happened. I told them about the fire, Buddy, the endless wait. "I thought I'd die alone," I said, voice breaking. One trooper nodded. "You're lucky we saw the signal. Family called, worried sick."
Back in civilization, doctors fixed me up, but the scars stayed—on my skin and inside. That isolation, the nights wondering if each sound was my end, it changed me. I went home to Utah, to people and noise, but sometimes in quiet moments, I hear those rustles again, feel the cold closing in. The wilderness doesn't forget, and neither do I.
"Brownstown’s Cabin":
My friends and I always escaped to that old cabin by the river when we wanted some time away from town. It stood alone, built from thick logs salvaged from railroad ties, hidden in the woods on the edge of Brownstown. No one bothered us there. We could talk, laugh, and forget about school or family troubles. That December evening in 1971, four of us headed out: Jim, Dave, Paul, and me. I was the youngest at 17, and Jim led the way as usual, carrying a lantern and a bag of snacks.
We arrived as the light faded, the trees thick around us. The cabin had one room with a stone fireplace, a few chairs, and a table we had dragged in years ago. Paul started a small fire in the hearth to warm the place up. "This beats sitting at home," he said, rubbing his hands together. "My folks are always on my case about grades."
Dave nodded, pulling out a deck of cards. "Yeah, let's play something. Winner gets first pick of the sandwiches." We settled around the table, the flames crackling softly. Jim dealt the cards, his face lit by the glow. We played for a while, joking about girls in class and plans for after high school. I won the first round and grabbed a ham sandwich, feeling good.
After an hour, Paul stood up and stretched. "I need to step outside for a minute." He grabbed his coat and pushed the door open, a gust of cold air rushing in. We heard him walk a few steps, then nothing. Minutes passed. "Paul's taking his time," Dave muttered, glancing at the door. Jim shrugged. "Probably just looking at the stars or something."
But then we heard a thump, like something heavy hitting the ground. Jim set his cards down. "Paul? You okay out there?" No answer. I felt a knot form in my chest, but I tried to stay calm. Dave got up first, opening the door slowly. "Paul?" he called again. The lantern light spilled out, showing the dark woods. Paul wasn't there.
We grabbed the lantern and stepped outside, our breaths visible in the chill. "Paul, quit messing around," Jim said, his voice louder. We walked a few paces, the ground crunchy under our feet. Then Dave spotted something—a boot sticking out from behind a tree. We ran over. Paul lay there, face down, blood pooling around his head. A rock nearby had red stains on it. "What happened?" I whispered, my voice shaking. Jim knelt down, touching Paul's neck. "He's not breathing. Someone hit him."
Panic hit us hard. Dave looked around wildly. "We need to get back inside, call for help." But the cabin had no phone—we were miles from town. Jim nodded. "Grab him, let's get him in." We dragged Paul's body inside, laying him on the floor. My hands trembled as I closed the door and bolted it. "Who could have done this?" I asked, staring at the blood on my sleeves.
Jim paced. "Maybe a hunter, or some drifter. We have to stick together." Dave wiped his face. "We can't just sit here. One of us should run for help." But the woods were pitch black now, and the river path was tricky even in daylight. "No," Jim said firmly. "We wait until morning. Safer that way."
We sat in silence for what felt like hours, the fire in the hearth dying down. I added more wood, watching the flames dance. Then came a scratch at the door, faint at first, like nails on wood. Dave jumped. "Hear that?" Jim held up a hand. "Shh." The scratching grew louder, then stopped. We stared at the door. "Maybe an animal," I suggested, but I didn't believe it.
A minute later, a low voice came from outside. "Open up." It was rough, unfamiliar. We froze. "Who is it?" Jim called back, his tone steady but tense. No reply. Then the door handle rattled, someone trying to turn it. "Go away!" Dave shouted. The rattling stopped, but we heard footsteps circling the cabin, slow and deliberate.
I moved to the window, peering out. A shadow shifted in the trees, too tall for an animal. "There's someone out there," I whispered. Jim grabbed a log from the firewood pile. "If he comes in, we fight." Dave nodded, picking up a chair. We waited, the only sound our breathing.
Suddenly, a smell hit us—smoke, but not from the hearth. It was sharper, like gasoline. "What's that?" Dave asked. Jim sniffed. "Outside." I looked through the window again and saw flames licking up the side of the cabin, starting from the base. "Fire! The wall's on fire!" I yelled.
We rushed to the door, but when Jim unbolted it, it wouldn't budge. Something blocked it from outside—maybe logs or rocks piled against it. Flames spread fast, the old wood catching easily. Smoke filled the room, stinging our eyes. "The window!" Dave cried, running to it. He smashed the glass with the chair, shards flying. But bars we had put up to keep animals out held firm.
Coughing, I helped Jim bash at the door with the log. Wood splintered, but the fire roared louder, heat building. "Help us!" I screamed out the broken window. No answer, just the crackle of flames. Dave climbed to the window, trying to squeeze through the bars. "I can almost fit," he said, pushing hard. But the fire reached the roof, beams creaking above us.
Jim coughed violently. "We have to break through." We rammed the door again, and it gave a little. Smoke thickened, making it hard to see. Dave yelled in pain—flames had caught his sleeve. He beat it out, but the heat was unbearable. "I see him!" I gasped, glancing outside. A figure stood in the shadows, watching, holding what looked like a can.
The roof groaned, a beam falling and hitting Dave, pinning him down. He screamed. "Get it off!" Jim and I pulled, but it was heavy, flames eating at it. Dave's cries weakened. "Go without me," he whispered.
Jim shook his head. "No." But the fire closed in, walls blazing. I felt dizzy from the smoke. With one last shove, Jim and I broke the door open enough to crawl through. Flames singed my hair as I tumbled out, gulping air. Jim followed, collapsing beside me.
We looked back—the cabin was an inferno. Dave's screams stopped. Inside, Paul's body was already lost to the blaze. The figure had vanished into the woods. "We have to run," Jim said, pulling me up. We stumbled away, the heat at our backs.
We made it to town by dawn, battered and choking, telling the sheriff everything. They searched the ruins, found the charred remains. Officials said it was arson, someone had poured accelerant around the cabin and blocked the door. They questioned locals, hunters, even us, but no one was ever caught. Jim and I carried the guilt of surviving, wondering who that shadow was and why he chose us.
Years later, I still wake up smelling smoke, hearing those scratches at the door. The cabin's gone, but the fear stays with me.