"The Cabin Host":
I had been looking forward to this little escape for weeks. My two young kids, Emma and Jack, needed a break from the city noise, and I found this cozy cabin online through a rental site. It was tucked away in a quiet forested area, far from everything, with no neighbors for miles and spotty cell service. The listing promised peace and relaxation, perfect for a single mom like me trying to unwind. The host, a man named Robert, seemed friendly in his messages, giving clear directions on how to get there and where to find the key under the mat.
When we arrived in the afternoon, the place looked just like the photos—wooden walls, a small kitchen, one bedroom for me and a loft for the kids. Emma, who is eight, ran straight to the loft, giggling as she climbed the ladder. "Mom, this is like a treehouse!" she said. Jack, five years old, clung to my leg at first, but soon he was exploring the living room, poking at the old fireplace. I unpacked our bags and made sandwiches for dinner. Robert had left a note on the counter: "Welcome! Make yourselves at home. If you need anything, my number is here. I'm just a short drive away." I texted him to say we had settled in, and he replied quickly: "Great to hear. Enjoy your stay."
The first evening went smoothly. We played board games by the lamp light, and the kids fell asleep easily after their baths. I sat on the couch with a book, feeling the quiet wrap around me like a blanket. No cars honking, no sirens—just the occasional rustle outside that I figured was wildlife. I locked the door before bed, double-checking the windows too. It felt safe enough.
The next morning, we hiked a short trail nearby. The kids collected sticks and leaves, chattering the whole time. "Look at this one, Mom! It's shaped like a sword," Jack said, waving a branch. Emma added, "Can we make s'mores tonight?" I promised we would. Back at the cabin, I started dinner early—pasta on the stove—while they drew pictures at the table. That's when I heard the door creak open. No knock, no call out. I turned, expecting maybe a delivery or something, but there stood Robert, stepping inside like he owned the place. Well, he did, but still.
"Oh, hi there," he said, smiling a bit too wide. He was taller than I expected, with graying hair and work boots caked in mud. "Just checking if everything's okay. Water pressure good? Heat working?"
I nodded, stirring the pot to hide my surprise. "Yes, all fine. Thanks for stopping by." The kids looked up, curious but not scared. Emma waved. "Hi! We're making art."
Robert chuckled and walked further in, glancing around. "Cute kids. You all alone out here?" His eyes lingered on our things—my purse on the chair, the kids' toys scattered. It felt odd, him asking that. I said, "Yes, just us for the weekend." He nodded slowly, then mentioned something about the fireplace needing fresh wood and offered to bring some later. I thanked him politely, hoping he'd leave. After a few more minutes of small talk, he did, saying, "Call if you need me."
That visit unsettled me a little. Why no warning? But I brushed it off as him being overly helpful. We ate dinner, made those s'mores over the fire, and the kids begged for stories. I told them a fun one about animals in the woods, keeping it light. As night fell, I tucked them in upstairs and came down to clean up. The cabin felt bigger in the dark, with only the hum of the fridge breaking the silence. I checked my phone—no bars, as expected. I locked up again and went to bed, but sleep came slow. Every little creak made me pause.
Hours later, deep into the night, I woke to a sound. The front door handle jiggling, then the click of it opening. My eyes snapped wide. Footsteps shuffled in the living room—soft, deliberate. Not the kids; they were asleep above me. I sat up quietly, listening. Someone was moving around down there, opening a drawer maybe, or shifting things. Panic rose in my throat. I slipped out of bed, barefoot on the cold floor, and grabbed the heavy flashlight from the nightstand. It was the only thing close to a weapon.
"Who's there?" I called out, my voice steadier than I felt. The sounds stopped. Then a man's voice, low and unfamiliar: "Just checking something. Go back to sleep." It wasn't Robert. This voice was rougher, deeper. My mind raced—who was this? A friend of the host? A stranger? I crept to the bedroom door, peering out. In the dim light from the window, I saw a figure—a man in a dark jacket, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. He hadn't seen me yet.
"I said, who's there? You need to leave now!" I shouted louder, flipping on the flashlight to shine it at him. He turned, shielding his eyes. He was older, bearded, not Robert. "Hey, easy," he said, raising a hand. "Robert sent me. Said the place might need a look-over. Pipe issue or something." But his eyes darted, and he didn't move toward the door. Upstairs, I heard Emma stir. "Mom?" she whispered from the loft.
"Stay up there, honey," I said firmly, not taking my eyes off the man. He took a step closer. "No need to worry. I'm just doing a favor." But why at this hour? Why no call? I backed up, gripping the flashlight like a club. "Get out, or I'll call the police." No service, but he didn't know that. He hesitated, then muttered, "Fine, fine. No trouble." He backed toward the door, but slowly, watching me the whole time.
As he reached the door, I heard Jack start to cry softly upstairs. The man paused, glancing up at the loft. "Kids okay?" he asked, almost casual. That sent a wave of dread through me. "Leave. Now." My tone left no room for talk. He finally stepped out, closing the door behind him. I rushed over and locked it, then pushed a chair under the knob for good measure. My hands shook as I climbed the ladder to the kids. Emma was wide-eyed. "Who was that man, Mom?" Jack hugged his blanket tight.
"Just someone who got the wrong place," I lied, pulling them close. "It's okay now." But it wasn't. I didn't sleep the rest of the night, sitting by the window with the flashlight on, watching the dark outside. What if he came back? What if Robert had given him a key? Why would the host let someone in like that?
At first light, I packed our bags fast. The kids asked questions as we loaded the car. "Why are we leaving early, Mom?" Emma said. "I thought we had one more day." I forced a smile. "Something came up at home, sweetie. We'll do another trip soon." As we drove away, I glanced back at the cabin. It looked so innocent in the daylight. I tried calling Robert once I got signal—straight to voicemail. I left a message: "What was that last night? Some man came in saying you sent him. This isn't okay." No reply ever came.
Later, I reported it to the rental site. They investigated and found out Robert had a history of complaints—people saying he or his "helpers" entered without notice, sometimes taking small things. One review mentioned a similar nighttime visit. The site removed his listing, but it didn't erase the fear. Now, whenever I think of vacation rentals, I stick to hotels. That night taught me how vulnerable you can be in someone else's space, especially when help is far away.
"Cabin 12":
I was sprawled on the couch at my buddy Jake’s cabin, flipping through a comic book, when I decided it was time to head back to our rental. It was a short walk through the resort, past the flickering lights of other cabins. Jake’s mom waved me off, saying, “Be safe, Tom. Tell your dad I said hi.” I nodded, pulling my jacket tight, and started down the gravel path to Cabin 12. It was late afternoon, and I was thinking about the burgers Dad promised for dinner.
When I pushed open our door, the air felt wrong. A sharp, coppery smell hit me, like pennies left in the rain. The living room was trashed—chairs tipped over, cushions slashed. Then I saw Dad, crumpled near the coffee table, his face bloodied, arms bound with duct tape. My older brother, Luke, was slumped against the wall, his hands tied with some kind of rope, cuts all over him. Blood pooled under them both, soaking the rug. My little sister, Ellie, was nowhere.
I stumbled back, my voice caught in my throat. I ran to the neighbors, the Carters, pounding on their door. “Mr. Carter! Something’s wrong! My dad, Luke—they’re hurt bad!” Mr. Carter opened the door, his eyes widening as I stammered out what I saw. “Stay here, Tom,” he said, grabbing his phone and dialing 911. Mrs. Carter pulled me inside, her hands shaking. “You’re okay now,” she kept saying, but I could tell she didn’t believe it.
Sheriffs swarmed the resort within minutes, their radios crackling. They found my little brother, Ben, hiding in the back closet, unharmed but terrified. He was only six, clutching his stuffed dinosaur. “I heard yelling,” Ben whispered later, “but I stayed quiet like Dad always said to do if something bad happened.” The deputies asked me about the day before. I told them we’d been fishing at the lake. Dad and Luke had run into this guy, Carl, a friend of Luke’s from town. Carl had been staying at the resort, too, in a cabin nearby. Dad didn’t like him much, said he was “trouble,” but Luke shrugged it off. “He’s fine, Dad. Just likes to party,” Luke had said, laughing as they grilled steaks that night. Ellie had been playing cards with me and Ben, giggling about how she’d beat us both. I went to Jake’s after dinner, promising Dad I’d be back by morning.
The crime scene was a nightmare, the deputies said. Dad and Luke had been tied up with tape and rope from the cabin’s toolbox. Someone used a kitchen knife and a hammer—stuff probably from our own place. Blood was smeared on the walls, like someone had taken their time. Ellie was gone, no trace. I kept thinking about her big eyes, how she’d hug me when she was scared. Where was she?
The sheriff asked if we’d noticed anyone strange. I mentioned Carl, how he’d been hanging around with another guy, some drifter named Ray who showed up a week ago. They’d been loud at the resort bar, arguing with staff. Our neighbor, Mr. Walsh, had complained about them, too. “Those two were creeping around last night,” he told the sheriff. “Saw ‘em near your cabin, Tom, around midnight.”
Weeks dragged on, and fear clung to us like damp clothes. Ben and I stayed with our aunt, but I couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching. At night, I’d hear footsteps outside, or the phone would ring with no one on the line. Ben started having nightmares, muttering, “I saw a man in the window, Tom. He had a beard.” I didn’t know if it was real or his mind playing tricks. Once, I found a cigarette butt outside our aunt’s place, same brand Carl smoked. I told the sheriff, but they had nothing solid.
They found Ellie’s jacket months later, miles away in a ditch, torn and stained. No body, just that jacket she loved with the pink flowers. I could still hear her voice, “Tom, don’t let the bad guys get me,” from when we’d play pretend. The thought of her out there, alone with whoever took her, made my chest tight.
The investigation pointed to Carl and Ray. A witness said they saw Ray’s truck speeding out of the resort that night. Carl’s girlfriend told police he came home that morning with blood on his shoes, claiming he’d “handled a problem.” Ray had a rap sheet—assault, theft—and skipped town right after. But no arrests. Evidence was too thin, they said. A knife found in the woods later matched one from Carl’s cabin, but his lawyer called it circumstantial.
Years later, they found remains in a ravine, too degraded to identify right away. DNA said it was probably Ellie. I still see her face, hear her laugh. I check every lock twice now, keep a bat by my bed. Ben doesn’t talk about it, but he jumps at loud noises. The resort’s mostly abandoned now, cabins rotting. Sometimes I drive by, wondering if Carl or Ray ever come back, watching from the trees. What if they’re still out there, waiting? The fear’s a weight I carry every day.
"Hidden Eyes":
My husband Alex and I had been planning this weekend trip for months. We wanted a quiet place to relax with a few friends and their kids, away from the city noise. We found this house on Airbnb in Verona, Wisconsin, listed by a guy named Patrick. The photos showed a clean, modern home with plenty of space, two bathrooms, and a backyard for the children to play. The reviews were mostly positive, nothing that raised any flags. We booked it for July, packed our bags, and drove up on a Friday afternoon.
When we arrived, Patrick was there to greet us. He was in his early forties, tall with a neat beard, and he smiled a lot as he handed over the keys. "Welcome," he said. "I've left some snacks in the kitchen. If you need anything, just message me through the app. I'll be nearby." His voice was calm, but he lingered a bit too long, asking questions about our group. "How many kids? Ages?" I told him six children in total, ranging from five to twelve, and he nodded slowly. "Good to know. Enjoy your stay." Then he left, but I noticed his car parked down the street for a while before it drove off.
The first evening went fine. We unpacked, made dinner, and the kids ran around laughing. Alex and I shared the master bedroom, while our friends took the other rooms. But as night fell, something felt off. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet where every creak of the floor stands out. I brushed it away, thinking it was just new surroundings.
The next day, Saturday, we spent time exploring local spots. When we got back, one of the kids mentioned the bathrooms felt "funny." I asked what he meant, and he shrugged. "The plugs look different." I didn't think much of it then. That evening, after everyone had showered and the children were in bed, I went to use the main bathroom. I was brushing my teeth when I glanced at the outlet by the sink. There was a small hole in the plastic cover, right in the middle. It wasn't like any outlet I'd seen—too perfect, too tiny. I leaned closer, my reflection in the mirror showing my puzzled face.
"Alex," I called softly from the bathroom door. He was in the living room, scrolling on his phone. "Come here a minute."
He walked over, yawning. "What's up?"
"Look at this outlet. See that hole? It's not normal."
He squinted at it. "Maybe it's for a nightlight or something. Why?"
"It bothers me. Can you unscrew it? Just to check."
He grabbed a small screwdriver from his toolkit in the car—we always bring one for little fixes. The kids were asleep, and our friends were chatting in the kitchen. Alex loosened the screws, and the plate came off easily. Behind it, superglued to the back, was a tiny camera. It had a lens poking through where the hole was, and wires connecting to the outlet's power. There was even a small SD card slot.
My hands went cold. "Is that... a camera?"
Alex's face paled. He poked at it gently. "Yeah. It's pointed right at the sink and toilet. Wait, let's check the shower side."
We looked, and sure enough, the angle covered the whole area—the toilet, the shower stall. Anyone using the bathroom would be recorded.
"Who puts a camera in a bathroom?" I whispered, my voice shaking. "The host? Patrick?"
Alex nodded grimly. "Has to be. We need to check the other bathroom."
We crept to the second bathroom quietly, not wanting to wake anyone yet. Same thing: another outlet with a pinhole, another hidden camera glued in place, aimed at the toilet and shower. Both had SD cards.
Our friends heard us moving and came over. "What's going on?" one asked.
I showed them. "Cameras. Hidden in the outlets."
Their eyes widened. "You're kidding. The kids have been using these all day."
We all stood there, staring. The realization hit hard—eleven of us, including the children, had been in those bathrooms multiple times. Changing clothes, showering, everything.
"Message the host," Alex said. "See what he says."
I opened the Airbnb app on my phone, my fingers trembling. "We found hidden cameras in both bathrooms. What is this? We're calling the police."
I hit send. We waited, the group huddled in the hallway. Minutes passed. Then a reply came: "That's not possible. Must be a mistake. I'm coming over to check."
"No," I typed back quickly. "Don't come. We're handling it."
But he responded: "On my way. Need to see for myself."
Panic set in. "He's coming here," I said. "Now."
Alex grabbed his phone. "I'm calling the cops."
He dialed 911, explaining the situation. "We found hidden cameras in the Airbnb we're renting. In the bathrooms. The host is on his way over. Please send someone."
The dispatcher asked for the address—Ashworth Drive—and said officers were en route. "Stay calm, lock the doors, don't let anyone in."
We locked every door and window, turned on all the lights. The kids woke up from the commotion, confused and scared. "What's wrong?" one asked.
"Nothing, sweetie," I said, hugging her. "Just a mix-up. Go back to bed."
But inside, my mind raced. What if Patrick had been watching us the whole time? The cameras were powered, SD cards ready to store whatever they captured. Had he seen the children? Us? And now he was coming, probably to remove evidence or worse.
We gathered in the living room, away from the bathrooms. Every sound outside made us jump—a car passing, wind rustling leaves. Then, headlights flashed in the driveway. A car door slammed.
"That's him," Alex whispered.
A knock on the door. "It's Patrick! Open up!"
We stayed silent. Another knock, louder. "I know you're in there. Let me explain!"
Our friend whispered, "What if he has a key?"
I hadn't thought of that. Hosts often do. We pushed a chair against the door, but it felt useless.
The knocking stopped. Then, footsteps around the side of the house. Was he trying a window? We heard a faint rattle at the back door.
"Police are coming," Alex said into his phone, still on with the dispatcher. "He's trying to get in."
The dispatcher replied, "Officers are two minutes away. Stay on the line."
Those two minutes dragged on forever. We held our breath, listening. The back door handle jiggled again. Then, silence.
Sirens approached. Blue and red lights filled the windows. Footsteps retreated, a car engine started, and tires squealed away.
The police knocked. "Madison PD! Open up!"
We let them in, showed the outlets. They removed the cameras, confirmed they were real, with SD cards full of footage. They took statements from all of us, promised to analyze everything. "We'll track him down," one officer said. "This is serious—potential recordings of minors."
Airbnb messaged us soon after, apologizing, refunding everything, and offering to move us to a hotel. They suspended Patrick's account right away.
We packed and left that night, driving to the hotel in stunned silence. The officers caught Patrick later; he claimed the cameras were for "security," but the charges came quick—invasion of privacy. He's out on bond now, but can't rent to anyone, and court is set for September.
Even now, weeks later, I check every outlet in any place we stay. That feeling of being watched, exposed—it doesn't go away easy. What started as a simple weekend turned into something I'll always remember, a reminder that sometimes the danger is hidden right in plain sight.
"The Last Night":
My sister-in-law Carla and I had planned this trip to Costa Rica for months. It was her thirty-sixth birthday, and we wanted something fun, a break from our busy lives back home. We booked a villa through Airbnb in San Jose, called Villa Le Mas. The pictures online showed a nice place with a pool and views of the hills. When we arrived on November 22, 2018, the owner greeted us at the gate. He seemed polite, handed over the keys, and pointed out where everything was. The villa had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a small patio. But right away, I noticed the security guard's apartment was attached to our building, just a thin wall away. His name was Bismarck, a tall man with a quiet stare. He nodded hello but didn't say much.
We spent the first few days exploring. We went zip-lining, visited volcanoes, and ate fresh fruit from markets. Carla was full of energy, laughing at everything. One evening, as we sat on the patio with drinks, she said, "This is perfect, Laura. No work, no stress. Just us." I agreed, but I couldn't shake a small unease. The villa felt isolated, even though it was in a suburb. At night, sounds carried strangely—branches scraping windows, distant dogs barking. And Bismarck was always around, walking the grounds with a flashlight, checking locks.
On November 27, the day before her birthday, we celebrated early because I had to fly home the next morning for work. Carla's flight was a day later, so she decided to stay one more night alone. "I'll be fine," she told me over dinner. "I'll just relax by the pool and catch my plane early." I hugged her goodbye at the airport shuttle, but as I left, I glanced back at the villa. Bismarck stood at the gate, watching us. His eyes followed the car until we turned the corner.
Back home in Florida, I texted Carla as soon as I landed. "Made it safe. How's the villa without me?" She replied quickly: "Quiet. Power went out for a bit, but it's back. The guard asked if I wanted to go for drinks. I said no thanks." I frowned at my phone. "That's weird. Be careful." She sent back: "It's super sketchy here now. Water sounds like someone screaming in the pipes." Then, a minute later: "Just kidding. All good. Talk soon."
That was the last I heard from her. I tried calling that evening, but it went to voicemail. "Hey, Carla, check in when you can. Miss you already." No answer. By morning, worry set in. I messaged again: "You okay? Flight tomorrow?" Still nothing. I called the villa owner. "Has Carla checked out yet?" He sounded casual. "No, I haven't seen her since yesterday. Maybe she went out." I asked about Bismarck. "He's reliable. Been here months." But his tone didn't reassure me.
Hours passed. I paced my living room, checking my phone every minute. Carla's brother, my husband Carlos, noticed my tension. "What's wrong?" I explained the silence. "She's probably just busy packing." But deep down, I knew something felt off. We called Airbnb support. "Our guest isn't responding. Can you contact the host?" They promised to look into it, but hours dragged on with no update.
By evening, panic grew. Carlos and I contacted Costa Rican police through a friend who spoke Spanish. "My sister-in-law is missing from her Airbnb villa," I said, my voice shaking. They took details: her description, the address, her last messages. "We'll send officers." Waiting was agony. I replayed our trip in my mind—the way Bismarck lingered near our door one night when we came back late. "Need anything?" he'd asked Carla, his smile too wide. She'd laughed it off. "No, we're good."
The next day, November 29, police visited the villa. They reported back: no sign of Carla. Her suitcase was still there, packed, with her passport and clothes inside. But her phone and laptop were gone. The bed looked slept in, sheets rumpled. Blood stains dotted the floor, small but fresh. My hands went cold as Carlos translated the officer's words. "Possible struggle. We're investigating."
News spread fast. Family gathered at our house, staring at screens for updates. I couldn't eat or sleep. Every notification made me jump. On November 30, authorities questioned Bismarck. He claimed Carla left early for a tour, but his story changed twice. "She took a taxi," he said first. Then, "A friend picked her up." Security cameras showed nothing—no car, no departure.
Days blurred. December 1, search teams combed the woods behind the villa. I flew back to Costa Rica with Carlos and Carla's father. At the police station, an investigator showed us photos of the scene. "We found drag marks in the dirt," he explained. "Leading to the trees." My mind raced with horrible images—Carla alone, hearing footsteps outside her door that night.
On December 3, they found her. Partially buried in plastic bags, in a shallow grave amid the leaves. Stab wounds, head trauma. The officer's face was grim as he confirmed it. "It's her." I collapsed into Carlos's arms, sobs choking me. Bismarck was arrested that day, charged with murder. Evidence piled up: blood in his apartment, her belongings hidden there. He confessed to attacking her after she rejected him, then hiding the body.
The trial dragged on for months. In 2019, Bismarck got sixteen years. But justice didn't erase the fear. I sued Airbnb and the villa owners with the family, arguing they failed to check his background—he wasn't even legal to work there. They settled, but money means nothing. Now, I warn everyone: check reviews, ask about security, trust your gut.
That trip started as a celebration. It ended in loss. Carla's last words echo: "Just kidding. All good." But it wasn't. And I'll live with that forever.