"The Quiet Place":
I took a job maintaining a cluster of remote desert cabins in California’s backcountry a couple summers ago. They sat miles off any marked road—just dry flats, scattered boulders, and heat that pressed on you like a hand. My duties were simple: greet guests, restock water tanks, patch anything that broke. The owner lived in the city and checked in by phone every few days to make sure everything hadn’t caught fire or blown away.
The cabins were basic: wood, corrugated metal, small porches. I stayed in the smallest one by the entrance, equipped with a battered radio and an old Jeep for the long haul into town.
During one particularly hot stretch, a man named David booked Cabin 4 for a week. He showed up alone in a dusty pickup, hauling fishing gear and a couple books.
“Just need quiet time,” he told me while I checked him in. “Work’s been… rough.”
“Plenty of quiet out here,” I said. “Water tank’s full. Radio me if anything comes up.”
He nodded, then mostly kept to himself.
Another couple—Ron and his wife, Linda—rented Cabin 2 that same week. They wanted hiking and seclusion.
“Nice spot you’ve got here,” Ron said, shaking my hand. “Exactly the kind of nowhere we were looking for.”
Linda asked about trails. I warned them to stay on marked ones; the desert doesn’t give second chances if you get turned around. They listened.
Everything stayed peaceful at first. I’d see David reading on his porch, and Ron and Linda heading out early each morning.
Then the small things started.
One morning, I found the tool-shed door hanging open with the latch bent. Nothing missing, but fresh boot prints in the sand—bigger than any of the guests’. I chalked it up to wind or my own forgetfulness, repaired it, and moved on.
Later that afternoon, David came by while I was filling water jugs.
“Last night I saw someone near my cabin,” he said. “Tall guy. Scruffy. When I stepped outside he was gone.”
“Probably a hiker who wandered too far,” I told him. “I’ll check around.”
He accepted that, but something in his eyes said he wasn’t convinced.
Ron mentioned something similar the next day—scraping sounds at his window long after dark.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promised.
I radioed the owner. “Might have a trespasser.”
“Call the sheriff if it gets worse,” he said. “Desert attracts odd ones sometimes.”
By then the unease had spread to the guests. Linda came to me pale, saying she’d seen a man standing far off in the heat shimmer watching their cabin before slipping behind a ridge.
I drove the entire boundary road that evening. Nothing. No movement. No prints I hadn’t already seen.
When night fell, I stayed up with the lights low, listening.
Then a single gunshot cracked through the air—sharp, unmistakable—from the direction of Cabin 4.
I grabbed my flashlight and sprinted.
David’s door stood wide. He lay collapsed inside, blood spreading beneath him, chest torn open from a close-range shot. He was gone before I even knelt down.
I backed out fast and radioed the sheriff. “Man down. Gunshot victim. Send units now.”
I ran to check on Ron and Linda. They were already barricaded inside their cabin.
“We heard it,” Ron told me, white-knuckled. “We’re not opening this door for anyone.”
Deputies arrived almost an hour later. They taped off the scene, muttered about “likely a break-in gone bad,” and combed the area. They found tracks leading toward the hills—heavy boots, long stride—but no suspect.
By morning, Ron and Linda wanted out. Deputies advised staying put until daylight, so they waited until the sun crept over the ridge. They were packing when they said they’d seen the man again—far off, watching.
I told them I’d escort them to the road, but before we even got to their truck, I spotted movement between the cabins just before dawn. A tall figure, rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Stop!” I yelled.
He bolted.
I reported the sighting, and deputies launched a bigger search. Desert, hills, arroyos—they swept everything. No luck.
Ron and Linda left anyway. Couldn’t blame them.
The owner called that afternoon. “Shut everything down. Go into town. Don’t take chances.”
But I stayed one more night, locking every door and window. Maybe stubbornness, maybe stupidity.
Around midnight, someone started pounding on my door.
“Open up!”
The voice was rough, unfamiliar.
I grabbed the landline—dead. The cord had been cut.
The pounding stopped.
Silence thick as the heat.
Then the window shattered. A forearm shoved through the glass, feeling for the lock.
I rammed a chair under the knob and sprinted for the back door. Hit the outside air running and jumped straight into the Jeep. Gravel shot out behind me as I tore down the dirt track toward the highway.
I didn’t look back until I hit the paved road. When I finally did, he was standing by my cabin, rifle hanging in one hand, watching my taillights fade.
I told the sheriff everything. A full manhunt kicked off—dogs, choppers, deputies from three counties. Reports started coming in from ranches and abandoned trailers: break-ins, stolen food, a shadowy figure drifting through the desert like a ghost with a gun.
After days of searching, they cornered him in the hills. Shots were exchanged. He fled again.
Eighteen days later, they finally caught him after another shootout.
His name was Benjamin Peter Ashley—a drifter with a long history of theft, violence, and living feral in the desert. He confessed to killing David for supplies and admitted he’d been watching the cabins for days, planning more.
I never went back.
I learned the desert isn’t empty. It listens. It watches. And sometimes, something out there watches back.
"Protecting Benny":
I was between jobs last summer when my cousin called out of the blue, asking if I’d watch his cabin in the Kern County foothills for a weekend. He needed someone to check on things, and with his wife out of town, he asked if I could bring his six-year-old son, Benny, along.
“It’ll be fun,” he said. “Shoot some targets, fish in the pond. Benny loves it up there.”
I agreed. I figured a quiet weekend in the hills would be a nice reset. We took his old truck up the rough dirt road, bouncing over washouts and rocks until the cabin came into view—a simple log structure perched near a cliff edge, the desert sprawling out beneath it like an endless rust-colored ocean. No cell service. No neighbors. Just wind, pines, and open land.
Benny launched himself out of the truck before the engine even stopped. “Can we go to the pond?” he asked, tugging my sleeve with mustard-colored enthusiasm.
“Let me unpack the groceries first,” I said, unloading bread, juice boxes, and a handful of canned meals. After that, we walked down to the small man-made pond—a shallow circle of cold, still water surrounded by cattails and dust. We skipped stones. He celebrated each splash like he’d discovered fire. As the sun dipped, I cooked hot dogs over the old gas stove. He ate two, mustard smeared on both sides of his mouth like war paint.
That night, Benny went to sleep in the bunk room, and I took the couch. I read by lantern light until the cabin fell completely silent—no cars, no humming appliances, nothing but the occasional groan of cooling wood.
Then, just past midnight, I heard something outside.
A rustle. Footsteps on dry leaves.
I sat up, listening. Probably a raccoon, I told myself. Maybe a deer. I was about to lie back down when a sharp knock hit the door.
I froze.
Another knock—this one harder.
Not an animal.
I grabbed the flashlight and approached the door, keeping my voice steady. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
I cracked the curtain and shined the light through the window. A man stood on the porch, scruffy beard, green jacket streaked with desert dust, a hat pulled low. He raised his hand and knocked again, louder.
I opened the door a few inches, keeping the chain on. “Can I help you?”
He stared with wide, glassy eyes. “This place abandoned?” His voice was rough, strained.
“No,” I said carefully. “Private property. You should move along.”
He suddenly pushed the door, testing the chain.
“I been walking,” he said. “Need water.”
Something in his tone set off alarms. But refusing him seemed worse. I filled a bottle at the sink and passed it through the gap.
“Here. Take that and head out before morning.”
He took it, but didn’t leave. “Government’s after me,” he muttered, eyes darting around. “Dropped me from space in a bag. Hit the ground hard.”
A chill slid down my back.
I shut the door quickly and locked everything—deadbolt, chain, even the old wooden brace. Through the window, I watched him wander into the trees, swallowed by darkness.
I checked on Benny—still asleep, hugging his blanket—then lay on the couch with my heart hammering in my throat.
I didn’t sleep.
Just before dawn, another sound snapped me fully alert—a long, slow creak from the back porch.
I grabbed the fireplace poker.
“Benny,” I whispered through his door, “stay in your room.”
Before I could do anything else, the back door swung open.
He stepped in.
The same man.
Only this time, he held a sawed-off shotgun pointed directly at my chest.
“Don’t move,” he said, voice flat, dead behind the eyes. “Hands up.”
I lifted them slowly. “There’s a kid here. Just take what you want and leave.”
He scanned the cabin with erratic movements. “Where’s the boy?”
“In his room,” I said quickly. “He’s sleeping. Please don’t involve him.”
“Get him,” the man ordered. “We’re all going in there.”
I gently woke Benny. “Hey buddy… come with me.” He blinked up at me, confused, then terrified when he saw the man with the gun.
“Who is that?” he whispered.
“A man who needs help,” I lied. “Just stay calm.”
The intruder herded us into the small storage room beside the bunks and locked the door from the outside.
“Sit quiet,” he called through the wood. “I ain’t hurting kids.”
Benny clutched my shirt, trembling. “What’s he doing?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said, holding him tight. “But we’re gonna be okay. Just stay quiet.”
For what felt like hours, we listened to him ransacking the place—drawers slamming, cans clattering, bags being filled. He muttered constantly, words blending into nonsense about police, desert survival, and conspiracies.
Then he yelled through the door: “Drink lots of water! It’s fifteen miles to the road!”
My stomach dropped—he didn’t plan on letting us out.
A few minutes later, the ATV engine roared to life—the only vehicle up there besides the truck. My cousin’s ATV.
The sound faded into the distance.
“Is he gone?” Benny whispered.
I tried the handle—still locked tight. We shoved our shoulders against the door, but it barely moved.
Then I remembered the tiny window.
“Okay, Benny,” I whispered. “I’m gonna boost you up. Crawl through and drop down outside. Then hide behind the trees. Don’t make noise.”
He nodded, scared but brave. I lifted him, and he squeezed through the window frame, disappearing from sight. I followed, scraping my arms raw.
We crouched behind rocks, breath shaking in our chests.
Then—an engine.
He was coming back.
The ATV headlights swept across the clearing. “Come out!” he shouted. “I see you!”
I grabbed Benny’s hand and moved us down a shallow creek bed, staying low. The rocks were sharp, the path slippery. At one point Benny tripped, skinning his knee, but I caught him before he cried out.
“Shh,” I breathed. “Just keep going.”
We climbed a steep hill, lungs burning, legs cramping. Behind us, the ATV circled like a predator searching for movement.
After what felt like an eternity, we reached a dirt road. I didn’t know which way to go—I just knew we couldn’t stay exposed.
Then a truck appeared, rattling up the road. It slowed when it saw us waving our arms.
It was my cousin’s friend, coming to check the place.
He took one look at our faces and didn’t need details. “Get in,” he said, already dialing police.
By the time authorities reached the cabin, the intruder was long gone. The place was emptied—bags packed, food stolen, drawers overturned. Later, they identified him as a drifter named Benjamin—a man suspected in another killing not far from there.
Benny and I were lucky. He never fired the gun. Never found us in the dark.
But even now, I still hear the sound of that shotgun’s click in my dreams.
And I haven’t stayed in a cabin—any cabin—since.
"The Breakup":
I enrolled in that trigonometry class at Delta College in fall 2012 because I needed something—anything—to pull me out of the mess my life had become after separating from my husband. I’d been drowning in stress, raising my three boys mostly on my own, and trying not to fall apart. School seemed like a start. A routine. A reason to get out of the house.
That’s where I first noticed Shaun.
He sat a few rows ahead, always hunched over his notebook, scribbling formulas with this intense, focused expression. He rarely talked during class, but he laughed easily when someone cracked a joke. One afternoon, as we packed up our things, he lingered by the doorway and asked if I wanted to grab coffee and go over homework. His voice was soft, steady. He told me about his job working with machines, the hours, his dad, and he made me laugh—really laugh—for the first time in months.
We started dating quietly. By November, I had moved into his father’s old cabin out in the woods of Gladwin County. He said it would be peaceful. A fresh start. And, at the time, I believed him.
The place was small—a kitchen with a wood stove, a living room with faded plaid couches, two cramped bedrooms upstairs. The nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away, hidden by thick trees and quiet roads covered in dead leaves. Isolation felt like freedom back then.
In the beginning, Shaun was thoughtful. Gentle, even. He cooked simple dinners—pasta from cans, fried potatoes, soup—and we’d sit at the table and talk about my boys: Trever, Dennis, and Jesse. He always told me I deserved better than how my marriage had gone. He held my hand. He listened.
But the edges of him were sharp, and it didn’t take long for them to cut through.
He checked my phone without asking. He got irritated when I said I wanted to drive back to town for an afternoon. His moods twisted so fast it was like living with two different men—one who smiled and kissed my forehead, and another who stared through me like I wasn’t there.
The cabin, which had once felt quiet, started to feel claustrophobic. Too many shadows. Too many creaks. I missed my family more than I expected, and slowly I realized I didn’t want a “fresh start” with Shaun—I wanted to fix things with my husband. I wanted my life back.
So, on a cold, gray morning, I decided I was leaving.
Shaun had left early for work—or so he said. When his truck disappeared down the dirt road, I pulled my bags from under the bed and began folding my clothes, my hands shaking, adrenaline humming under my skin. I noticed the rifle by the door but looked away, trying to keep myself calm.
I wrote a short note and left it on the kitchen table:
Shaun, this isn’t right for me anymore. I’m going back to my husband. Take care.
I had barely set the pen down when I heard it—the rumble of his truck coming back up the drive far too soon.
The door creaked open. His boots thudded against the floor.
He saw the bags first. Then the note.
“What’s this?” he asked, his voice flat but cold. His fingers crushed the paper, and his eyes narrowed into something I’d never seen in a person before.
“Shaun,” I said as evenly as I could, “I need to go home. I want to make things work for my kids.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t shout.
He just moved—quick, deliberate—and reached for the rifle.
The first shot exploded through the cabin, through my skull, through my entire world. Pain and heat burst across my head, and blood spilled past my eye. I collapsed but stayed conscious, the room spinning in disorienting, nauseating waves.
He fired again. The second bullet grazed my side, ripping a line of fire through my ribs.
I went limp, letting my breath go shallow, pretending I was gone.
He stood over me, panting, muttering, “Why did you make me do this… why did you make me…”
He didn’t call 911. He didn’t run.
Instead, he grabbed me by the arms and dragged me up the stairs—my body bumping against every wooden step. In the small bedroom, he tied my wrists and ankles with coarse rope from the closet, jerking the knots tight until they bit into my skin.
“You’re not leaving me,” he said, sitting on the bed, staring at me with a strange, dreamy calm. “You belong here.”
The window was nailed shut. The walls were thick logs. No one would hear me even if I screamed. And I was losing blood. I knew it.
The following days blurred into a nightmare I survived minute by minute.
He brought water but barely any food—just cold soup or dry bread shoved against my lips. My head pounded nonstop, the wound swelling, vision doubling when I tried to focus. He paced the floor constantly, muttering to himself, sometimes to me.
One night, the lamplight flickering low, he sat beside me and said, almost casually, “I had to do something like this before, with my fiancée. She tried to walk out too. I stopped her.”
Cold terror crawled through me. My voice was barely a whisper. “Shaun… my boys need me. Please.”
“No one’s waiting,” he said. “I texted your husband from your phone. Told him you needed space.”
He took me outside once—said he needed air. He drove to a frozen lake not far from the cabin. The moment we reached the shore, he shoved my head under the icy water. My lungs screamed. Blackness crept from the edges of my vision. Just before I lost consciousness, he yanked me back up.
“That’s how easy it ends,” he whispered.
Back at the cabin, he tied me even tighter.
But on the fourth day, something changed. His mood softened—like nothing had happened. He brought a bowl of oatmeal and sat in the chair, watching me.
“I don’t want you starving,” he said.
When he left to shower, I heard the pipes groan as the water kicked on. I knew I had one chance.
Hands shaking, I peeled back the tape around my ankles, working the rope loose millimeter by millimeter. Every sound from upstairs made my heart slam against my ribs. When I finally slipped one foot free, then the other, I stood—barefoot, dizzy, lightheaded—but I stood.
I crept down the stairs, remembering exactly which boards creaked. The back door was unlocked.
I pushed it open and ran.
Cold dirt and twigs tore into my feet, branches whipped my arms, but I didn’t stop. The night air stung my wounds, but adrenaline drowned the pain. I ran toward the faintest glow of a porch light a quarter mile away.
By the time I reached the neighbor’s garage, I was trembling and half delirious. I hid under a tarp until the sound of his truck roared past, searching.
When it finally faded, I crawled out and banged on the garage door. Two men opened it and froze when they saw me—bloody, soaking, barely able to speak.
“Help me,” I gasped. “He shot me… he kept me tied up… please.”
They wrapped me in a blanket and called 911.
Police found Shaun at the cabin that night. He didn’t fight. He didn’t deny anything.
At the hospital, they treated the gunshot wounds—a cracked skull, shrapnel that required surgeries, deep bruising, rope burns. But the worst injuries were the ones nightmares kept reopening for years.
Shaun went to prison for a long time.
But those four days in that cabin never really left me. I walked out alive—but I carried the echo of each moment with me, a reminder of how close I came to disappearing in those woods forever.
"Taken":
I agreed to watch my aunt and uncle’s cabin in the Wisconsin woods because it sounded like the easiest thing a thirteen-year-old could possibly be trusted with. Feed the dog, keep the fire going, lock the doors at night—simple. They lived deep in the forest, their cabin tucked so far back that the dirt road looked more like a forgotten logging path than any sort of driveway. No neighbors. No cell service unless the weather cooperated. My parents thought the quiet would teach me responsibility. I thought the quiet would be…well, quiet.
They left on a Sunday afternoon, waving from the car as it bumped away between the trees. I stood on the porch with the dog, Duke, who nudged my hand like he already sensed the place was too big and too silent without more humans around.
The first day drifted by without anything strange. I made a grilled cheese for lunch, read on the couch, and walked Duke along the looping trail behind the cabin—a path my uncle cut years ago that now felt more like a tunnel carved through the pines. The cabin’s interior glowed warm and honey-colored from the old wood, and the big window facing the trees made everything seem peaceful and safe. I called my mom that night.
“You’re doing great,” she said. “Just remember—lock the doors.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling. “I know, Mom.”
That night, I locked everything. Duke curled up at the foot of my bed, his breathing steady. Sometime after midnight, I woke to a sound—something sharp, like a heavy branch snapping clean in half. My eyes opened instantly. Duke’s head lifted. The woods outside seemed to be holding their breath. Nothing else came. I whispered, “Probably a deer,” more to myself than to him, and eventually drifted back to sleep.
But the next morning, I stepped outside and froze.
Footprints.
Human ones. Large ones. Boots. Not my uncle’s—they had gone north for the whole week, hours away. The prints came from the trees, stopped near the driveway, and then vanished in the direction of the woods again. My stomach tightened. Duke sniffed at them, whining low in his throat.
I told myself it was a hunter. Or a hiker. Or anyone who had every right to be in the woods. I didn’t want to think about what else it could be. So I distracted myself all day—cleaning the kitchen, blasting music from my phone, making Duke chase a stick in the yard. By afternoon, I almost convinced myself it didn’t matter.
Then the landline rang.
The shrill sound echoed through the cabin like it was slicing the quiet in half. I picked it up.
“Hello?”
Nothing. Just breathing. Slow. Intentional.
My hand tightened on the receiver. “Hello?”
Still nothing.
I hung up. The silence afterward felt heavier than before.
By evening, my nerves were stretched thin. I double-checked every lock twice. Drew the curtains. Kept the fire going because the glow made the place feel less like a cave. Duke wouldn’t sit still—he paced the front door over and over.
Around ten, scratching came from the back door. Not frantic. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of something—someone—testing the wood.
Duke growled, a deep warning sound I’d never heard from him before.
I crept toward the door and peered through the tiny window. Only darkness. I whispered, “Who’s there?” even though that’s the sort of sentence people say right before they die in movies. The scratching stopped instantly, like whatever was doing it had been waiting for my voice.
I backed away. Hands shaking, I tried calling my aunt’s cell. No answer. Just voicemail. Bad reception, I told myself. They’re out of range.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I lay stiff under the covers, listening to every creak of the cabin. Every groan of the trees outside. Every shift of Duke’s body at the foot of the bed. When I finally drifted into an uneasy dream, a thunderous knock snapped me upright.
Someone at the front door.
Duke exploded into barking, teeth bared, his whole body rigid.
Another knock—harder, furious.
I grabbed my phone. No signal.
“Who is it?” I called, my voice trembling.
No answer—then a third knock, so forceful dust drifted from the doorframe.
I crept to the living room, legs shaking. Through the peephole, a man stood on the porch. A dark coat. A mask. Winter gloves. And something long and metallic in his hands.
A gun.
“Open the door!” he shouted.
I stumbled backward. “Go away! I’m calling the police!”
His reply was a deafening blast. The lock shattered. The door swung open, slamming against the wall. Duke lunged, barking and snapping, but the man kicked him so hard he flew into the coffee table.
I ducked behind the kitchen counter as the man stomped inside, shotgun raised.
“Where are you?” His voice was gravel.
He stormed through the cabin, flipping lights on, checking rooms with violent, impatient movements. When he reached the kitchen, I tried to run, but he saw me instantly.
“There you are,” he said softly, as if greeting an old friend.
He grabbed my arm so hard my vision blurred. Duct tape wrapped around my wrists, my ankles, cutting into my skin. I screamed for Duke, but he was lying still, whimpering.
“Stop fighting,” the man growled. “You’re coming with me.”
He dragged me outside into the freezing night and shoved me into his trunk. It slammed shut. Darkness swallowed me.
The drive felt endless. No sense of direction. No sense of time. Just bumps, turns, the muffled sound of my own breathing and the clattering of tools somewhere beside me.
When the trunk finally opened, he pulled me out. Another cabin—smaller, older, more isolated. Inside, the air smelled of dust and stale sweat. One bedroom. One couch. No windows that opened. No phone.
“This is your new home,” he said, as if it were a kindness.
His name, he claimed, was Jake. I didn’t believe him. He made rules—don’t talk unless spoken to, eat when told, sit where told. When he left for work, he shoved me under his bed and stacked heavy boxes along the sides so I couldn’t crawl out. Hours in the dark. No way to stretch. My legs went numb. My thoughts grew louder.
When he was home, he acted like we were roommates. He’d cook simple meals and sit across from me, studying me the way someone studies a puzzle they want to take apart.
“I saw you once,” he said while stirring a pot of pasta. “Knew you were the one. I followed you for months.”
I stared at the wall and tried not to breathe.
“You’ll get used to it,” he added, smiling like he believed it.
But I never did. I planned. I waited. I watched.
Christmas came. He left me under the bed the entire day, radio blaring to hide any noise I made. I cried until I couldn’t make sound anymore.
Weeks blurred. Time lost meaning. He grew comfortable, careless.
And one January afternoon, he made his mistake.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said. “You know the rules.”
He shoved me under the bed once more, blocked me in, and locked the door behind him. But this time, the boxes didn’t feel as heavy. Or maybe I’d gotten stronger. Desperate strength. I pushed. Hard. Sweat dripped into my eyes. Something shifted—a bin slid an inch. Then another. My wrists screamed from the old tape marks, but I forced myself through the narrow gap, scraping my skin raw.
The cabin was silent.
I grabbed the nearest pair of shoes—his enormous sneakers—and ran outside. The cold hit me like a slap. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew I had to move. Branches tore at my face as I sprinted through the trees, lungs burning, legs trembling from weeks of confinement.
Then I saw her—a woman walking her dog along a narrow rural road. She froze when she saw me.
“Help,” I gasped. “He took me…please…”
Her face drained of color. “Oh my god. You’re the missing girl.” She threw her coat around me and shouted to the nearest house. “Call the police!”
I barely remember sitting on the stranger’s couch, shaking uncontrollably. “He has a red car,” I whispered. “He lives close.”
Police arrived fast. Lights flashing through the windows. Gentle voices asking gentle questions. I could hardly answer. And then one officer’s radio crackled—someone spotted the car.
Minutes later, they found him. He stepped out calmly, hands raised.
“I did it,” he said, like it was nothing.
They took me to the hospital. My aunt arrived the next morning, collapsing around me in tears.
“We thought we lost you,” she whispered over and over.
I stayed with family, trying to piece myself back into a person. Trying to sleep without hearing that knock. That scratching. That voice saying, “There you are.”
Jake—whatever his real name was—got life without parole. But the nightmares didn’t stop just because he couldn’t leave prison.
I talk now—to counselors, to kids, to anyone who needs to understand that monsters don’t always hide under beds. Sometimes they hide above them, pacing, waiting, believing you’ll never find the strength to push your way out.
But I did.
And that changed everything.