"No Dial Tone":
My family has a tradition of gathering at our cabin for New Year's Eve. It's remote, surrounded by woods, perfect for escaping the city noise. That year, I decided to go early, a day before everyone else, to set things up. I arrived in the afternoon, unloaded groceries, and started a fire in the stove. The place felt cozy, with logs crackling and the smell of pine.
As evening came, I noticed my phone had weak signal—only one bar that flickered. I texted my brother I'd made it safe, but it didn't send. No big deal, I thought; the others would arrive tomorrow. I cooked a simple meal, ate by the window, watching the light fade over the trees. Quiet out there, no neighbors for miles.
Later, I heard a knock at the door. Sharp, three times. I froze mid-bite. Who could that be? No one knew I was here alone. I walked slow to the peephole, but it was too dark to see much. "Hello?" I called.
A voice answered, muffled. "Hi, sorry to bother you. My car broke down on the road. Can I use your phone?"
It sounded like a woman, polite. I hesitated. Stories of home invasions crossed my mind, but she seemed genuine. I opened the door a crack, chain still on. She stood there, thirties maybe, coat zipped high, looking cold. "Please," she said. "It's freezing out here."
I let her in, kept the chain ready to snap back. "Sure, but my signal's bad. Try the landline."
We had an old phone in the kitchen. She picked it up, dialed, but shook her head. "No dial tone."
"Storm might have knocked it out," I said. "You can wait here until morning. My family comes then."
She smiled. "Thanks. I'm Anna."
"I'm Kate," I replied. We sat by the fire. She told me about her drive, heading to a party, engine quitting suddenly. No tools to fix it. I offered tea, and we talked light—jobs, holidays. But something felt off. Her eyes darted around the room, like cataloging exits.
As the clock ticked toward ten, she asked about the cabin. "You here alone tonight?"
"Yes, just me." I regretted saying it.
She stood, stretched. "Mind if I use the bathroom?"
"Down the hall," I pointed.
While she was gone, I checked the door—locked. Then I heard a creak upstairs. The bathroom was downstairs. My pulse quickened. I grabbed a poker from the fire, tiptoed up the steps. The attic door was ajar, though I hadn't opened it.
"Anna?" I whispered.
No answer. I pushed the door. Inside, boxes shifted, dust swirling. A window was open, letting in cold air. How? It was latched earlier. Then footsteps behind me—soft, on the stairs.
I spun, poker raised. She stood at the bottom, smiling. "Everything okay?"
"Why were you up here?" I demanded.
Her smile faded. "I wasn't. Must be the wind."
But the window—someone had forced it. I backed away. "You need to leave."
"It's dark out. My car..."
"Now." I edged toward the phone, but remembered no tone.
She stepped closer. "Kate, relax. I just need help."
That's when I saw the bulge in her pocket—something heavy, like a tool or worse. Panic rose. I swung the poker lightly, warning. "Back off."
Her face changed, eyes narrowing. She lunged for my arm. I dodged, ran down the stairs, into the kitchen. Grabbed keys from the counter, bolted for the back door. She followed, faster than expected. "Wait! Don't do this!"
I slammed the door behind me, locked it from outside—no, wait, keys were for the car. I sprinted to my vehicle, parked by the shed. Snow crunched underfoot, slowing me. She banged on the window inside, yelling.
I jumped in, turned the ignition. Engine roared. As I reversed, headlights caught her—now at the front door, holding what looked like a crowbar. Had she planned to break in all along?
I drove fast down the dirt road, no looking back. Found a gas station miles away, called police from there. They went to the cabin—empty. No sign of her or a broken-down car nearby. But the attic window was smashed, and footprints circled the house, like someone scouting before knocking.
Officers said it matched reports of a woman targeting remote homes, pretending distress to get inside, then robbing or worse with accomplices. They never caught her that winter.
Now, I never go to the cabin alone. New Year's Eve means hotels in town, with crowds. But sometimes, in quiet moments, I hear that knock again, and wonder how close I came to not making it to midnight.
"Plastic Ties":
Last year, after my divorce, I chose to stay home for New Year's Eve. The kids were with their grandparents in another state, and I wanted some time to myself. My house was in a quiet part of town, with woods behind it and no close neighbors. I invited my friend Lisa over for company. We watched a movie and ate snacks until around 11 PM. She hugged me goodbye and drove off. I locked the doors, set the alarm, and went upstairs to bed. Fireworks popped in the distance as midnight hit.
I fell asleep fast, tired from the day. But sometime after, a noise woke me—a soft thump from downstairs. I sat up, listening. The clock said 12:45 AM. Maybe the wind, I thought. I got out of bed and tiptoed to the hallway. Everything looked normal. I checked the alarm panel; it was still on. Back in my room, I closed the door and tried to relax.
Then, the doorknob turned slowly. My breath caught. "Who's there?" I whispered. No answer. The door creaked open, and a figure in black rushed in—a mask over his face, gloves on his hands. He grabbed me before I could scream, covering my mouth. "Don't move," he growled, his voice deep and strange, like he was trying to sound different.
I fought, kicking and twisting, but he was strong. He hit me with something hard—maybe a flashlight—and my head spun. "Where's your money? Your jewelry?" he demanded.
"Please, take what you want and go," I begged, voice shaking. "I have kids. Don't hurt me."
He laughed low. "You're alone now. No husband to save you." He pushed me down and tied my wrists with plastic strips. It hurt, cutting into my skin. He dragged me to the bed and searched my drawers, taking my watch and some cash. Then he pulled me downstairs to the back door. "Open it," he said.
I shook my head. "It's locked. I can't with my hands tied."
He used my phone—must have found it upstairs—and unlocked the smart lock with the app. Cold air rushed in as he shoved me onto the porch. The woods were dark, no lights anywhere. He put a bag over my head. "Stay here. Don't get up until you hear a car horn twice. Or I'll come back and finish you."
"What do you mean?" I cried. "Please, let me go inside."
"No," he said. "You wait. I'm watching." His footsteps faded, and the door clicked shut.
I lay there on the cold wood, wrists bound, head covered. The bag smelled like plastic. I couldn't see, only hear—crickets, distant cars. Was he really watching? Every rustle in the bushes made me freeze. Minutes passed, feeling like forever. My body ached from the hits. I thought about my kids, how they'd grow up without me if he returned. Tears soaked the bag.
I tried to wiggle free, but the ties were tight. "Help," I whispered, but no one could hear. The porch was hidden by trees; even if someone drove by the road, they wouldn't see. I counted in my head to stay calm—one, two, up to a thousand. Still nothing. Maybe he forgot about me. Or maybe he was sneaking back right now.
Footsteps. Slow, coming from the side of the house. My whole body tensed. Was it him? I held my breath, listening. They got closer, up the steps. A hand touched my shoulder. I flinched. "Oh no, what happened?" a voice said. It was my ex-husband, Tom. He pulled the bag off. "It's me. Are you okay?"
"Tom? How did you get here?" I gasped, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
"I heard a knock at my apartment. Someone said your name. I drove over fast." He cut the ties with a knife from his pocket. "Let me call the police."
He dialed on his phone. "Yes, emergency. My ex-wife was attacked. She's hurt. Send help quick."
While we waited, he wrapped his jacket around me. "Who did this?" he asked softly.
"I don't know," I said. "A man in black. He tied me and left me out here."
Tom nodded. "I'm glad I came. You could have frozen."
Sirens came soon. Police arrived, lights flashing. They asked questions. I told them about the intruder—his weird voice, the threats. One officer found pieces of the plastic ties inside the house. "These match," he said.
Tom stayed, acting worried. But something felt off. Why was he here so fast? And the intruder mentioned my husband—like he knew about the divorce.
Days later, detectives called me in. "We checked cameras at stores," one said. "Tom bought those exact ties yesterday. And his computer searches—how to change your voice, how long to choke someone without killing."
My world spun. "It was him?"
"Yes. He planned it to scare you, then save you. To be the hero and get you back."
Tom got arrested. Turns out, he faked being sick to win my sympathy before. In court, he admitted it. Now he's in prison for a long time.
That night haunts me. Lying on the porch, blind and alone, thinking every sound was death coming. I lock every door twice now and never spend New Year's alone. The quiet darkness hides too much.
"The Pull-Off":
I had flown back home after a tough semester at school, and my plane was late. My family had already headed out to my cousin's place for the big party without me. They left the old car in the airport lot, keys under the mat like always. Our dog, Buddy, was in the back seat, wagging his tail hard when he saw me. He was a big golden mix, friendly with everyone. I figured the drive would take about an hour on those quiet back roads through the fields and trees. It was dark out, no lights except from far-off houses here and there. I turned on the radio, but it was mostly static and old songs. Buddy whined a bit, but settled down.
About halfway, Buddy started acting funny. He stood up in the back, pawing at the door and making little cries. I knew that meant he needed to go outside. There was no gas station or anything around, just empty land. I spotted a small pull-off spot by some trees, like a dirt patch where hunters might park. I stopped the car, left the headlights on, and opened the door for him. "Go on, Buddy. Make it quick." He jumped out and sniffed around the edge of the trees. I stayed by the car, checking my phone. No signal out here, of course. The party was probably getting started without me.
Then, a loud crack came from the trees. Not like a branch falling, but something big moving on purpose, stepping hard on dry leaves and sticks. Buddy's ears went up, and he froze. Another crack, closer. Buddy bolted straight into the woods, barking once before disappearing. "Buddy! Come back!" I yelled. My voice echoed a little. I grabbed my phone for the light and ran after him. The trees were thick, branches scratching my arms. The ground was uneven, with roots and holes. My light bounced around, showing bits of snow on the leaves. "Buddy! Where are you?" I called again. No answer, just more cracking sounds behind me now, like whatever it was followed.
I kept going deeper, my breath coming out in puffs. The woods smelled like wet dirt and pine. My shoes slipped on the mud. I thought about turning back, but I couldn't leave Buddy. He was family. Finally, I heard a low whine. There he was, huddled under a bush, shaking. "Hey, boy. It's okay." I knelt down and pulled him close. He licked my hand, but something felt wet on his side. I shone the light—blood. A cut, deep, like from a knife. My hands shook as I touched it. How did that happen? Buddy whimpered.
That's when the cracking started again, right near us. Close, like steps circling. I scooped Buddy up—he was heavy—and started back the way I came. Branches whipped my face. The sounds got louder, faster. I ran harder, tripping once and falling to my knees. Buddy yelped. Up ahead, I saw the glow from my headlights. Almost there. But as I broke out of the trees, I saw shapes by my car. Three people, standing still, watching. One held something long, like a stick or tool. They didn't move at first, just stared.
I froze for a second, then dashed to the car door. "Get away!" I shouted. One of them laughed, a low chuckle that made my skin crawl. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and hit the gas. The car spun dirt as I peeled out. In the mirror, I saw them step back into the shadows. My hands gripped the wheel tight. Buddy lay on the seat, breathing funny. I found a rag in the glove box and pressed it on his wound. "Hang on, buddy."
The rest of the drive felt endless. Every shadow by the road looked like a person. I kept checking the mirrors. When I got to my cousin's house, lights were on, music playing inside. I carried Buddy in, and everyone crowded around. "What happened?" my mom asked, eyes wide.
"He got hurt in the woods. I stopped to let him out, and something chased us." I didn't tell them about the people yet. My dad took Buddy to the vet right away—they stitched him up, said it was a clean cut, not from an animal. Like someone did it on purpose.
That night, after the countdown and hugs, I couldn't sleep. We all stayed up talking, but my mind was back in those woods. The police came the next day. I told them everything. They said there had been reports of people lurking in that area, maybe robbers or worse, using the dark roads to trap drivers. One officer said, "You're lucky you got out. We've had cars go missing there before."
Weeks later, I heard on the news about arrests. Three guys, caught breaking into homes nearby. They had knives, said they liked scaring people alone at night. The report mentioned a dog they hurt to lure someone in. It matched. I still drive those roads sometimes, but never stop. And Buddy? He sticks close now, always watching the trees.
But wait, that's not the end. A year later, same night, I was home alone while everyone else went out early. The phone rang—unknown number. I picked up. "Hello?"
A voice, low and chuckling, just like that laugh. "Remember the woods? We do." Click.
I locked every door, turned on all lights. Called the police again. They patrolled, found nothing. But I know they're out there, waiting for someone isolated, like I was.
"Waiting for Dawn":
I remember sitting on the couch, flipping through channels on the old TV. Mom had left for Florida a couple days before, like she sometimes did after the divorce. She left a note about food in the fridge and said she'd call soon. The house sat on a quiet dirt road, surrounded by tall trees, miles from town. Neighbors were far apart, and I knew their faces but not much else. I was watching a movie about a singer and her guard, munching on chips, waiting for midnight to hit so I could cheer by myself.
The clock on the wall ticked loud in the empty living room. Around eleven thirty, the lights flickered once, then everything went dark. The TV shut off, and the whole house turned black. My first thought was a storm, but no rain or wind came. I sat still, listening. Outside, faint pops from fireworks echoed from somewhere far away, maybe the town. But inside, it felt too quiet.
I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, the one with weak batteries. The beam shook as I pointed it around. The back door off the kitchen looked closed, locked like always. I checked the front door too, just to be sure. Everything seemed fine. I figured the power would come back soon, so I went back to the couch, shining the light on my snack bowl.
Then I heard it—a soft click from the kitchen, like the back door latch moving. My body went stiff. Footsteps followed, slow and heavy on the tile floor. Someone was inside. I dropped low behind the couch, heart racing fast. The steps came closer, toward the living room archway. In the dark, I saw a tall shape stand there, just a shadow, broad shoulders, no face clear.
I didn't wait. I crawled quick across the carpet, keeping low, heading for the hallway. The floor creaked under me, but I made it to my room. I shut the door soft, turned the knob lock—click. It was flimsy, but all I had. My parrot Bo, in his big iron cage by the window, shifted on his perch, feathers rustling.
The footsteps followed down the hall, stopping outside my door. Knock knock. Gentle at first, like a visitor. I backed up, eyes wide. Then a man's voice, low and calm: "Hey, kid. Open up. I know you're in there."
I didn't answer. My mouth went dry. I pushed Bo's cage hard, scraping it across the floor to block the door. It was heavy, six feet tall, full of toys and perches. Bo squawked loud, flapping his wings. "Quiet, Bo," I whispered, but he kept going.
The man laughed, a deep chuckle that made my skin crawl. "Nice bird. Sounds mad." The knob twisted, rattling. Then a hard shove—bam. The door shook, wood cracking a bit. "Come on out. We can talk."
I dove under my bunk bed, the bottom one like a futon, pulling blankets over to hide. Dust tickled my nose, but I held my breath. Another bam, louder. Splinters flew, I think. Bo screamed now, high and sharp, beating against the cage bars. "Shut up, bird!" the man yelled, voice angry for the first time.
The door gave way a little, but the cage held it mostly shut. I heard him push harder, grunting. "You're making this hard, kid. Just want to see if you're okay alone." His words didn't match the force. Bo kept screeching, and I curled tight, hands over ears.
He stopped pushing after a while. Footsteps paced outside. "Fine. I'll wait. Got all night." Silence stretched long. Minutes? Hours? I lost track. Fireworks boomed distant outside, midnight passing, but no cheers here. Just my breathing, fast and shallow.
Then his voice again, closer, like he leaned on the door. "Heard the countdown? Happy New Year. Bet you're scared under there." How did he know? I bit my lip hard not to cry out. Bo quieted down, maybe tired or hurt.
More silence. I thought maybe he left. But then a scrape, like he moved the cage a inch. My body froze. "I can see the bed. Come out, or I'll come in." Another push. The cage tipped, clanging loud. Bo flapped wild again.
I squeezed eyes shut, praying. Please go away. Please. The pushing stopped. Footsteps faded down the hall. Was he gone? I waited, counting in my head. One hundred. Two hundred. No sounds.
Dawn light crept through the window curtains, gray and weak. I peeked out from under the bed. The door hung crooked, cage tilted but still blocking. Bo perched quiet, one feather on the floor. I listened hard—nothing.
The window was high, house on blocks, but I could reach. I pushed it open slow, no screen. Cold air hit my face. I climbed up on my desk chair, legs shaking, and dropped out, landing hard on dirt. Ouch, but no break. I ran, bare feet stinging, down the road to the nearest neighbor, old Mr. Jenkins.
I banged on his door. "Help! Someone broke in!" He opened, sleepy-eyed, wrapped in a robe. "What? Kid, slow down." I told him quick, words tumbling. He called the police on his phone, let me inside for cocoa.
Cops came fast, sirens wailing. They checked my house. Back door wide open, breaker switch flipped off in the basement. No man inside, no stuff taken. Footprints in the kitchen mud, big boots. They asked questions: "Did he say anything else?" I repeated the words, voice small.
Mom got a call from them, cut her trip short. She flew back that day, hugged me tight. "I'm so sorry, honey. Never again." We stayed with friends a week, then she got better locks, alarms. But nights alone? No more. Even now, years later, New Year's fireworks make me check doors twice, listen for footsteps in the dark.
That man never got caught. Police said maybe a drifter, looking for easy cash, scared off by Bo. But his laugh, calm voice—it felt like he enjoyed the chase more than anything. I wonder if he watches houses still, waiting for midnight.