Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
The moment the door shuts behind me, I lock it. The click echoes. Too loud. I press my back against the door for a second, listening. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of the mountain.
I push away, annoyed with myself, and drag a hand through my hair. “You wanted isolation, remember?”
No neighbors. No noise. No distractions. No one.
I move through the cabin, flipping on a couple of lights as the sun dips lower outside. The shadows shift, stretching across the floor in long, uneven lines.
I drop onto the couch with a huff, tugging my boots off and kicking them aside. My gaze drifts to the window, to the forest just beyond it.
Dark now. Watching.
I scoff under my breath. “You’re losing it.”
I push up, restless, and head for my bag. I unzip it, pulling out my camera again, flipping through the shots I just took.
Perfect light. Clean composition. No movement. No one.
See?
Nothing’s there. My shoulders ease, just a fraction.
I set the camera down on the table and head into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water. The cap twists open with a sharp crack, and I take a long drink, letting the cool liquid settle me.
This is what I wanted. A place to breathe. A place to work. A place where no one knows me. No one’s watching. My grip tightens on the bottle. I lower it slowly, my gaze drifting back toward the front door.
Toward the windows.
Toward the dark beyond them.
The feeling creeps back in, quieter this time. Less sharp. More… certain.
Not panic. Not imagination. Awareness.
I set the bottle down on the counter and move toward the door, drawn by something I can’t explain. My steps are slow, measured, my pulse steady but heavy.
I unlock the door.
Pause.
Then pull it open.
Cold air rushes in, sharp against my skin. The porch stretches out in front of me, empty. The forest beyond is darker now, shadows swallowing the spaces between the trees.
I step outside.
The boards creak under my weight, the sound loud in the quiet. I wrap my arms around myself, scanning the clearing, the edge of the woods.
Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Nothing—
My gaze drops.
Footprints.
Just at the edge of the porch, pressed into the dirt. Not mine. I step closer, my breath catching as I crouch slightly, staring.
Boot prints.
They lead from the tree line, straight to the cabin.
My stomach tightens, a cold, heavy knot forming low in my gut. I look back toward the woods. Dark. Silent. Watching.
And suddenly, this place doesn’t feel like freedom anymore.
It feels like a trap.
Chapter 2
Maddie
The first thing I notice the next morning is that the light feels wrong.
It’s mistier this morning, filtered through the trees in a way that makes everything look more secretive. Shadows that linger a little too long.
I stand in the middle of the cabin, bare feet against the cool wood floor, and stare at my camera.
It’s not where I left it. I don’t move right away. Just stand there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the table. I set it down last night. Right by the edge. Strap hanging off the side.
Now it’s centered. Perfectly aligned with the grain of the wood like someone took the time to straighten it.
A slow exhale leaves my lungs. “Okay,” I murmur. “You moved it.”
That’s all.
I walk over, pick it up, turn it in my hands like I’ll find some explanation hidden in the metal and glass. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s broken. Just… moved.
I glance toward the door. Still closed. Still locked.
My jaw tightens. I step over, test the handle.
Solid.
“See?” I mutter. “You’re fine.”
I drop the camera back onto the table—this time deliberately crooked—and head into the kitchen. Coffee first. Logic second.
The kettle hisses as I fill it, the sound sharp in the quiet. Too sharp. I don’t like how quiet it is.
I flick my gaze toward the window. The trees stand still, tall and unmoving, like they’re waiting for something.
“Stop,” I say under my breath.
You wanted remote. You wanted silence.
Congratulations.
The kettle clicks off, and I pour the water, watching the steam curl up into the air. Grounding. Normal.
I take a sip and wince at the heat, letting it burn a path down my throat.
Good. Something real. I carry the mug back into the living area—and stop. The door is open. Just a few inches. My heartbeat stutters, then slams hard against my ribs.
“No,” I breathe, already moving.
I reach the door in two strides and yank it shut, twisting the lock until it clicks. My hand stays on it longer than necessary, palm flat against the wood.
I know I locked it.
I know I did.
I step back slowly, eyes scanning the room. Nothing out of place. My gaze snaps to the table. The camera is still crooked. Exactly how I left it.
My chest tightens.
“Wind,” I say, forcing the word out. “Old cabin. Doors shift.”
Except there’s no breeze. Not a single branch outside is moving.