Deep in the dense forests of Montana, hidden from prying eyes, sat the infamous Blackwood Cabin. For years, hikers spoke in hushed tones about strange occurrences surrounding the place—whispers carried by the wind, shadowy figures glimpsed in the trees, and the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Most dismissed it as folklore. But for Mark and Sarah, an adventurous couple seeking a weekend getaway, it was just another rustic cabin in the woods. Excited by the prospect of an off-the-grid experience, they arrived on a crisp autumn afternoon. The cabin stood eerily still, its wooden exterior aged and splintered, yet it seemed solid enough.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and something else—something metallic, like rust or... blood. Sarah shivered but laughed it off, convincing herself it was just the atmosphere getting to her. That first night, strange things began happening. The couple sat by the fire, sharing ghost stories, when a loud thump echoed from upstairs. Mark grabbed a flashlight and cautiously ascended the narrow staircase. Every creak under his foot sent shivers down his spine. He reached the bedroom but found nothing except an old, tattered rocking chair facing the window. Its slow, rhythmic creaking filled the silence.
"Sarah, did you move this?" Mark called, his voice uneasy.
"I never went upstairs," she replied from below.
He shrugged it off, but an unsettling chill lingered in the air. As he turned to leave, the chair stopped rocking. That night, neither of them slept well. Sarah kept hearing faint whispers outside the window, voices calling her name in a voice that sounded eerily familiar—her own. Mark, on the other hand, swore he saw a figure standing in the corner of the room, vanishing the moment he reached for the light.
The following day, Sarah explored the basement, where she discovered something chilling—an old diary buried beneath a pile of firewood. The pages were filled with frantic, scrawled entries detailing how the previous occupant was plagued by an unseen presence. The final entry read:
"It watches. It mimics. It waits."
Sarah's blood ran cold. Suddenly, a soft whisper brushed against her ear: "Leave now." She bolted upstairs, pale and trembling, only to find Mark staring blankly at the fireplace. His lips moved silently, repeating the same phrase over and over.
"It’s not him," the diary's words flashed through her mind.
Panicking, Sarah grabbed the car keys and yanked Mark outside. They sped away, the cabin shrinking in the rear view mirror. Just before they turned the last bend, Sarah glanced back—and saw Mark standing on the porch, watching them leave. But Mark was sitting right beside her.
Blackwood Cabin still stands, and to this day, no one knows what truly lurks inside. Those who dare to enter might never leave... or worse, something else might leave in their place.
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