The House in the Forest

🌲 The cabin was supposed to be a myth.

A whisper among the locals, a story passed down by those who lived near the dense, untouched woods.

“There’s a house that doesn’t belong,” they’d say. “A house that chooses who can see it.”

Lucas had laughed when he first heard it. A journalist with a deep love for uncovering mysteries, he wasn’t one to believe in ghost stories. But something about this legend tugged at him. The way the locals refused to speak of it past sunset. The way they glanced nervously at the trees, as if expecting something to emerge.

“If you go looking for it, be careful,” an old woman at the town’s only café had warned. “Some people find it. But not everyone comes back.”

That was two weeks ago.

Now, standing before the house, Lucas felt an unease settle deep in his bones.

It was real.

The sleek, modern black structure stood in the heart of the forest, its massive glass windows reflecting the darkening sky. Vines had begun to creep over its walls, but it didn’t look abandoned. If anything, it looked… lived in.

Yet, there was no road leading here. No tire tracks. No sign of human activity.

Lucas hesitated, then stepped forward. His boots crunched against the gravel path, the only sound in an otherwise suffocating silence. Even the birds had stopped singing.

The door was ajar.

He pushed it open.

Inside, everything was pristine. A warm cup of tea sat on the wooden table, steam still rising from it. A book lay open on a chair, as if someone had been reading just moments ago. The scent of cedar and rain filled the air.

But no one was there.

His pulse quickened.

He pulled out his camera and snapped a photo of the room. He had come here expecting a story, but this—this was something else. Something that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

That’s when he saw it.

A single photograph hanging on the wall.

Lucas moved closer, his breath catching in his throat.

It was a picture of himself.

Standing at the doorstep. Just as he had been moments ago.

But the photo was old—yellowed at the edges, the ink slightly faded. As if it had been taken years ago.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

How was this possible?

Hands shaking, he stepped back—only to see something in the glass reflection of the cabin’s window.

Someone standing behind him.

He spun around.

Nothing.

The room was empty.

Lucas let out a shaky breath, willing himself to stay calm. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe someone had been living here and playing a prank on him.

But then he noticed the book on the chair. The pages weren’t just open—they were filled with handwritten notes. His name was scribbled over and over, alongside dates.

Dates from decades ago.

And then, at the very bottom of the page, a final line in bold, heavy strokes:

“You have always been here.”

Lucas staggered backward, heart hammering.

The door slammed shut.

The candles flickered.

And outside, beyond the towering trees, something whispered his name.