The Whispering Pines

Ethan Cole had always longed for solitude. The relentless hum of the city, the smog-cloaked skyline, and the ceaseless demands of modern life had worn him down. When he found a listing for a cabin deep in the mountains—miles from the nearest town—he knew it was exactly what he needed.

The locals had been reluctant to talk about the place when he inquired at the general store. The old woman behind the counter had given him a tight-lipped smile. “Folks don’t stay up there long,” she’d said, handing him his supplies.

He hadn’t cared. Let them believe in ghost stories and superstitions. Ethan wanted quiet, and the cabin, tucked among towering pines, was perfect.

The First Night

Ethan unpacked his things and took in his new home. The cabin was rustic but solid—stone fireplace, wooden beams, and a wraparound porch overlooking the dark expanse of the forest. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.

That night, as he settled into bed, he heard it for the first time.

A whisper.

It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the creaking of old wood. It was a voice, hushed and close. He sat up, heart hammering. The sound came from the trees. Faint, unintelligible, just at the edge of hearing.

He told himself it was his imagination. Sleep deprivation. The remnants of city noise still clinging to his mind. But when he closed his eyes, the whispering grew louder.

He kept the lamp on for the rest of the night.

The Markings

The next morning, Ethan decided to explore the area. He followed a narrow trail behind the cabin, pushing through thick underbrush. The deeper he went, the quieter the world became. No birds. No rustling leaves. Just a dense, unnatural silence.

That’s when he saw them.

Carvings in the trees. Strange symbols, spirals and jagged lines, etched deep into the bark. Some were old, nearly faded. Others were fresh. As if someone—something—had been making them recently.

A chill crawled up his spine. He turned back.

The Thing in the Woods

That night, the whispering returned. Louder. Closer.

Ethan lay stiff in bed, clutching the flashlight like a lifeline. The voice wasn’t coming from outside anymore. It was inside.

A soft, breathy murmur slid along the walls of the cabin. He held his breath, straining to hear. Then—a scrape.

Something was at the window.

Ethan turned his head slowly. The glass was fogged over, but behind the mist, he could see it. A shape. Tall. Gaunt. Pressed against the window, as if trying to peer inside.

Then it moved. The thing ran long, spindly fingers across the glass, scratching lightly. Deliberate. Waiting.

Ethan bolted upright and grabbed his rifle. His pulse thundered in his ears. He threw open the door and aimed into the night.

Nothing.

The trees swayed gently. The wind carried only the sound of his own ragged breath.

But the whispering…it didn’t stop. It never stopped.

The Final Night

Ethan wanted to leave. He packed his bag, threw it into the truck, and turned the key.

The engine wouldn’t start.

He cursed, tried again. The truck only sputtered. Dead.

His phone had no signal. The landline in the cabin was just as useless.

The whispering swelled, wrapping around the cabin like a living thing. The voice was no longer distant. It was inside his skull.

Then he heard the footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Moving across the wooden porch.

Ethan stood frozen, his rifle aimed at the door. He held his breath as the footsteps stopped—just outside.

Then came the knocking.

Soft at first. Then harder.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The whispering turned into a single, clear voice. Low. Hollow.

“Let me in.”

Ethan screamed.

The Aftermath

Days later, when the authorities arrived, the cabin was empty. The truck was still there, packed and ready to go. The door was wide open.

But Ethan was gone.

The only sign of him was the writing on the walls, scratched deep into the wood. Over and over, in frantic, jagged letters:

“I LET IT IN.”