The Cabin That Held Its Breath

Have you ever stayed in a house so quiet it feels like the walls are holding their breath?

Last night, I found myself in exactly that kind of place—a tiny cabin deep in the

woods, miles from anything resembling a town or even a single streetlight.

The kind of place where darkness doesn’t just fall; it swallows. I was alone, or at least I thought

I was. Around midnight, as the wind whispered through the trees, I heard footsteps—slow,

deliberate—just outside the window. The floorboards creaked under invisible weight,

and the air grew thick, heavy in a way that pressed against my chest.

I told myself it was probably an animal, or maybe a neighbour checking in.