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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Random_User_499 on 2024-11-21 15:53:23+00:00.
Hey, Reddit. Longtime lurker, first-time poster here. I never thought I’d be the one sharing a story, but something’s been weighing on me, and I need to get it off my chest.
A few weeks ago, I inherited a cabin in the Appalachian Mountains from a family member I’ve never even heard of. The letter from the lawyer was vague and old-fashioned, with no address, just landmarks to follow. Against my better judgment, I decided to come out here, see what I’d been left, and figure out what to do with it.
Now, I’m sitting in a small diner in town, the only place with Wi-Fi for miles, typing this out over a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. I’ve been keeping a journal since I arrived, and I thought sharing it here might help me make sense of everything. Or maybe someone here will see something I’ve missed because, honestly, I can’t tell if I’m imagining things or if something’s actually wrong.
Here’s what I wrote over the first few days.
Day 1
I made it to the cabin this afternoon after a long, winding drive through the mountains. The last 20 miles felt like stepping back in time. No cell service, no GPS, just narrow dirt roads and towering trees. I kept expecting to pass a house or a sign of life, but there was nothing—just trees so thick they blocked out the sun.
When I finally reached the cabin, it was like stumbling across a secret that had been lost to time. It’s old but solid, with dark, weathered wood and a steep, pitched roof covered in moss. Ivy has claimed one side of the house, creeping up to the second story. The windows are small and uneven, with glass so warped it makes the light bend in strange ways. It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s been forgotten by the world. Inside, it’s strangely intact. The furniture looks handmade—heavy wooden tables and chairs that have probably been here since the place was built. There’s a fireplace big enough to stand in, and the walls are lined with shelves full of old books and jars whose contents I can’t identify. The whole place smells like damp wood and something faintly metallic, like an old penny.
I spent most of the day unpacking and getting the fireplace going. As night fell, the silence outside became overwhelming. I thought being out here might feel peaceful, but instead, it feels like the quiet is pressing in on me. It’s hard to explain, but I keep getting this feeling that the cabin doesn’t quite belong here—or maybe I don’t. The quiet is so thick, it’s almost like the house itself is waiting for something. I’m probably just imagining things, but it’s a strange kind of stillness, like the house is holding its breath. I keep telling myself it’s just an old cabin. But something feels off about it. I can’t shake the feeling that this place has been waiting for someone—maybe me.
Day 2
I woke up to strange light streaming through the windows—more shadows than sunlight. I can’t explain it, but the light here feels different, like it doesn’t quite reach the ground the way it should. The forest around the cabin looks darker in the daylight than it should, the trees casting long, claw-like shadows even in the early morning.
I decided to explore the woods to get my bearings, but the deeper I went, the stranger it felt. The trees are massive, their trunks gnarled and twisted like they’ve been growing wrong for decades. The air feels heavy, like it’s thick with humidity even though it’s cool outside. I thought I heard something following me at one point—a faint rustling, like footsteps in the leaves. But when I turned around, nothing was there. I tried to laugh it off, but it wasn’t funny. The silence is so absolute that any sound feels unnatural, like it doesn’t belong.
When I got back to the cabin, I found the front door slightly ajar. I know I shut it before I left—there’s no question about that. I checked the whole house, but nothing seemed out of place. Still, it left me uneasy. After locking up again, I noticed a faint smell of wood smoke coming from the fireplace. The strange thing is, I hadn’t lit it that morning. There was no sign of embers or ashes, but the smell was strong, like someone had been burning wood just minutes before.
The door being open... I don’t know what to think about that. Maybe the latch didn’t catch, but I swear I locked it. And the smell of smoke? I don’t even know where to start with that. The fireplace was cold when I checked, but the smell was so strong it lingered for hours. I can’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was in the house while I was gone. But there was no sign of a break-in, and nothing was missing or moved. Still, it feels wrong. Like the house itself is messing with me, testing me. And the woods… I don’t know what it is about them, but they feel alive. Not in the way nature usually does, but in a way that makes me feel like I don’t belong here. I keep hearing faint sounds, catching movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s like the forest is keeping tabs on me. I don’t know if I’m just letting my imagination get the better of me, but I don’t like it. Not one bit.
Day 3
I don’t know how to explain this, but the woods feel different today—closer. The trees seem denser, like they’re creeping inward. The paths I walked yesterday are harder to find, and when I tried to retrace my steps, I kept ending up back where I started. I spent most of the morning trying to convince myself it’s just my imagination. Then I noticed something else. The air smells faintly like iron, strongest near the shed out back. I almost went to check it out, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the door. Something about that shed feels wrong. By mid-afternoon, I couldn’t take the isolation anymore. I decided to drive into town for supplies and to get a break from the cabin. The town’s tiny—just a few old buildings clustered along a single main road. There’s a gas station, a general store, and this diner where I’m sitting now. The people here are polite but distant. When I mentioned the cabin to the waitress, she gave me this strange look, like she knew something I didn’t. “You be careful out there, hon,” was all she said, but the way she said it gave me chills.
The woods are closer today, and it feels like they’re closing in. The paths don’t make sense anymore. I keep walking in circles, and every time I turn around, it feels like I’m farther from the cabin than I should be. It’s like the trees are pulling me in, not letting me leave. The shed is bothering me. It feels like something’s in there, or like it’s waiting for me to open it. I don’t know what’s inside, but I’m not ready to find out. The town… I’m not sure what to make of it. The waitress’s warning sticks with me. It wasn’t just a casual “be safe” thing. There’s something about it—something off. The people here aren’t outright unfriendly, but there’s this unspoken distance. I’m starting to wonder if they know more than they’re letting on. I’m starting to feel like the cabin and the woods have a way of making things feel wrong. Like they’re altering reality in some way. It’s hard to describe, but I keep getting the sense that things are changing when I’m not looking. Maybe it’s just isolation getting to me. But I don’t think so.
That’s all for now. I don’t know if I’ll stay at the cabin much longer, but if anything else happens, I’ll update. If anyone’s been through something similar or has advice, I’d love to hear it. I don’t know what’s real anymore, but maybe someone here can help me figure it out.