Last Resort

Table of Contents

I’d always loved the quiet of the old cabin in the woods. It was the kind of place where time seemed to stand still, where the smell of pine and woodsmoke lingered in the air like a memory you didn’t want to let go of. It was my retreat, my escape from the chaos and constant hum of city life. Out here, no car horns, no shouting neighbors, no glowing billboards—just stillness. Each visit was a ritual. I’d unpack my bag, stack a few logs by the fireplace, and make tea. I’d spend hours curled up in the old armchair, a blanket over my legs, losing myself in books while the fire cracked and popped. Nights were even quieter—only the faint rustle of leaves outside or the low, mournful hoot of an owl in the distance.

But this time was different. It was subtle at first—nothing I could point to directly, just a feeling. The air was colder than usual, the shadows longer, the silence heavier. I told myself it was just the season changing, autumn announcing itself. But the unease clung to me like a second skin. By the time night fell, the quiet didn’t feel peaceful anymore. It felt… hollow, like something was listening, waiting. I tried to ignore it. I lit the fire, made another cup of tea, and grabbed a book from the stack I’d brought with me. Reading was always my way to shut out the world.

The chair groaned softly under my weight as I settled in, the fire casting long, shifting shadows along the walls. The warmth and the familiar smell of burning oak should have calmed me, but my eyes kept drifting from the page to the darkened corners of the room. Then I noticed it. The passage I was reading—it wasn’t just familiar, it was exact. It described a cabin deep in the woods with aged cedar walls, a worn rug patterned in faded reds and blues, and a peculiar knot in the wood above the mantelpiece. My fingers tightened on the book. That knot was right in front of me. I’d stared at it for years, a little swirl in the wood grain shaped like an eye.

“That’s strange,”

I murmured to myself.

“I’ve never read this before.”

But then my eyes fell on the next sentence. Tonight, he will realize he’s not alone in the cabin. I froze. My pulse thudded in my ears. I could feel my breathing grow shallow. Slowly, I lifted my head from the page. The window beside the fireplace reflected the dim glow of the room, the fire’s flicker dancing across the glass. At first, I thought I was looking at my own reflection—until the shape behind me moved.

A figure stood there, tall and still. I could see the faint outline of his shoulders, the gleam of teeth in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. And in his hands—an axe, the blade catching the light in a cold, silver flash. Before I could turn, before I could even breathe, he swung.