Maddie
The first thing I notice the next morning is that the light feels wrong.
It’s mistier this morning, filtered through the trees in a way that makes everything look more secretive. Shadows that linger a little too long.
I stand in the middle of the cabin, bare feet against the cool wood floor, and stare at my camera.
It’s not where I left it. I don’t move right away. Just stand there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the table. I set it down last night. Right by the edge. Strap hanging off the side.
Now it’s centered. Perfectly aligned with the grain of the wood like someone took the time to straighten it.
A slow exhale leaves my lungs. “Okay,” I murmur. “You moved it.”
That’s all.
I walk over, pick it up, turn it in my hands like I’ll find some explanation hidden in the metal and glass. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s broken. Just… moved.
I glance toward the door. Still closed. Still locked.
My jaw tightens. I step over, test the handle.
Solid.
“See?” I mutter. “You’re fine.”
I drop the camera back onto the table—this time deliberately crooked—and head into the kitchen. Coffee first. Logic second.
The kettle hisses as I fill it, the sound sharp in the quiet. Too sharp. I don’t like how quiet it is.
I flick my gaze toward the window. The trees stand still, tall and unmoving, like they’re waiting for something.
“Stop,” I say under my breath.
You wanted remote. You wanted silence.
Congratulations.
The kettle clicks off, and I pour the water, watching the steam curl up into the air. Grounding. Normal.
I take a sip and wince at the heat, letting it burn a path down my throat.
Good. Something real. I carry the mug back into the living area—and stop. The door is open. Just a few inches. My heartbeat stutters, then slams hard against my ribs.
“No,” I breathe, already moving.
I reach the door in two strides and yank it shut, twisting the lock until it clicks. My hand stays on it longer than necessary, palm flat against the wood.
I know I locked it.
I know I did.
I step back slowly, eyes scanning the room. Nothing out of place. My gaze snaps to the table. The camera is still crooked. Exactly how I left it.
My chest tightens.
“Wind,” I say, forcing the word out. “Old cabin. Doors shift.”
Except there’s no breeze. Not a single branch outside is moving.
I drag a hand down my face and let out a breath that sounds steadier than I feel. “You’re spiraling.”
I set the coffee down harder than necessary and grab my jacket. Outside the air is fresh.
That’s what I need.
I unlock the door again—slow this time—and pull it open, stepping out onto the porch. The cold hits me immediately, sharp and grounding.
I step down into the dirt, scanning the clearing out of habit now. Nothing. Just trees. Stillness. The same stretch of ground where I saw the footprints last night looks undisturbed. Like it’s been smoothed over. Like nothing was ever there. I frown as my stomach twists.
I crouch slightly, running my fingers over the dirt. It’s firm. Cold. No clear impressions.
Maybe I imagined that too.
A bitter laugh slips out. “Great. Losing your mind in record time.”
Maybe isolation does that.
I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans, and force myself to walk the perimeter of the cabin. Slow. Methodical.
No tracks. No movement. No sign of anyone. And yet—I can feel it.
That prickling awareness at the back of my neck.
Watching.
I spin suddenly, scanning the tree line.
“Hello?” My voice cuts through the quiet, sharper than I intend.
Nothing answers. No movement. No sound.
Just the echo of my own voice fading into the trees.
I press my lips together and shake my head. “You’re done.”
I turn back toward the cabin, climbing the steps and stepping inside, locking the door behind me again.
Enough.
I grab my camera, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the bedroom. If I’m going to stay out here, I need to work. Focus.
That’s how I get through this. How I get through everything.
My mind falls back to Sacramento–how I spent the last two years being followed by my ex-boyfriend.
He was never overtly threatening, just always there.
In truth, he’s the reason I left–I couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly watched.
I thought the wide open spaces would help me shake off the anxiety, but it’s only followed me here.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hoping to distract myself by flipping through the shots from yesterday.
Light. Texture. Depth. Normal.
My breathing evens out, attention narrowing to the screen. The world shrinks to composition and color and the clean, controlled space behind the lens.
I scroll through the last image—and freeze.
It’s me.
Standing in the clearing. Taken from behind.
My stomach drops.
My fingers tighten around the camera as I zoom in.
The shot is crisp. Deliberate. Focused on me like I’m the subject.
Like I’m the target.
“Okay…” My voice comes out thin. “Okay.”
I scroll back.
The previous images are mine. I recognize them. The angles. The framing.
But this one—this one doesn’t belong.
I jerk to my feet, the bed creaking beneath me. My pulse pounds in my ears as I look around the room like I expect someone to be standing there.
Watching.
Nothing.
I move fast now, stepping back into the main room, scanning every corner. My gaze flicks to the windows, half-expecting to see someone standing just beyond the glass.
Nothing.
My chest rises and falls too quickly.
Think.
Think.
I force myself to go still.
The camera.
I bring it up again, staring at the image.
Someone was close.
Close enough to capture this.
Close enough to see me.
Close enough to—a sound cuts through the silence.
A creak outside. My head snaps toward the door. Every muscle in my body locks.
Another creak.
Slow and deliberate. Like someone stepping onto the porch.
My breath catches in my throat.
“Who’s there?” I call, louder than I feel.
Silence. Then, a soft thud right outside the door.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
My gaze is locked on the handle, waiting for it to turn.
It doesn’t.
Seconds stretch. Twist. Snap.
Nothing happens.
Finally, slowly, I force my feet to move.
One step.
Then another.
My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the door, hovering over the handle.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
But I do it anyway. I unlock it. The click echoes like a gunshot. I pull the door open. Cold air rushes in but the porch is empty. But something lies on the ground right in front of the door.
A photograph.
My stomach turns as I crouch, picking it up.
It’s me. Again. Closer this time.
My face visible, eyes scanning the trees.
And written across the bottom, in sharp, deliberate strokes:
I see you.
My fingers tighten around the photo, my pulse hammering so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs open.
This isn’t in my head. This isn’t the wind. This isn’t nothing.
Someone is here.
Someone is watching me.
And they want me to know it.