The Last Guest

It was meant to be a relaxing weekend getaway. At least, that’s what Sarah had told herself when she booked the cabin in the woods. No distractions, no work emails, just peace and quiet for a few days. It had been months since she’d taken time for herself, and the thought of getting away from the noise of her life was almost too tempting to resist.

The drive up was beautiful, the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees, casting long shadows on the narrow road. As she arrived, Sarah couldn’t help but notice the cabin’s isolation—it was tucked far enough into the woods that there wasn’t another house for miles. The kind of place where no one would bother you.

She checked in with the owner, an old man with weathered skin and eyes that seemed to pierce through her. He gave her a spare key, a thick set of instructions, and a warning.

“Make sure you lock up tight, miss. Sometimes the woods get… restless at night,” he said, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Sarah brushed off his words, chalking it up to eccentricity. She didn’t believe in ghost stories or local superstitions. After all, she was here for rest—not to be scared.

The first night, she felt at peace. The cabin was rustic, with wood beams and a stone fireplace. It smelled of pine and earth, the sound of wind rustling through the trees outside providing a perfect lullaby. She cooked herself a simple dinner, then curled up on the couch with a book.

Around midnight, a knock came at the door.

It was faint at first, just a light tap-tap-tap, but it was persistent enough to make her put down the book. She frowned, confused. Who would be out here at this hour? No one had mentioned visitors.

She checked the window to see if someone was standing outside, but there was nothing. Only the dark expanse of the forest, the moonlight barely breaking through the thick canopy.

Maybe she was just hearing things.

The knock came again, louder this time. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her heart skipped. She slowly walked to the door and looked through the peephole. The world outside was dark—no shape, no form.

Confused, she opened the door, half expecting a joke or a prank. But the porch was empty.

Except for a small parcel on the doorstep.

It was wrapped in old, yellowed paper, tied with a frayed string. There was no note, no return address. Just the sense that someone had left it there intentionally.

Unease gnawed at her, but she took the package inside. Maybe it was meant for someone else. She set it on the table, staring at it for a long moment. Something about it felt wrong, like it had been waiting for her. But that didn’t make sense.

With a deep breath, she untied the string and peeled back the paper. Inside was a small, black notebook. The cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed with age. She flipped it open.

The first page had a single sentence written in neat handwriting:

“I’m not the last one.”

Chilled, Sarah shut the book quickly and tossed it onto the coffee table, the unsettling feeling crawling under her skin. Who would leave something like this? Was it part of some weird local custom she didn’t understand?

She tried to shake off the feeling, but the room grew unnervingly quiet. No wind. No rustling trees. Just the sound of her own breath.

Then, the knock came again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Only this time, it was louder. Closer.

Frozen, Sarah slowly turned to face the door. She could hear something else now—footsteps, slow and deliberate, pacing across the porch.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then the voice came, soft and almost indistinguishable over the thumping of her heart.

“I’m the last one…”

The door handle rattled. The voice outside was now joined by others, each whispering in a quiet chorus. She couldn’t make out the words, but the unmistakable tone of despair was clear.

The door burst open, and she screamed as she was pulled backward.

In the doorway stood the man from the woods—his face was hidden in shadow, but his hand was outstretched toward her, beckoning her into the night. Behind him, figures emerged from the woods, too many to count, their faces pale and lifeless, eyes hollow, their mouths moving with the same words:

“You’re the last one.”

Sarah tried to scream again, but no sound came out.

As the door slammed shut behind her, she realized with cold clarity: she wasn’t the first guest at the cabin. And she wouldn’t be the last.