The road shrank to two pale dirt ruts. Woods pressed close. Trees leaned in as if listening. By the time the cabin appeared, dusk already pooled among the trunks.

“There it is,” he said, easing the car to a stop.

The cabin sat in a small clearing on the slope. One story. Tin roof. Porch to the forest. No neighbors, lights, or sounds but wind high on the ridge.

Exactly what they’d wanted.

They brought in their bags as the air clung to warmth. Inside smelled of dust, pine, and iron. A wood stove in the corner. Narrow bed. A knife-scarred table. Two mismatched chairs. The place felt older than the road.

They stepped back outside to look at the stars.

Crossing the porch, she stepped on a board near the bottom step; it lifted slightly with a faint click. He nudged it, and it settled back with a soft tap.

“Charming,” she said.

“Adds character,” he replied.

They stood at the rail, the woods spread black below. No phones or traffic, just the weight of dark, cold threading their skin, and the easy confidence that the night was theirs.

Later, as they stood in the doorway letting the last of the warmth slip out of the cabin, she heard it.

A soft, hollow toc from somewhere out in the woods.

She froze. “Did you hear that?”

He tilted his head. The sound came again, farther off this time. Toc… toc.

“Dead limbs,” he said. “Wind’s picking up.”

She nodded, though the sound didn’t belong to branches. Old cabins made noise. The mountains twisted distance. It was just enough to keep the unease from blooming fully.

They went back inside.

They were halfway through opening the second bottle of wine when the sound returned—same spacing, same quiet rhythm. Still in the woods.

He saw her tense up and frowned. “It’s got you wound up.”

“It doesn’t sound right,” she said.

He hesitated, then shrugged, already reaching for the flashlight. “It’s probably exactly what it sounds like. I’ll prove it’s nothing, and we can both sleep easier tonight. Ok?”

He kissed her forehead, grabbed the flashlight, and left.

“Lock it,” he said. “I’ll knock when I’m back.”

She shut the door. The locks clicked.

The beam of light bobbed between the trees once.

Then the woods swallowed him.

Toc.

Pause.

Toc.

She gripped the wine bottle, knuckles white. The beam of his flashlight slid through trunks, then snapped off into darkness.

The knocking stopped.

The quiet pressed in, sharp and raw.

Five minutes passed.

Her foot tapped the floor, but she didn’t notice.

Ten.

Her mouth went dry. She swallowed hard.

No knock at the door.

No knock in the woods.

She tried to picture him circling back, slower now, careful with his footing. Tried to picture the light reappearing through the trees.

The image wouldn’t hold.

Her mind kept going to the dark.

Animals.

A bad fall.

Someone else out there toying with him.

She insisted he’d just gone farther than planned. The words unraveled as she thought them, each excuse leaving something colder.

Then the knock came back from the woods.

Toc.

She flinched so hard the bottle struck the table.

Same hollow sound.

Closer now.

Her breath came out in a thin whisper. “What is it?” she said into the room.

Pause.

Toc.

Closer.

Her heart hammered. She stood, halfway across the room, stopped as if blocked by something unseen.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please come back.”

Pause.

Toc.

Closer again.

Now it sounded like it was at the edge of the clearing. Still no footsteps. No brush moving. Just the sound. Over and over.

She backed up until her shoulders hit the wall.

Her thoughts raced. Faster than her breathing.

If it were him, he would call out to her.

If it were him, there would be footsteps.

If it were him, it wouldn’t sound like that.

Toc.

She clapped her hands over her ears for a second, then tore them away. She needed to hear it. Needed to know where it was.

Then nothing again.

Minutes went by, but they only seemed like seconds to her.

It started again.

Toc.

This time from the door.

Toc.

Toc.

The vibration crept up through the floorboards, thin as a pulse.

Her throat closed. Her words were barely audible.

“That’s you,” she whispered. “That has to be you.”

Her eyes fixed on the thin line of darkness beneath the door.

A faint gust slid down off the ridge.

“Say something,” she pleaded.

But only the knock answered.

Toc.

Pause.

Toc.

She stood with her back against the far wall, arms locked around herself. The lamplight stretched her shadow long and thin across the floor. Each knock made it twitch.

Toc.

“Please stop,” louder, voice cracking.

The knock didn’t listen.

Toc.

Her mind kept feeding her lies: weather, wood, cold, nails shifting.

“PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!” She cried out desperately.

Only the knock.

Toc.

Fear rose, then curdled into something heavier. Quiet. Dense. Final.

“No,” she whispered. “Please. I can’t do this anymore.”

She inched toward the door, hand trembling as she reached for the deadbolt.

The lock slid back with a loud final click.

Toc.

She hesitated.

Then opened the door.

For a moment, her mind refused what her eyes were seeing.

His boots, hanging upside down at eye level from a rope looped over the porch beam.

Mud crusted the soles. One lace dangled loose, stirring in the cold. For a moment, she saw nothing else.

Then her eyes traveled.

Down to the dark slit across his throat.

He hung heavy, arms slack. Blood dripped, painting a line across the old porch boards.

A weak breeze slid down off the ridge. His body drifted forward an inch.

One dangling hand brushed the loose board by the bottom step.

The board jumped.

It tapped the door frame in rhythm with the breeze.

Toc.

Toc.

Toc.

T.C. 12.9.25