Scratching at the door

The rain lashed against the windows of the cabin; a banshee-like wind howled. Maya curled up further in her sleeping bag, which provided no relief from the advancing chilliness. She shouldn’t have taken this shortcut; she shouldn’t have been overconfident with her map and compass skills because now she was lost, alone and miles away from civilization with her dead battery having turned the phone into a useless brick.

A sudden crack outside sent a shock through her. Was it a branch that broke? Or something...else? Grabbing for the flashlight she kept by her pillow, Maya tiptoed to the window, its surface reflecting raindrops. The dense forest lit up briefly by lightning showed nothing save dripping trees and entangled undergrowth.

Taking a quivering breath, Maya told herself that it was just the storm. But as she turned away from there, a low guttural growl sliced through the night air. It wasn’t thunder; it was too close.

Fear seized her throat. Reaching for an old knife on one of the dusty shelves – an heirloom of another owner – Maya took up position at the door where only some thin wood partitions stood between her and anything that lay hidden in darkness.

Every squeak caused by the cottage’s timbers or every howl of wind put shivers down her back. Time stretched out forever before them. Just when she thought that maybe it was all in her imagination, there came a loud thud from outside on the porch.

Heart pounding