Stay awhile

Stay Awhile

We rented the cabin because it was cheap. 80 euros a night for six people. In the Vosges. In November.

We should have known better.

Me, Leïla, Thomas, Sarah, Yacine and Chloé. We just wanted to drink, play cards, decompress before midterms. Thomas found the listing: "Isolated cabin, lake view, guaranteed quiet". He wasn’t lying about the isolated part. 40 minutes past the last village. No signal after kilometer 12.

First night, nothing. We made overcooked pasta. We laughed. Yacine did an impression of the owner, an old guy who barely spoke and told us as he left: "Keep the shutters closed. Foxes." He had a weird look on his face when he said it.

Second day, we went hiking. The lake was frozen at the edges. Sarah took pictures. Chloé slipped and we all made fun of her. By the time we got back, it was already dark. The cabin smelled like wet wood.

That’s when Leïla said: "Do you hear that?"

We all stopped talking. There was a noise. Like someone scratching at the front door. Slowly. Scratch... scratch... scratch.

Thomas opened it. No one. Just the night, black. And footprints. Not fox paws. Shoes. Size 11 at least. They circled the cabin and stopped dead at the front door.

We told ourselves it was a hunter. Or a creepy neighbor. We drank to forget. Blasted music.

At 3 AM, I got up to pee. The bathroom was at the end of the hall. Passing the kitchen window, I saw it. A silhouette. Standing at the edge of the frozen lake. Still. Staring at the cabin.

I woke the others. When we went back to the window, nothing. Just the fog we’d left on the glass.

The next day, we decided to leave. Packed our bags. Thomas tried to start the car. Nothing. Dead battery. It worked the night before. Sarah’s phone got one bar of signal for two seconds. She had time to see one text: "Stay awhile".

Unknown number.

Chloé cracked first. She said she’d seen someone in her room at night. Leaning over her. Smelled like mud and cold. We didn’t believe her. Didn’t want to believe her.

The next night, we all slept in the living room. Door blocked with the table. Shutters closed. At 2:17 AM, we heard footsteps. Upstairs. While we were all downstairs.

Heavy. Slow. Like it was dragging a leg.

Then it stopped at the top of the stairs. We held our breath. And the living room doorknob moved. Slowly. Up and down. Up and down.

Yacine whispered: "Foxes, my ass."

The noise stopped. And we heard a voice. Muffled, like it was coming from underwater. It said: "You’re already in my house."

By morning, the front door was open. Size 11 shoe prints led from the lake to the living room. They were wet. And Chloé was gone.

We called the police with the car phone. They got there six hours later. They found Chloé in the middle of the frozen lake. Standing. Eyes open. Like she was staring at the cabin.

They said it was an accident. That she must have gone out at night, slipped. They didn’t explain the footprints that came out of the lake and back to the cabin.

The owner took the keys back. He looked at each of us. And he said: "I told you to close the shutters."

We left. Never talked about it again.

Except every November since, I get a text. Unknown number. Two words.

The phone still buzzes every winter. Same time, 2:17 AM. The lake never fully thaws anymore. And sometimes

"Stay awhile."