When Emily and her friends rented a secluded cabin deep in the Appalachian woods, it was supposed to be a weekend escape from city life. The cabin had no internet or cell service and was surrounded by dense forest—a perfect opportunity to reconnect with nature. What they didn’t know was that the area was steeped in grim local legends.

The trouble started the first night. After dinner and a few rounds of card games, Emily stepped outside to take in the night air. The others stayed inside, laughing and telling stories by the fire. She leaned on the porch’s wooden railing, staring out at the forest. A heavy silence hung in the air, interrupted only by the occasional chirp of crickets.

Then she noticed it—movement between the trees. At first, she thought it was an animal, maybe a deer. But the longer she watched, the more she realized it was human-shaped. Someone was standing there, partially obscured by the shadows.

“Hello?” she called hesitantly, but there was no response. The figure didn’t move.

“Hey, Em, you okay out there?” Mark, one of her friends, stepped onto the porch behind her. She turned to point out the figure, but when she looked back, it was gone.

“There was someone out there,” she said, her voice shaking.

Mark frowned, peering into the darkness. “Probably just your imagination,” he said, though his tone betrayed a hint of unease. They went back inside, locking the door behind them.

That night, Emily had trouble sleeping. Her room was on the first floor, and the window looked out into the woods. She kept imagining the shadowy figure standing just beyond the glass. Around 2 a.m., she was jolted awake by a soft tapping sound.

She froze, her heart pounding. The tapping continued, rhythmic and deliberate, coming from the window. Gathering her courage, she slowly turned her head.

What she saw made her blood run cold. A face was pressed against the glass—pale, with wide, unblinking eyes. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; the features were distorted, almost inhuman. The figure’s breath fogged up the glass as it stared at her.

Emily screamed, and the figure vanished into the darkness. Her friends came running, but when they looked outside, there was no sign of anyone.

“It was probably a trick of the light,” Claire suggested, though she looked as shaken as Emily felt.

But the next morning, they found footprints in the dirt outside the window—barefoot and oddly large.

Over breakfast, Mark mentioned the legends he’d read about the area. “They say these woods are haunted by something called ‘The Watcher.’ People have reported seeing a tall, shadowy figure that follows them, sometimes even trying to get into their homes. Some say it’s a ghost; others think it’s something else entirely.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Emily demanded.

“I didn’t think it was real!” Mark protested.

Despite their unease, they decided to stay. The second night, they made sure all the doors and windows were locked. They even pushed furniture against the front door for extra security.

Around midnight, Claire woke up to a strange noise—a low, guttural growling coming from outside. She woke the others, and they huddled together, listening. The sound grew louder, circling the cabin.

Then came the knocking. It started softly, almost politely, but quickly escalated into loud, frantic pounding. It moved from one window to another, as though whatever was outside was testing each one.

Terrified, they decided to call for help, but none of their phones had service. Mark suggested they try the landline, but when they picked it up, the line was dead.

The pounding stopped abruptly. For a moment, there was silence. Then they heard it—a slow creak, like someone was walking on the porch.

“Stay quiet,” Mark whispered, grabbing a fire poker for protection.

The footsteps stopped right outside the front door. They could hear heavy breathing, low and raspy. Then, to their horror, the doorknob began to turn.

“Who’s there?” Mark shouted, his voice cracking. The breathing stopped, and for a moment, they thought it might have gone away.

But then, something heavy slammed against the door, shaking it on its hinges. The slamming continued, each blow more forceful than the last. The group retreated to one of the bedrooms, barricading the door with a dresser.

The slamming eventually stopped, but none of them dared to leave the room until morning. When they finally emerged, they found the front door hanging off its hinges, claw marks gouged into the wood.

They packed up and left immediately, abandoning most of their belongings. As they drove away, Emily looked back at the cabin one last time. She thought she saw something standing in the doorway—a tall, shadowy figure watching them leave.

Even now, years later, she can’t explain what happened that weekend. She’s heard similar stories from others who’ve stayed in the area, but no one has ever been able to capture proof of The Watcher. All she knows is that she’ll never set foot in those woods again.