Jake Sullivan stepped out of his beat-up Chevy, stretching his aching back after the long drive. The scent of pine and damp earth filled his nostrils as he surveyed the small cabin nestled among towering evergreens. This would be home for the next few months—a writer’s retreat to finish his novel and escape the chaos of city life.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the trunk and trudged up the worn path to the cabin’s weathered porch. The key was right where the rental agency said it would be, tucked under a faded welcome mat. Jake unlocked the door and stepped inside, floorboards creaking beneath his feet.
The interior was cozy but spartan—a small kitchen, a living area with a stone fireplace, and a loft bedroom accessible by a narrow staircase. Jake dropped his bag and collapsed onto the worn leather couch with a contented sigh. After months of writer’s block and mounting frustration, he finally felt a spark of inspiration.
As the sun dipped below the treeline, Jake unpacked and settled in. He stoked a fire in the hearth and poured himself a generous glass of whiskey before sitting down at the rustic writing desk by the window. His fingers hovered over the laptop keys as he stared out at the darkening forest.
A gust of wind rustled through the pines, and for a moment Jake could have sworn he heard something—a faint whisper carried on the breeze. He shook his head, attributing it to an overactive imagination fueled by isolation and alcohol.
Jake began to type, the words flowing more freely than they had in months. He lost himself in the story, barely noticing as the hours slipped by. When he finally looked up, the fire had died down to embers and his glass was empty.
Stretching, Jake made his way to the loft and collapsed into bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he heard it again—a soft, sibilant whisper just on the edge of hearing. But exhaustion quickly pulled him under before he could dwell on it.
The next morning, Jake awoke feeling refreshed and eager to continue writing. He padded downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes—and froze. His laptop was open on the kitchen table, though he distinctly remembered leaving it on the desk the night before. Frowning, Jake approached it cautiously.
The document he’d been working on was still open, but there was a new line of text at the bottom that he didn’t recall typing:
“Welcome home, Jake. We’ve been waiting for you.”
A chill ran down Jake’s spine. He slammed the laptop shut and backed away, heart racing. It had to be a mistake—maybe he’d sleepwalked and typed it himself without realizing. Or perhaps he’d had more to drink than he thought and simply forgot.
Jake made a pot of strong coffee, trying to shake off his unease. As he sipped the bitter brew, he rationalized away his fear. He was here to write a novel, after all. An overactive imagination came with the territory.
Determined to put the incident behind him, Jake showered and dressed before heading out to explore the surrounding woods. The morning air was crisp and invigorating as he hiked along a narrow trail. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor.
After about an hour, Jake paused to catch his breath and take a drink from his water bottle. As he tilted his head back, something caught his eye—a flash of red among the green foliage. Curious, he moved closer to investigate.
Hanging from a low branch was his favorite flannel shirt—the one he’d accidentally left behind at his apartment in the city. Jake’s mouth went dry as he reached out with trembling fingers to touch the familiar fabric. It was impossible. There was no way it could be here.
A twig snapped behind him and Jake whirled around, heart pounding. But there was nothing there—just trees and shadows. The whisper came again, louder this time: “Stay with us, Jake. You belong here now.”
Panic seized him and Jake bolted, crashing through the underbrush as he fled back toward the cabin. He burst through the door, slamming it shut and leaning against it as he gasped for air. This couldn’t be happening. He was losing his mind.
Jake paced the small living room, running his hands through his hair. He needed to leave—to pack up and drive back to the city right now. But as he moved to grab his duffel bag, he noticed something on the writing desk that made his blood run cold.
It was a framed photograph of his parents—one that normally sat on his bedside table back home. Jake picked it up with shaking hands, staring at the smiling faces of his mother and father. They had both passed away years ago in a car accident.
“We’ve missed you, sweetheart,” his mother’s voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Stay with us.”
Jake dropped the photo, glass shattering as it hit the floor. He stumbled backward, knocking over a chair in his haste to get away. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
He fumbled for his phone, intending to call for help. But there was no signal—not even a single bar. Jake was truly alone.
As the day wore on, Jake huddled on the couch, jumping at every creak and groan of the old cabin. He kept the curtains drawn, unable to bear the sight of the whispering pines that seemed to press in on all sides. The voices came and went, sometimes so faint he could almost convince himself he was imagining them, other times so clear it was as if someone was standing right beside him.
Night fell, plunging the cabin into darkness. Jake hadn’t dared to turn on any lights, irrationally afraid of drawing attention to himself. He clutched a kitchen knife in his sweaty palm, eyes darting to every shadow.
A floorboard creaked overhead and Jake’s head snapped up to stare at the loft. Slow, heavy footsteps moved across the ceiling. Someone—or something—was up there.
Jake’s breath came in ragged gasps as he watched the narrow staircase. The footsteps grew closer, descending one step at a time. A shape emerged from the darkness—a tall, broad-shouldered figure that Jake would have recognized anywhere.
“Dad?” he whispered, voice cracking.
The figure stepped into a shaft of moonlight streaming through a gap in the curtains. It was his father, looking exactly as he had the day he died. But there was something wrong—something off about the way he moved, the blank look in his eyes.
“We’re so glad you’ve come home, son,” his father said, mouth barely moving as the words seemed to echo from the walls themselves. “Now we can be a family again.”
Jake scrambled backward, holding the knife out in front of him with trembling hands. “You’re not real,” he choked out. “None of this is real!”
His father took another step forward, arms outstretched. “Don’t fight it, Jake. Let go. Join us.”
With a strangled cry, Jake lashed out with the knife. It passed through his father’s form as if he were made of smoke. The apparition dissipated, reforming a few feet away with a sad expression.
“Oh, Jake,” his mother’s voice sighed from behind him. “We only want what’s best for you.”
Jake whirled to find his mother standing there, looking as beautiful and youthful as she had in life. But her eyes were empty, her smile too wide and unnatural.
They closed in on him from both sides as Jake backed away. His heel caught on the edge of the rug and he went down hard, cracking his head against the stone hearth. As consciousness slipped away, the last thing Jake saw was his parents looming over him, their forms blurring and shifting like mist.
When Jake awoke, sunlight was streaming through the windows. He sat up with a groan, gingerly touching the lump on the back of his head. Had it all been a nightmare? A vivid hallucination brought on by isolation and a possible concussion?
But as his eyes adjusted to the light, Jake realized with dawning horror that he wasn’t in the cabin anymore. He was outside, lying on a bed of pine needles in a small clearing. Ancient trees towered overhead, their branches forming a cathedral-like canopy that filtered the sunlight into ethereal beams.
Jake stumbled to his feet, disoriented and afraid. He had no idea how he’d gotten here or how far he was from the cabin. As he turned in a slow circle, searching for any familiar landmarks, he saw them—ghostly figures moving among the trees. Some he recognized—his parents, his childhood dog, his first girlfriend who had died of leukemia in college. Others were strangers, but all wore the same eerily blank expression.
They drew closer, forming a ring around Jake as the whispering grew to a crescendo. A thousand voices spoke as one: “Welcome home, Jake. You’re one of us now.”
Jake opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He felt himself growing lighter, more insubstantial. As he looked down at his hands, he could see right through them to the forest floor below.
In that moment, Jake understood. He had never left the city. He had never even made it to the cabin. The “retreat” had been a journey of a very different kind.
With that realization came a profound sense of peace. Jake let go of his fear, his confusion, his desperate clinging to a life that was already over. He surrendered to the whispers, allowing them to embrace him and draw him into their eternal dance among the pines.
Days later, a search party would find Jake Sullivan’s car wrapped around a tree just off the mountain road leading to the cabin he’d rented. They would recover his body and attribute the crash to driver fatigue. A tragic accident, they would say, shaking their heads at the waste of a promising young writer’s life.
But sometimes, on quiet nights when the wind blows just right, hikers in those woods swear they can hear whispers among the pines—and if they look closely, they might catch a glimpse of a young man with a laptop, eternally working on the novel he never got to finish in life.
The pines keep their secrets, and they are always eager to welcome new voices to their chorus. So if you find yourself on a winding mountain road, heading to a secluded cabin for some peace and quiet, be careful. Listen closely to the whispers in the wind. They may be calling you home.