The House in the Forest - Horror Stories

The House in the Forest - Horror Stories

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
When I was twenty, I rented a small cabin in
northern Argentina for the summer. It was cheap, secluded, and
perfect for riding and clearing my head after a rough year.
The owner handed me the keys, wished me luck, and
drove off before I could even ask about the nearest town.

(00:20):
The cabin was surrounded by thick forest, no neighbors, no
phone signal, just silence broken by insects and the occasional
rustle in the leaves. At first, it was peaceful, too peaceful.
The first few nights were fine, I cooked, read, wrote
in my journal. But on the fourth night, I woke

(00:42):
up to footsteps on the porch, slow, deliberate. At first
I thought it was an animal, but then I heard
the creak of the front step, the same sound I
made every time I entered. I froze in bed, staring
at the ceiling, waiting for the door to open. It
never did. After what felt like an hour, the footsteps

(01:05):
retreated back into the woods. The next morning I found
footprints in the dirt outside, bare footprints. Human. I told
myself it was probably kids from a nearby village messing around,
but I couldn't shake the unease I tried to distract myself,
but each night the footsteps returned, always the same pattern,

(01:28):
approaching slowly, stopping at the porch, then walking away. By
the eighth night, I couldn't take it anymore. I stayed
awake with a kitchen knife in hand, waiting. Around two am,
the sound came again, step, step, step. This time, instead
of stopping at the porch, the steps circled the cabin,

(01:51):
scratching sounds brushed against the walls, like fingers, trailing along
the wood, and then tapping on the window. I wanted
to run, but where would I go. The forest was
pitch black. I stayed in bed, knife shaking in my
hands until the sounds finally stopped. At dawn. The following day,

(02:13):
I decided to leave. I packed my things, loaded the car,
but when I turned the key, the engine wouldn't start.
It had been running fine all week. I tried again
and again, but nothing. That night was the worst. Around midnight,
I woke to the sound of my front door slowly opening.

(02:33):
I was sure I had locked it. The hinges creaked
in silence. My heart was pounding so hard I could
barely breathe. I gripped the knife and whispered to myself
not to move, not to breathe. Minutes passed. Then I
heard it breathing inside the cabin, heavy ragged, just a

(02:54):
few feet from my bed. I forced myself to look
in the dim moonlight through the window. I saw a silhouette, tall, thin,
standing in the corner of the room, its head tilted
too far to the side, watching me. I don't remember
falling asleep, but when I opened my eyes, the sun

(03:15):
was shining through the window. The room was empty, the
door was closed. For a second, I thought I had
dreamed the whole thing, until I saw the footprints, damp, muddy,
leading from the door to the corner of my room
and then back to the bed. They stopped right at

(03:36):
the edge, inches from where my head had been. I
left that morning on foot, walking until I found a
gas station with a payphone. When I finally reached the
owner and told him what had happened, he just sighed
and said, I should have told you, you're not the
first to leave early. I didn't ask what he meant.

(03:59):
I didn't want to know. I never went back to
collect the rest of my things. Sometimes, though, when I
wake up at night in my apartment in the city.
I swear I can hear those same footsteps circling my
building