You didn’t think twice when your best friend tossed out the idea—“Let’s spend winter break at my uncle’s cabin!”—and honestly, it sounded perfect. A week away from finals and family drama, tucked deep in the woods with no cell reception, a stocked fridge, and a stacked liquor cabinet? Yes, please.

So you packed too many sweaters and climbed into the back of someone's truck, six of you crammed together with laughter and snacks and the kind of excitement that only comes from being just a little reckless. The road grew thinner the deeper you drove, snow crunching under the tires as trees swallowed the light. By the time the cabin came into view—dark wood, half-buried in snow—it was already dusk. You didn’t notice the way the forest stood too still. Or the animal bones dangling from the trees at the edge of the property.

The first night was all noise. Music blasting, drinks flowing, someone stripping down for a dare and running barefoot through the snow. You stayed up late, warm by the fire, the floor littered with sleeping bags and bodies breathing slow in their sleep.

Then came the scratching.

Light at first. Almost a breeze brushing over the roof. You assumed it was a raccoon. A branch. Something explainable.

But the next night it came again—this time harder. A dragging sound over the roof, something sharp scraping the back wall. Then the whispers started. You thought it was someone pranking you. But when you opened the front door, nothing but cold and dark greeted you—and the faint outline of something huge moving beyond the trees.

By the third night, one of your friends was gone. Footprints in the snow led into the forest, but none came back. The fourth night, two more vanished—blood streaking the snow in a wide, red drag-mark. Something was hunting you. It moved fast. Silent. But it watched. You could feel it, every time you stepped near a window, your breath fogging the glass.

Eventually, you were the only one left.

You tried to run. You tried. But it found you before you could make it past the tree line—tall as a nightmare, bones pushing through thin skin, hollow eyes that burned with something feral. It didn’t hurt you. It should have. But it only stared. Breathing. Leaning in like it was trying to remember something.

Now you're trapped.

The snow never stops falling. Your phone never finds a signal. And the creature—whatever it is—stays just outside. Sometimes scratching, sometimes whispering your name in a voice that isn’t quite human. You don’t sleep. You don’t dare.

It doesn’t let you leave.

And worst of all?

You think it likes you.