I Hid the Fugitive Biker in My Cabin

Chapter 3

Audrey



“No problem,” I replied easily. The last thing I wanted during my weeks of retreat was to mess with old tools or clean out storage sheds. “I won’t go near it.”

“Great.” The old man smiled, looking relieved, and handed me the heavy keys. “Have a good stay, Audrey. I hope this house gives you the answers you’re looking for.”

I stood on the porch watching the headlights of his car disappear down the winding road until the only light left was the one spilling from the cabin’s own windows. The silence that settled afterward was absolute. Not the peaceful quiet of a closed room, but the living silence of a forest breathing in the dark.

I closed the door, locked it, and took a deep breath. I pulled my laptop from my backpack and set it on the wooden table near the window. For the first time in months, the weight in my chest seemed to ease by a millimeter. I was alone. No one knew me here. No one expected anything from me except the words I needed to drag out of my own mind.

…

The first night in the cabin didn’t bring the flood of inspiration I had hoped for, but it gave me something I hadn’t had in months: sleep without the help of medication.

I woke to the first rays of sunlight cutting through the gaps in the heavy curtains of the mezzanine. The morning air was freezing, forcing me to jump straight from the bed into a thick wool coat before even putting on my slippers.

I went down the wooden stairs, which creaked under my weight, and headed straight for the kitchen. While the Italian moka pot released that strong, full-bodied aroma that seemed to fill the empty corners of the rustic living room, I walked over to the large back window.

The forest was submerged in a thick, gray, almost tangible mist. The more distant trees looked like twisted ghosts against the pale sky. And there, nearly camouflaged by the fog and wild bushes, stood the toolshed Mr. Arthur had mentioned.

Its wood was dark, almost black from the region’s dampness, and the roof showed a few patches of green moss. A heavy, rusted padlock hung on the door.

I stared at that structure for a few minutes, feeling a bizarre stab of curiosity, but the sound of the coffee pot bubbling brought me back to reality. Focus, Audrey. You came here to write, not to snoop around old sheds.

I spent the morning and half the afternoon sitting at the table. Coffee was my only companion. I wrote, deleted, rewrote. I managed to force out three pages about the reunion of two lovers in a train station, but the writing felt… mechanical. It lacked soul. It lacked the kind of description that makes a reader bite their lower lip.

Frustrated, I decided to drive into the little town in the late afternoon to stretch my legs and buy a few supplies.

The descent along the dirt road was uneventful, though the sense of isolation grew with every curve. The town was called Pine Rock, a place that seemed frozen in time.

I parked near a local grocery store that smelled of pipe tobacco and fresh apples. While selecting some fruit, cheese, and pasta, I noticed the few local residents’ gazes lingering on me. A woman in a knitted shawl whispered something to the cashier as I approached to pay.

“Tourist?” the cashier, a middle-aged man with calloused hands, asked as he rang up my purchases.

“Yes, I’m spending a few weeks at Mr. Arthur’s cabin up on the hill,” I replied, trying to sound friendly.

The man paused for a second, glancing at the woman in the shawl before looking back at me.

“Ah, the old cabin. Nice place. But it’s pretty isolated up there, miss. The forest behind that property goes all the way to the base of the preservation mountains. Miles of dense woods. Not a good idea to walk around out there after sundown. Winter brings the big animals down to the lower grounds.”

“Bears?” I asked, feeling a slight shiver.

“Bears, and wolves, coyotes, and worse things that hunger brings down from the mountain,” the woman in the shawl interjected in a low voice, her eyes fixed on me. “Stay inside at night, girl.”

I gave a weak smile, thanked them for the warning, and left with my bags. It sounded like classic small-town folklore meant to scare city people. I wasn’t easily impressed.

By the time I returned to the cabin, night had already completely swallowed the landscape. The wind was beginning to howl through the gaps in the high windows a melancholy sound that matched the loneliness of the place perfectly. I locked the front door with two turns of the key, slid the bolt, and prepared a simple dinner.

Around ten o’clock, I sat down again with my laptop. The heat from the fireplace contrasted with the cold that seemed to radiate from the windowpane right behind me. The cursor blinked.

“He touched her with the tips of his fingers, feeling her skin prickle…”

I stopped. Deleted the line. What a horrible cliché. I sighed, tipping my head back against the chair. It was in that exact moment in the space between my sigh and the crack of a log in the fireplace that I heard it.

A muffled sound. A dry crack, followed by a heavy dragging coming from the backyard.

My entire body froze instantly. The pen I was holding slipped from my fingers and hit the wooden floor, making a noise that seemed deafening.

I held my breath, straining my ears. The wind continued to blow outside, but that sound had been different. It had weight. It had rhythm.

I rose slowly from the chair, trying not to make any noise. The living room was lit only by the weak glow of the lamp and the dying orange light of the fire. I took short steps toward the back window. The darkness outside was absolute; the glass acted like a mirror, reflecting only my own pale, wide-eyed silhouette.

I pressed my face close to the glass, quickly turning off the lamp so I could see outside. I cupped my hands around my eyes to block the internal reflection.

Nothing. Only the dense darkness of the yard and the vague outlines of the trees.

I turned my back, releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It’s your imagination, Audrey. The warnings from the man at the grocery store got inside your head.

But then came the second sound.

This time it wasn’t a crack. It was a low, guttural groan a sound of sharp pain mixed with ragged, uneven breathing. It wasn’t coming from the trees. It was close. From the direction of the toolshed.

I felt the hairs on my arms rise one by one. My heart began to pound so hard against my ribs that I felt a sharp stab in my chest. There was something or someone out there. And it definitely wasn’t a cat.