Isolated place by Lopperkem

 Isolated Place by Lopperkem 

The road was rough and narrow, the trees on both sides so thick they almost blocked the fading sunlight. By the time Caleb reached the house, night had fallen completely. His headlights cast long shadows on the crumbling porch of the wooden cabin—his grandfather's old retreat, deep in the mountains, far from cell towers, far from everything.

It had been years since anyone set foot here. No electricity. No reception. Just a wood-burning stove, a rusted radio, and silence so loud it rang in your ears.

Caleb wasn’t running from anything—at least, that’s what he told himself. But in truth, the city had become unbearable. The noise. The pressure. The constant, blinking presence of everyone’s lives. So he packed light and drove to the last place he remembered feeling invisible.

Inside, the air was stale with forgotten memories. Dust clung to every surface. A family photo hung crooked on the wall—his younger self, smiling in the arms of a man he could barely remember.

He lit a fire and opened an old journal he found in a drawer. It belonged to his grandfather. The pages were filled with sketches of trees, birds, and strange symbols he didn’t recognize. One entry, dated 1964, read:

“There’s something about this place. The longer you stay, the clearer you hear it. The mountain speaks.”

He chuckled. The old man had always been strange. But as the fire crackled, and the wind began to howl through the trees, Caleb started to wonder—was he alone?

Each night, he heard it. Soft steps outside the cabin. Whispers beneath the floorboards. The trees moving without wind. But every time he checked, nothing. No footprints. No sign of animals. Just that heavy silence pressing against the windows.

By the fifth night, sleep was impossible. He stared into the woods, flashlight in hand, his breath fogging in the cold air.

Then he saw it.

A figure. Not animal. Not quite human. Pale, thin, with long limbs and hollow eyes, standing at the edge of the trees.

It didn’t move.

Caleb blinked.

Gone.

The next morning, he found footprints outside. Bare feet. In the frost.

He wanted to leave. He packed his bag. Turned the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

The engine coughed, sputtered, died.

He slammed the door and shouted into the trees. “What do you want from me?!”

Silence.

But on the porch, carved into the wood by something sharp, was a message:
“You’re listening now.”

The mountain had taken others. Caleb would be no different.

In that isolated place, time unraveled. Days bled into nights. He stopped trying to leave.

And then he stopped trying to speak.

Because sometimes, the only way to survive the silence… is to become part of it.

---

The cabin still stands.
But no one ever comes back.