The cabin nestled deep in the Whispering Woods, a forgotten relic swallowed by towering pines that clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers. Emma had chosen it for solitude, fleeing the clamor of city life after her divorce. The first night, rain lashed the windows, and she lit a fire in the stone hearth, its crackle the only sound besides her breathing. But as shadows danced across the log walls, she felt it—a subtle prickle on her skin, as if someone watched from the corners where light dared not linger.
She shook it off, blaming fatigue. The next morning, sunlight filtered through grimy panes, revealing dust motes swirling like specters. Emma unpacked her books, her sketchpad, determined to reclaim her art. Yet, as she glanced over her shoulder while brewing coffee, a flicker in the peripheral—a shape in the gloom behind the woodstove, humanoid, unmoving. She whipped around. Nothing. Just shadows.
By evening, the sensation intensified. Sitting by the fire with a glass of wine, she heard it: a soft exhalation, rhythmic, from the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms. ‘Hello?’ Her voice trembled slightly. Silence answered. She investigated, flashlight beam cutting through blackness. Empty rooms, bare beds, cobwebs veiling corners. But in the master bedroom mirror, for a split second, her reflection lagged, eyes wide with unfamiliar terror before syncing.
Sleep evaded her that night. Every creak of settling wood sounded like footsteps. Around 3 a.m., she bolted upright, certain of eyes upon her. The room was pitch black save for moonlight slivering through curtains. There, in the foot of the bed’s shadow, two pale orbs gleamed—eyes, unblinking, set in an indistinct face. Heart hammering, she lunged for the lamp. Light flooded, revealing nothing but rumpled quilt. Yet the air felt heavier, charged with presence.
Days blurred into a tense routine. Emma nailed boards over windows, barricaded the door. Phone signal was nonexistent; the car battery died mysteriously. Food dwindled, but hunger paled against dread. The watcher grew bolder. Whispers now—her name, ‘Emma,’ breathed from vents, walls. Touches: icy fingers grazing her ankle under the table, a handprint fogging the inside of a cupboard door.
She armed herself with a hatchet from the shed, pacing the cabin like a caged animal. Mirrors she smashed, avoiding her own gaze. Nightmares plagued her: herself pursued through endless woods by a doppelganger, its face a twisted mirror of hers, grinning with too many teeth.
On the seventh night, the assault peaked. Shadows coalesced into a figure at the kitchen threshold—tall, emaciated, clad in her own clothes, face obscured by writhing darkness. It lunged. Emma swung the hatchet, missing, fleeing to the basement stairs she’d discovered behind a loose panel. Down into musty dampness, slamming the hatch.
The basement was a crypt: dirt floor, crates rotting, a single bare bulb flickering on. She huddled behind a beam, hatchet ready. Footsteps echoed above, slow, deliberate. Then, the hatch creaked open. The figure descended, shadows peeling back to reveal… herself. Identical Emma, pale, bruised, eyes wild with recognition and horror.
‘Thank God,’ the other gasped, voice Emma’s own. ‘It’s you. It took me. Wore my skin. I’ve been watching, trying to warn—’
Emma’s mind reeled. ‘No, you’re it! The thing from the dark!’
The duplicate Emma shook her head, tears streaming. ‘Remember the divorce? Mark’s betrayal? You drove here to forget. But on the road, it got in—the shadow. It pushed you aside, mimicked you perfectly. I’ve been trapped in the dark, seeing everything through cracks, helpless as it lived my life.’
Memories flooded, distorted. The drive here—had there been a hitchhiker? A shadow crossing the road? Flashes of being pulled into void, watching ‘herself’ unpack, eat, sleep.
Emma—no, the imposter—felt a tearing inside. Skin itched, loosening. Claws extended from fingers unbidden. The real Emma backed away, horrified. ‘Please, fight it. It’s using your body now.’
With a guttural roar, the imposter lunged. Hatchet bit flesh—her own flesh. Blood sprayed, but beneath, gray ichor oozed. The real Emma screamed as the thing collapsed, writhing, shadows spilling out like smoke.
As light dimmed, the imposter’s vision fractured. Truth crashed: she was the shadow, the watcher from the dark, drawn to the lonely woman’s life. The ‘Emma’ pleading was the host, fighting till end. All those glimpses, whispers—desperate cries from within. Now, banished, the dark reclaimed it.
Silence fell. The real Emma wept, bandaging wounds, vowing to burn the cabin. But in the cracked mirror above, faint eyes watched still—from the dark.