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Breath on the Glass (Rogue River–Siskiyou, October)

Chapter 1: Rustic Charm

“Rustic charm” and “authentic wilderness experience” sounded romantic on the rental listing. Sarah Morrison learned, within ten minutes of turning off the highway, that it was code for no cell service and a forty-minute crawl up progressively worse roads from the last gas station. When she finally killed the engine of her Honda CR‑V in the clearing, she stayed gripping the wheel, staring through a dirty windshield at the cabin that was supposed to save her from her life. The October sun was already slipping behind the pine ridge, turning everything amber and shadowed in a way that would have been beautiful if the place didn’t feel like it had been left behind on purpose.

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Sarah was thirty-four, a data analyst for a healthcare company in Portland, and the trip was supposed to be five days of silence—time to finish the novel she’d been pecking at for three years, time away from Slack notifications and calendar invites and her mother’s gentle, relentless questions about why she was still single. She’d wanted disconnection. She’d wanted solitude. She had not wanted the kind of isolation that made a forest feel less like scenery and more like an audience.

The cabin sat in a small clearing about fifteen miles outside Prospect, tucked into Rogue River–Siskiyou National Forest. Dense Douglas fir and western hemlock crowded close on three sides. The fourth side dropped steeply toward unseen water, the distant rush of a creek running high from recent rains. When Sarah stepped out of the car, the silence hit first. Not the peaceful quiet of a weekend campsite, but something heavier, almost watchful. No birds called. No squirrel chatter. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

She told herself she was being dramatic. She’d camped as a kid with her dad before the divorce. Forests got quiet. That was normal. She found the key under a bear-shaped rock—because of course—and let herself into exactly what the photos promised: rough log walls, a wood stove, a double bed with a patchwork quilt, a tiny kitchen corner, and the faint smell of old smoke. A kerosene lantern sat on the table beside a handwritten note: Welcome. Cell service is non-existent, but the landline works. Emergency number on fridge. Enjoy the solitude.

The word solitude looked different in her head now. Heavier. Like a dare.

Chapter 2: The First Night’s Sound

Darkness fell fast in the trees. By the time Sarah carried in groceries, laptop, and bags, the cabin windows had become black mirrors. There was electricity—one bulb, two questionable outlets—but she lit the lantern anyway, as if warm flame could make the space friendlier. She ate pasta with jarred sauce at the table while a downloaded playlist filled the room with sound that wasn’t hers. She’d imagined writing by lantern light, inspiration pouring out as if the forest would hand her a story. Instead she felt only tired, her mind still caught in the rhythm of city life.

She made a small fire in the wood stove and climbed into bed with her Kindle. The words refused to stick. Every snap of sap in the stove made her look up. Every creak of settling logs sounded like a footstep she didn’t remember taking. Around eleven she turned off the light, leaving only the stove’s last ember-glow. The darkness was absolute. The windows were faint rectangles—slightly lighter than black—like the cabin was surrounded by nothing at all.

A sharp crack came from the woods behind the cabin, loud as a gunshot. Sarah sat up, heart punching hard. Deer, she told herself. Elk. Another crack, closer. Then something she couldn’t dress up as animal chatter: heavy, deliberate footsteps in undergrowth, moving with none of the cautious stopping and starting that prey animals make. She slipped out of bed and padded to the back window, pressing her face close to the glass. She saw nothing but blackness. Still, the sound kept coming, steady and confident, as if whatever it was didn’t care that a human might hear.

Then, so close she jumped back, something made a sound that wasn’t quite a growl and wasn’t quite a grunt. It vibrated through the cabin walls, low and resonant enough to be felt in her chest. The noise lasted a moment and stopped. Silence followed, so complete it felt staged.

Sarah stood in the middle of the room, frozen, then forced herself to breathe, to move, to climb back into bed. She didn’t close her eyes for a long time. She lay listening to her own breathing and the cabin’s cooling ticks, telling herself she’d imagined the worst part. That her city brain was inventing monsters to fill in gaps where streetlights should be.

Morning came gray and ordinary. In daylight, the forest looked harmless—rays slanting through branches, ferns glowing green, a jay calling somewhere in the distance. The night’s fear felt embarrassing, a bad dream that had borrowed her body for a few hours. She made coffee, ate granola, and tried to write. But her eyes kept going to the windows as if the glass might remember something her mind wanted to forget.

Chapter 3: The Print in the Mud

Around noon she decided to walk. Sitting inside was turning her thoughts sour. A trail led down toward the creek she’d heard, and the motion of hiking felt normal, grounding—boots on dirt, breath in cool air, body doing what bodies have done in forests forever. She followed switchbacks through moss and fern, keeping her eyes on the ground for roots and slick rock.

That’s why she nearly stepped on it.

A footprint pressed into a muddy patch of trail, so large her brain rejected it before her eyes could measure it. Sarah stopped with one foot in midair and stared down. Eighteen inches long, seven inches wide at the ball, sunk deep with sharp edges. Five toes. The big toe slightly offset. Humanlike in shape and utterly inhuman in scale.

She crouched and set her size-eight boot beside it. The print dwarfed her. She looked up, suddenly aware of how the forest tightened around the trail—how close the trees were, how little she could see beyond fifteen or twenty feet. More prints led downhill, spaced far apart by an enormous stride, recent enough that water still pooled in the deepest parts. She should have turned around and gone back to the cabin. She knew that. But fear doesn’t always erase curiosity; sometimes it electrifies it. A part of her needed to know what could make a track like that.

At the creek, she found another detail that chilled her more than the prints: a massive rock, perhaps eighty pounds, balanced in the center of the water on smaller stones. Not washed there by current. Placed. Carefully. Deliberately arranged like a crude sculpture.

Animals didn’t stack rocks. Sarah stood on the bank scanning the trees, feeling watched in a way that bypassed logic and settled into her skin. Nothing moved. Only water and her own harsh breathing. She backed away and hurried uphill, not quite running, but close enough that her boots slipped on loose stones.

Back at the cabin she latched the door—an insult of a hook-and-eye—and tried to talk herself down with rational thoughts. Large animals. Deformed prints. Someone else hiking. Kids playing. The explanations sounded thin even to her. She pulled out her phone out of habit, remembered no service, then remembered the landline and felt briefly calmer. If something happened, she could call.

She tried to write. Words refused. Her mind kept returning to the footprint in mud like a needle returning to a groove. Evening came, and with it the seductive idea that maybe she had overreacted, that daylight had been the truth and night the exaggeration. She made dinner, watched a spectacular sunset, and for an hour she managed to feel like a person again.

Then the scraping started.

Chapter 4: Warm Breath

It began as a sliding sound along the cabin’s right wall, rough against logs, moving slowly from the back corner toward the front. Sarah slipped out of bed and crept to the right-side window. Moonlight was nearly full, enough to show the clearing’s edge and the tree line beyond. For a moment she saw nothing. The scraping stopped. She leaned closer, cupping hands around her eyes to block the stove’s faint glow.

At the tree line, just beyond the reach of moonlight, something stood upright. Too tall. Too thick. An absence shaped like a body. Sarah stared until her eyes ached, trying to force it into a trunk, a boulder, a trick. It shifted weight slightly, and the moonlight caught it differently, and her stomach dropped with cold understanding: whatever it was, it was far too tall to be human. Eight feet at least. Maybe more.

She jerked back, heart racing. When she looked again, the shape was gone. Or maybe it had never been there. Maybe she was inventing it, starving for pattern in darkness. She watched for ten minutes. Nothing moved. Eventually she returned to bed and didn’t sleep. The cabin cooled. The stove died. She lay rigid, waiting for dawn like a reprieve.

She made coffee with shaking hands. She told herself she would pack and leave. The retreat was over. Her novel could wait. She was pouring her first cup when she saw the window—right-side glass—marked with streaks as if it had been fogged and wiped. Condensation residue remained in smears, and in the center was the unmistakable print of a hand pressed against the glass from the outside.

It was not a human hand. The palm was too broad, the fingers too thick and long, the spacing wrong in a way that made her breath catch. The window was high—seven and a half feet off the ground outside. Whatever had left that print had been tall enough to reach it easily. And the fog pattern around it meant warm breath had been pressed against the glass while she lay ten feet away in bed.

Her coffee cup slipped from her fingers and shattered. She didn’t notice until later. She took photos with her phone from every angle, as if documentation could turn terror into something manageable. Then she stepped outside and found the matching evidence beneath the window: deep footprints in soft dirt, fresh, leading away toward the forest.

Sarah ran back into the cabin, locked the door, and tried to use her laptop to search—only to remember there was no internet. In a downloaded folder of PDFs she’d saved for “research,” she found a short document about local folklore and sightings in southern Oregon. She read it with trembling hands: reports of huge bipedal creatures, rock throwing, tree structures, curiosity about cabins, handprints on windows.

She packed like someone escaping a fire—no folding, no organizing, just shoving everything into bags. By 9:00 a.m. she had most of it loaded into the car. Then the smell hit the clearing—thick and organic and foul, wet dog crossed with sewage and something dead. She gagged and looked toward the trailhead area and saw three young Douglas firs snapped and twisted off six feet up, bark gouged away, coarse dark hair caught on the raw wood. A display. A message.

She dove into the driver’s seat, jammed the key into the ignition, and turned it. The engine clicked. Clicked again. Dead battery. That made no sense. The car had been fine yesterday. She tried again until her breath came in panicked sobs. Nothing.

She climbed out, stumbling toward the cabin, thinking of the landline like it was a rope. And then she heard it from the trees—close, deep, a resonant vocalization that made her blood run cold. Branches swayed in the mist. Saplings bent aside. Something large moved parallel to the clearing, staying in cover, cutting off the path to the cabin.

Sarah ran across the clearing toward the steep slope that dropped to the creek.

Chapter 5: Creekwater and Eyes

She slid down the slope grabbing trunks to control her descent, boots skidding on wet leaves. She splashed through the shallow creek without slowing, soaked her feet, didn’t care. On the far side she found a narrow game trail and ran upstream, lungs burning, ferns slapping her face. After ten minutes she had to stop, bent over, gasping, listening hard.

Silence.

She started moving again, quieter now, testing each step, trying to follow the creek’s sound. The trail led to a rocky outcrop above a series of falls. She tried to climb down carefully, but a foothold crumbled and she fell into the water hard enough to explode pain through her ribs and shoulder. The current grabbed her and tumbled her over slick stones. She went under, came up choking, went under again. She caught a root and dragged herself onto a muddy bank, coughing, shaking, bruised and soaked.

The smell hit first. Then she looked up.

Across the creek, maybe forty feet away, it stood at the forest edge watching her. In daylight it was worse. Eight feet tall, maybe nine. Dark hair matted and wet-looking. Massive shoulders. Arms hanging past its knees. A face that was almost ape and not quite—flatter, heavy brow ridge, mouth set in a way that felt too deliberate. The eyes reflected light back, and behind that reflection was something that made her skin crawl: awareness. Not animal confusion. Something closer to consideration.

It shifted weight and the muscles under fur moved like machinery. One hand—hand, not paw—gripped a tree trunk and shook it as if to show what it could do. It made that low vocalization again, aimed at her. Then it took one step closer to the water.

Sarah’s paralysis broke. She scrambled up and ran, ignoring the pain. She heard crashing behind her now, close and certain. A log blocked the path. She tried to leap it, caught her foot, and went down hard. She rolled over, expecting it to be on her.

Nothing.

The sound stopped. The forest held still. She lay there gasping, stunned by the sudden absence, then forced herself up. It could have caught her. It had chosen not to. That thought didn’t comfort her. It terrified her, because choice meant intention. And intention meant she wasn’t dealing with a mindless animal.

She followed the creek downstream, shivering as wet clothes stole her heat. The forest felt narrower with every step. Eventually the cabin came into view above the bank, and relief hit like dizziness—shelter, the landline, her car. She climbed back up the slope and froze.

Her car’s hood had been ripped off and lay crumpled fifteen feet away. The engine compartment was gutted—wires torn, hoses ripped, the battery knocked loose. Not random damage. Systematic destruction, as if something understood what the car represented and removed it.

The cabin door hung open. The latch she’d locked was torn out with a chunk of frame. Inside was wreckage: bags ripped open, food scattered, furniture overturned, her laptop smashed. Deep gouges raked the log walls—parallel lines too wide and deep for claws, carved by fingers driven hard enough to bite an inch into wood.

She grabbed the landline. No dial tone. Outside, the wire had been ripped from the junction box.

Sarah sat down on the ruined floor, feeling something inside her go numb. No car. No phone service. No landline. She was trapped. And the smell inside the cabin told her the worst part: it had been here. Inside. Touching her things. Learning.

Chapter 6: The Outhouse Siege

Hypothermia was now a bigger threat than fear. Sarah got the stove lit again, changed into dry clothes from the scattered pile, and sat close to the heat, forcing her shaking to slow. The day was slipping away. In another hour it would be dark. She knew she couldn’t stay in the cabin with the door hanging open and the walls already violated. She needed something smaller, sturdier.

The outhouse—horrible, humiliating, but solid—had a real door and a latch from the inside.

She gathered what she could: quilt, fleece blanket, lantern, matches, water, a few uncrushed granola bars. She carried it to the outhouse in twilight, every step feeling exposed. She locked herself inside and sat with her back against the wall, trying not to inhale too deeply because the smell was its own form of torture.

Night came fast. Around eight, she heard heavy footsteps cross the clearing toward the cabin. Through the cracks she saw a huge shadow move. It paused at the cabin door, then pushed inside. Sarah listened to renewed crashing, wood splintering, metal clanging. It wasn’t searching quietly; it was wrecking. Claiming. Making a point.

Then the sounds stopped. A long silence followed, thick with dread. Footsteps approached the outhouse.

They stopped right outside. The stench seeped through the boards. Something pressed against the wall and the whole structure trembled slightly, as if tested by curious strength. Sarah clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from making noise. She could hear breathing—slow, deep, patient—right through the wood. The pressure increased. Boards creaked. The outhouse would not hold if it truly wanted in. That realization was so sharp it felt like nausea.

The pressure released. Footsteps circled. It knew. It had to know. The steps stopped at the door. The latch rattled once, twice. The door shook.

Sarah pressed herself into the back corner like she could become smaller than fear. Then, instead of breaking in, the creature made a sound—long and rising, almost shaped like words but not quite, a vocalization that seemed to carry intent. Not a roar. Not a bark. Something that felt like a warning.

When it ended, the footsteps moved away. Sarah listened until they faded into the forest, and only then did she let silent tears run down her face. She did not sleep. She watched the darkness through the cracks until gray light returned.

Chapter 7: The Pointing

At first light she crept back to the cabin for supplies: boots, jacket, anything useful. The destruction was worse in daylight—mattress ripped open, stove tipped, ash smeared across the floor like someone had dragged a hand through it. She found her hiking boots, taped torn fabric, ate an energy bar, and took the compass from her car’s glove box. The battery might be dead, but metal and magnetism still worked.

She headed west, aiming for the main road. The forest looked peaceful again in morning light, almost mocking. She walked for what felt like hours—pain with every breath from cracked ribs, shoulder stiff, legs heavy. The compass said west, so she kept going, trusting a simple tool more than her own sense of direction.

She crested a rise and found a ravine cutting across her path—forty feet deep, steep sides, creek at the bottom. The trail ended at the edge. She turned to backtrack and froze.

It stood twenty feet away between two cedars, motionless, watching her in full daylight. There was no pretending it was shadow now. No rationalizing. She could see the proportions, the bulk, the wrongness in how humanlike the posture was. The eyes caught light again and reflected it back, and behind that reflection was something that made her throat lock: recognition.

It had followed her. Patiently. Quietly. Letting her believe she was escaping.

Sarah took one step backward and felt loose ground crumble under her heel. She was at the ravine’s edge. The creature did not rush. It took one step forward—only one—and the casual confidence of it broke something in her. She screamed, raw and involuntary.

The creature stopped. Tilted its head, studying her. Then it lifted one hand and pointed—not at her, not at the ravine, but to her right, toward a gap in the trees. It pointed again, more emphatically, then turned and walked away, vanishing into the forest with shocking quiet.

Sarah stood shaking, mind scrambling for meaning. Help? A trap? A final territorial shove? She didn’t have the luxury of analysis. She stumbled toward the gap, found another game trail, followed it downhill, and after a long desperate walk she heard the sound that made her knees nearly buckle: distant vehicles. Pavement.

She reached Forest Service Road 37 and flagged down a truck. The driver—Bill—took one look at her and said she looked like she’d been through hell. She couldn’t explain. Not in words anyone would accept. “Bear?” he offered, because people need familiar monsters. “Not a bear,” she managed, voice thin.

He took her to the ranger station, then the clinic. The ranger listened with professional skepticism. The doctor gave her painkillers and suggested trauma counseling. The official follow-up later called it vandalism, maybe animals, nothing conclusive. Her car was recovered and “looked like someone took a crowbar to it.” The case was closed.

But Sarah carried what couldn’t be filed: the handprint high on glass, the breath fogging it from the outside, the deliberate destruction, and the moment a thing in the woods pointed her toward a way out.

She would never know whether it was mercy or management—whether she’d been spared as a gesture of restraint or escorted out like an intruder being tolerated once. She only knew one truth that sat heavier than all explanations: something had seen her, something had touched the boundary between their worlds, and she had walked away alive.

And in the quiet nights afterward, when city lights felt like a thin protective spell, she understood why “rustic charm” had been the wrong phrase. The wilderness wasn’t charming. It was ancient. It was inhabited. And sometimes, it looked back.