Watcher in the Pines

The winter of the pandemic was brutal. I was isolated from friends, stuck at my aunt and uncle’s cabin on Mount Hood in Oregon. Their cozy log cabin sat deep in the woods, surrounded by towering evergreens and a single winding road — the kind of place where isolation is felt.

That night, the snow from the afternoon storm lay fresh on the ground, blanketing the world in eerie silence. The only sound was the soft drizzle tapping on the roof. I decided to relax in the hot tub behind the cabin, letting the warm water soothe my restless mind.

I sat in the steaming water, my head tilted back, eyes closed. Out of boredom, I started whistling into the dark — mimicking the creature-calling sounds from a game I liked. The sharp, melodic notes echoed into the stillness.

Then… something whistled back.

I froze. It was faint, almost playful, like a perfect imitation of the tune I had just made.

Thinking it was an echo or some weird natural sound, I whistled again.

The reply came instantly — clearer this time, almost too perfect.

The eerie silence pressed around me. No birds. No rustling branches. Not even the wind. Just the rain... and that whistle.

I squinted into the dark forest surrounding the cabin, heart pounding. At first, there was nothing but twisted tree trunks, gnarled branches, and shadows. But then... I saw them.

Two yellow eyes — high off the ground — staring at me from the woods. Unblinking. Motionless. They glowed faintly, reflecting the light from the cabin windows behind me.

The eyes were wrong. Too far apart. Too still.

Before I could react, they vanished. Just gone. No sound. No breaking branches. Nothing.

I sat paralyzed for another ten minutes, scanning the tree line, forcing myself to believe it was some kind of animal. But deep down, I knew better. Something was watching.

The next day, the snow sparkled under a pale winter sun as my cousins and I went sledding near the cabin. The fun helped push the memory of the previous night to the back of my mind — until sunset.

As dusk fell, the air grew silent again. No birds. No wind. Just... nothing.

Then... the howl.

A twisted, distorted sound echoed through the forest — a mix between an elk’s call and a black bear’s yawn. The guttural, inhuman noise sent a bolt of ice down my spine.

My cousins were too young to understand the danger, shivering from the cold, begging to sled longer. My instincts roared: “Get them inside — now.”

I hurried them back to the cabin, forcing a smile so they wouldn’t panic. As soon as they were safely inside, I grabbed my jacket and went back outside alone.

I stood near the sledding hill, acting like I wasn’t afraid — like I didn’t know something was watching me. Every nerve in my body was screaming, but I stayed still, listening.

Then... snap.

A branch cracked behind me. I whirled around, but there was nothing. Just shadows shifting between snow-covered trees.

I bolted toward the cabin, sprinting through the deep snow as fast as I could, breath hitching, heart pounding. Something was out there. Hunting me.

I burst through the cabin door, gasping, collapsing into the cold garage floor. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, my eyes burning with tears of terror.

That night, I lay in bed, heart still racing, listening for whispers... for scratches on the window... for that whistle.