I sometimes wonder if our misfortune stemmed from a bad decision. Or something older, something beyond comprehension that simply waits for someone to rouse it. I’ve no interest in convincing anyone it was real. I lived through it. So did my family. From that day onward, nothing felt normal again.
It started with a long-delayed family holiday to the Lake District. Tired of postponing, we rented an isolated cottage nestled among ancient oak trees beside a deep, icy lake. We craved rest. Escape from the city bustle, the constant noise, the endless screens.
The cottage was beautiful, yet old. Two bedrooms, a log burner, and a creaking loft space invaded by every gust. By day, the surrounding woodland felt lovely. But come night… the silence shifted. It became thick, damp, almost hiding something. As if the trees themselves were breathing. Watching.
The first night passed quietly enough. The children played themselves to exhaustion, my wife Elizabeth cooked a shepherd’s pie, and we toasted with wine by the fire. But the second night brought the first strange details.
First, a sound. Like something scraping across the wooden porch. I went out with the torch – nothing. Then I noticed one of the garden chairs, knocked over and out of place.
«Must have been the wind,» I told myself.
But wind doesn’t leave footprints.
I found them the next morning: small, bare footprints circling the cottage. Not ours. Our children hadn’t hadn’t been out that night, fast asleep. Not animal prints either. They looked… human. But twisted, the toes unnaturally long.
I showed Elizabeth the marks. She stared back silently.
«Maybe someone lives nearby?» she suggested, though we knew we were utterly remote.
The third night worsened. Around half two, we heard a heavy thud on the roof. Like something heavy had fallen. I got up, torch in hand. Searched the whole perimeter. Nothing. But re-entering, I saw the loft door stood open.
I’d locked it myself.
I climbed slowly. Every step groaned step. Empty… save for a strange smell. Wet earth and raw meat. And a feeling. A deep urge to flee.
That morning, our youngest, Lily, woke crying. Said a «dark boy» had stared at her from the window. We dismissed it… until we saw the smudges.
Small, damp hands had pressed five distinct prints on the bedroom windowpane. Too high for her. Far too… elongated.
After that, the days turned heavy. The children became irritable. Elizabeth suffered constant nightmares. And I began sensing eyes on us. Not paranoia. Certainty. Every time I stepped into the woods, shadows flitted between the trees. Not animals. Not people. Shadows.
We tried to leave. Pack and drive home. But that day, the car wouldn’t start. The brand new battery, utterly dead. No mobile signal, no neighbours within miles, no way to summon help.
That night was the worst.
The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the atmosphere shifted. Not just fear. The air crackled, heavy with electricity. As if something drew near. We barricaded ourselves in the sitting room, the children asleep between us, clinging together, praying for dawn.
Then, footsteps began on the roof. Slow. Heavy. Followed by deliberate tapping on the walls. One. Two. Three.
After… the grating scratch of claws along the porch woodwork.
I peered out the window. I swear it: a figure. Small. Hunched. Caked in mud, eyes gleaming unnaturally, mouth twisted into an impossible grin. Watching me. Utterly still.
I froze solid.
Suddenly, the light flickered. Died. Only the log burner remained. Then, we heard the loft door unlatch. From inside.
We held our breath. Knife clutched in my hand, Elizabeth trembling.
Footsteps descended the staircase. One deliberate step at a time.
But we saw nothing enter. Only heard rasping breath. As though something unseen walked among us. The children, still asleep, shivered violently. Elizabeth wept silently.
The night seemed to last forever.
Dawn finally broke, revealing no trace. The cottage appeared untouched. Except for one detail: each window now bore a handprint, smudged from the inside.
We escaped that day. A neighbour from the area appeared in a skiff, ferrying us to Keswick. We never spoke of it again. Not even to each other.
But things changed. The children now speak to someone in their dreams. They call him «the forest boy.» Elizabeth sometimes wakes with dirt on her feet. I hear footsteps pass through the house at night.
And the worst…
Sometimes, when I glance out the garden window…
I see tiny, bare footprints pressed into the wet lawn.
I don’t know if what followed us home is real, or if something within us fractured permanently.
I only know some things are better left undisturbed.
And that certain places resent being visited.