The Cabin Beneath the Pines

Nobody warned us about the basement.

The advertisement mentioned three bedrooms, a fireplace, mountain views and “complete privacy.”

Complete privacy should have been the warning.

There were five of us when we reached the cabin: Kabir, Meera, Rohan, Tanya and me.

The place stood alone inside a pine forest several kilometres beyond the last village. By the time we arrived, rain had turned the road into mud and our phones had lost signal.

The cabin looked old but comfortable.

Until Rohan found the trapdoor.

It was beneath a rug in the kitchen.

A square wooden panel with an iron ring.

“Wine cellar,” he said.

It wasn't.

The stairs led into a stone basement that smelled of wet earth.

There were shelves filled with broken jars, rusted tools and animal bones.

And in the centre of the room sat a wooden box.

It was locked with copper wire.

Not a proper lock.

Just wire wrapped around it again and again, as though someone had been more interested in keeping the box closed than preventing theft.

Naturally, we opened it.

Inside was a notebook.

The pages were made from thick yellow paper and covered in handwriting that none of us recognised.

There were drawings too.

Human figures standing beneath trees.

Circles filled with strange symbols.

And one repeated image:

A person without eyes.

Tanya wanted to put it back.

Rohan laughed.

Then he found the recorder.

It was an old battery-powered cassette player beneath the notebook.

There was already a tape inside.

Kabir pressed play.

At first, only static.

Then a man's voice.

He sounded frightened.

“If you are hearing this, do not read anything from the book.”

We all looked at Rohan.

He grinned.

The recording continued.

“The words are not prayers. They are invitations.”

That stopped being funny.

Then Meera began reading aloud.

She only managed three lines.

The lights went out.

Something hit the roof.

Hard.

We froze.

Another impact.

Then another.

It sounded like someone running across the cabin above us.

Except we were in the basement.

Nothing should have been above the roof except rain.

We rushed upstairs.

The moment Kabir shut the trapdoor, every light came back.

Nobody laughed anymore.

At 11:43 p.m., Meera disappeared.

We found the back door open.

Rain was pouring into the kitchen.

Her footprints led outside.

Barefoot.

We followed them into the forest.

They stopped beside a tree.

Meera was standing behind it.

Facing away from us.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

I immediately knew something was wrong.

Her voice was deeper.

Kabir walked towards her.

“Meera?”

She turned.

Her eyes were completely black.

Not dark brown.

Black.

She smiled.

Then she bit Kabir's cheek.

He screamed.

She tore away a piece of skin before Rohan struck her with a branch.

Meera fell.

For several seconds, she didn't move.

Then she began laughing.

Not one laugh.

Several.

Men.

Women.

A child.

All coming from the same mouth.

We ran back towards the cabin.

Meera followed us on all fours.

I wish I had imagined that part.

Her arms and legs moved too quickly, bending in ways that made her look less human with every step.

We slammed the door.

Something crashed against it almost immediately.

Tanya started crying.

Kabir pressed a towel against his bleeding face.

Rohan grabbed a fireplace axe.

Then the knocking began.

Not at the front door.

Under the floor.

Three knocks.

Pause.

Three knocks.

Pause.

From the kitchen.

The trapdoor.

Rohan whispered, “We need to burn the book.”

The cassette recording had said something about fire.

We returned to the basement.

The wooden box was open.

The notebook was gone.

Tanya screamed.

It was sitting on the kitchen table upstairs.

None of us had moved it.

Rohan grabbed it and threw it into the fireplace.

The pages caught immediately.

For one second, we felt relieved.

Then Kabir started screaming.

Smoke was coming from his mouth.

He fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.

The notebook burned.

So did Kabir.

Not his clothes.

His skin.

Black lines spread from the bite on his face down his neck.

“Stop!” Tanya shouted.

Rohan dragged the book from the flames.

The burning stopped.

Kabir looked up.

His eyes were black.

He smiled.

“Thank you.”

He attacked Rohan.

The axe fell between them.

I grabbed Tanya and ran upstairs.

Below us came screaming.

Furniture breaking.

Then silence.

A minute later, Rohan called my name.

“Arjun?”

I moved towards the stairs.

Tanya grabbed my arm.

“That's not Rohan.”

The voice came again.

“Arjun, help me.”

Then Rohan walked into view.

He was holding his own head.

His body stood at the bottom of the staircase.

His severed head was tucked under one arm.

Its mouth was still moving.

“Help me.”

Tanya screamed so loudly that the windows shook.

We locked ourselves inside the bedroom.

Something walked slowly up the stairs.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Then stopped outside.

A fingernail scratched across the door.

“Arjun,” Meera whispered.

Another voice joined her.

Kabir.

Then Rohan.

All three spoke together.

“Open.”

The door began bending inward.

I looked around desperately.

There was one window.

Second floor.

We jumped.

Tanya broke her ankle when she landed.

I pulled her towards the car.

The cabin door exploded open behind us.

Meera came outside.

Then Kabir.

Then Rohan's body.

His head was no longer in his hands.

It was growing from his stomach.

All three started running.

The car wouldn't start.

Of course it wouldn't.

I turned the key again.

Nothing.

Tanya was praying.

Meera climbed onto the bonnet.

She pressed her face against the windshield.

“Arjun.”

I turned the key.

The engine started.

I accelerated.

Meera disappeared beneath the car.

We drove.

I didn't stop until sunrise.

When we finally reached the village, Tanya was unconscious.

Police returned to the cabin later that morning.

They found no bodies.

No blood.

No notebook.

No basement.

They told me there had never been a basement beneath that cabin.

I nearly believed them.

Then they showed me the photographs.

The kitchen floor was solid concrete.

No trapdoor.

Nothing.

Tanya spent three weeks in hospital.

She never remembered what happened.

Six months later, she called me at 2:13 a.m.

She was laughing.

“Remember the book?”

My entire body went cold.

“Tanya?”

“The police were right,” she whispered.

“There was no basement.”

Silence.

Then:

“It was underneath us the whole time.”

The call ended.

I drove to her apartment.

The door was open.

Tanya was gone.

In the middle of her living room was a square wooden trapdoor.

An iron ring.

Mud around the edges.

And beneath it—

three slow knocks.

Pause.

Three knocks.

Pause.

Then Tanya's voice came from somewhere deep underground.

“Arjun.”

I backed towards the door.

She laughed.

And something behind me whispered:

“Don't leave us again.”