The Mysterious Tapping on the Cabin Window

Imagine this: You’re alone in a remote cabin, miles from civilization.

The wind howls outside, but there are no trees near the windows.

Then, just as you’re about to drift off—tap, tap, tap.

You freeze.

The sound is deliberate, rhythmic.

You check outside.

Nothing.

No footprints in the snow, no signs of life.

But the tapping continues, night after night.

What could be causing it?

And more importantly—who, or what, wants your attention?

You try to rationalize it.

Maybe it’s the wind?

A loose shutter?

But no—there’s no pattern to the wind, and the shutters are secure.

The tapping is too precise, too intentional.

You set up a camera, hoping to catch whatever is responsible.

The next morning, you check the footage.

The tapping starts at exactly 3:12 AM.

But there’s nothing there.

No movement.

No shadow.

Just the sound.

And then, a whisper—so faint, you almost miss it.

Determined to solve the mystery, you stay awake.

The clock ticks past 3:00 AM.

Silence.

Then—tap, tap, tap.

You hold your breath.

Slowly, you approach the window.

The glass is cold beneath your fingertips.

You peer outside.

Nothing but darkness.

Then, just as you turn away—another tap, louder this time.

Your heart pounds.

You swing the door open, stepping into the night.

The air is still.

But then, from the trees—something moves.

You shine a flashlight into the trees.

The beam cuts through the darkness, revealing… nothing.

Just empty woods.

But then, a shape flickers at the edge of the light.

A figure?

An animal?

You step closer, but it vanishes.

The tapping starts again—this time, from the opposite window.

You spin around, but there’s no one there.

The realization sinks in: whatever this is, it’s playing with you.

And it knows you’re watching.

You barricade the windows, but the tapping doesn’t stop.

It grows more insistent, more demanding.

Then, one night, it changes.

No longer a tap—now, a slow, deliberate scratching.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t move.

And then, just before dawn, a whisper drifts through the room.

A voice, right behind you.

You spin around—nothing.

But on the window, traced in the frost, are three words: 'Let me in.'