Sometimes I reckon that what happened to us came from one dodgy decision. Or maybe something older, something we don’t get, but it’s lurking, waiting to be woken up. Not trying to convince you it was real, mind. I lived it. My family too. Nothing felt right after that day.
It all kicked off with a family holiday down South. After years putting it off, we rented this remote cottage tucked among massive trees by a deep, freezing lake. Wanted peace, y’know? Escape the city racket, the screens.
The cottage was lovely, though old. Two bedrooms, a wood burner, and this creaky loft space. The woods wrapped you up proper during daylight. But nights… nights had a different quiet. Thick, damp, like it hid something. Felt like the trees were breathing. Like they were watching.
First night was grand. Kids played themselves out, Emma whipped up shepherd’s pie, and we had a proper toast with pints by the fire. Second night, though… weird bits started.
First, a noise. Like something dragged across the porch wood. Went out with the torch – bugger all there. Then I spotted one garden chair tipped over, not where we left it.
“Probably the wind,” I told myself.
Wind doesn’t leave footprints, though.
Found them next morning: tiny wet prints round the cottage, like bare feet. Kids were fast asleep all night. Didn’t look like animals. Looked… human. But twisted, toes stretched too long.
Showed Emma the marks. She just stared at me.
“Maybe someone lives round here?” she offered, though we knew we were miles from anyone.
Third night was worse. Bout 2:40 am, clatter on the roof like something heavy fell. Went out, torch beam sweeping. Not a thing. Coming back, noticed the loft hatch was open. I’d bolted it myself earlier.
Went up slow. Every stair groaned. Nothing there…’cept this smell. Weird, like wet earth and butcher’s shop. And this *feeling*. Like something screaming at me to leave.
Morning, our Poppy woke up crying. Said some “dirty boy” watched her from the window. Didn’t believe her… until we saw the mark. Five little finger smudges, wet, on the glass. Too high for her. Too… stretched.
After that, the days felt heavy. Kids were ratty. Emma had constant nightmares. I kept feeling watched. Not paranoia. Dead certain. Anytime in the woods, shadows slid between the trees. Not animals. Not anyone. Just shadows.
Wanted out. Pack up and bolt. But that very day, the car wouldn’t start. Brand new battery, dead. No phone signal, no neighbours, no way to call help.
That night was the worst.
Soon as the sun dipped, the air changed. More’n just fear. Felt crackly, like something’s coming. We barricaded in the front room, kids asleep between us, holding tight, praying it’d pass.
Then… footsteps on the roof. Slow. Heavy. Then knock, knock, knock on the walls.
Then… that sound of nails scraping down the porch boards.
Looked through the window. Swear blind, I saw it. Small thing. Stooped. Covered in mud, glinty eyes, and this impossible grin. Staring dead at me. Frozen solid, I was.
Light flickered. Went out. Only the wood burner left. Then… clunk. The loft hatch opening. From *inside*.
Dead silence. Me with a knife, Emma shaking.
Heard the creak of bare feet coming down the steps. One at a time.
But nobody walked in. Just this… breathing. Like something unseen was right amongst us. Kids shivered in their sleep. Emma cried silent tears. Felt like that night lasted forever.
Dawn came. Cottage looked normal. Except one thing: every window had a handprint smeared on the glass… from the inside.
We got out that day. Some bloke from the village found us in his boat, took us to Keswick. Never brought up what happened again. Not even with each other.
But things shifted after. Kids talk to someone they call “the wood boy” in their sleep. Emma sometimes wakes with grit on her feet. I hear footsteps in the house at night.
And worst thing?
Sometimes, when I look over at the back garden…
I see tiny bare footprints in the dewy grass.
Dunno if what followed us back is real, or if something inside us just switched forever.
Only know some things are best left sleeping.
And some places… they just don’t want visitors.