I clicked my phone off and forced myself to breathe. I wasn't going to be bullied back into my truck with fear. I wasn't going to let her dictate how I lived my life in the mountains. I'd bought that cabin to get away from chaos, not to invite more of it.
So, I walked inside the store, grabbed what I needed, and headed back up the mountain road. Every twist of that winding road felt heavier than usual. The trees seemed closer. Shadows stretched longer across the gravel. I kept checking my mirrors—not because I expected to see Karen tailing me, but because I wouldn't have put it past her to follow me from the station in some dramatic attempt to confront the liar she decided I was.
But thankfully, no white SUV appeared behind me.
By the time I reached my driveway, the sun had dipped low enough that the sky looked bruised: purple edges, final streaks of pink fading behind the ridge. I pulled into my usual spot, shut off the engine, and just listened.
Silence. Real silence. No shouting, no police radios, no entitled banshee screaming about community electricity. It was almost eerie.
I grabbed my groceries and walked toward the porch, glancing around the property as I went. The orange extension cord still lay where I'd tossed it earlier. I left it there, let it rot in the dirt like a monument to stupidity.
I unlocked the cabin door and stepped inside. Everything was exactly as I'd left it: warm wood, faint scent of pine cleaner, soft hum of the fridge, nothing disturbed, no signs of forced entry, no missing items.
Good.
But before I could fully settle in, something about the atmosphere tugged at my spine—an itch that something was off. I set the groceries down and stepped back outside. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was just Karen's voicemail ringing in my ears like a threat stuck on replay.
Whatever it was, I trusted it.
I walked the perimeter again, slower this time, more attentive. The sky darkened further, stars beginning to poke through the canopy. The woods always turned colder faster at night, and I tugged my jacket tighter. I circled the cabin, shining a small flashlight along the ground, scanning for new footprints or disturbed branches.
Behind the cabin, near the generator shed, I found something I hadn't seen earlier: another extension cord. This one was green, not attached, just lying there coiled neatly like someone dropped it or forgot to grab it in a hurry.
I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. Newer than the orange one, cleaner, no melting or fraying, and the length long enough to reach from my outlet to somewhere else on the ridge.
A fresh chill rolled through me—not fear, alertness. Someone else had been here recently, maybe even after I'd cut the orange cord, and they'd left in a hurry.
I scanned the treeline again. Nothing but dark bark and deeper shadows. But the forest had a way of hiding things: animals, people, mistakes.