The Cabin Within Reach – A Short Story by Stacey Carroll
The Cabin Within Reach – A Short Story by Stacey Carroll
It started with a Craigslist ad.
“Free cabin for the right soul. Woods, water, peace. Bike to groceries. No rent, just stories. Must arrive by dusk. No calls.”
Most people would have scrolled right past it, chalked it up to spam, a scam, or some TikTok prank for urban escapists. But Ava hadn’t slept in four nights, not since the crew next door began a remodel that seemed to involve slamming concrete blocks into steel dumpsters every morning at 6:04 a.m. sharp.
She clicked.
The ad had no photos. Just a hand-drawn map and a brief warning: “Cabin must be seen in person. If you know, you’ know.”
She packed a single bag, her laptop, and a raincoat, left a note for her landlord, and biked north until the city disappeared in the rearview mirror of her brain.
By late afternoon, Ava found the trail—an almost invisible dirt path off a two-lane road. The air smelled like pine needles and moss. Birds quieted as she passed.
At the end of the trail was the cabin.
It wasn’t much. Moss on the roof, a porch with a broken swing, and windows that seemed to blink when she wasn’t looking directly at them. But it was quiet. Blessedly, gloriously, quiet.
Inside, the furniture was old but clean. A desk faced a wide window. A kettle waited on the stove.
There was a single sheet of paper on the table:
“We do not accept payment. We accept stories. One per week, left on the porch by Sunday dusk. You may stay as long as you deliver. No plagiarism. No AI. You know the rules.”
Ava laughed aloud. “Well, at least it’s got standards,” she muttered, and booted up her laptop.
The first story she wrote was a flash piece about a man who wakes up with a key in his mouth and no doors. She left it in a sealed envelope on the porch.
The next morning, it was gone.
So was the low-level anxiety that had haunted her for years.
Week after week, she wrote. Horror, fantasy, absurdist microfiction. Her skin cleared. Her insomnia vanished. The city felt like a dream. The cabin never asked questions, just quietly accepted her offerings. In return, it gave her space, time, and a silence that healed.
Then one Sunday, she forgot.
Not intentionally. She had writer’s block. Spent the weekend pacing. She meant to write something. But dusk fell, and the porch stayed empty.
That night, the windows blinked again.
The forest grew louder.
And her fingers wouldn’t move.
She awoke Monday with a single word scrawled on her laptop in old typewriter font:
“Owe.”
Ava scrambled, writing through dawn. A story poured out of her like blood. A painful one, about a girl who couldn’t forgive herself. She left it on the porch.
It was accepted.
But ever since, she’s known—this place is no gift. It’s a deal.
And deals require balance.
Each week, she writes. Each week, the forest watches.
And each week, Ava hopes that when her stories are no longer enough, she’ll be allowed to write an ending.