The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

It all started two nights ago when I noticed the flame ignited in that abandoned cabin. I was getting ready for bed when the screech of a crow startled me. It forced me to look outside my bedroom window. As I glanced around slowly, the scenery was all the same as usual. The dim September moon shone over the forest foliage, and the fog crept slowly along the forest floor. It wasn’t anything special, but something unusual entered this common picture. A little glow was coming from Moore’s cabin. A flame illuminated softly, motionless, as I watched.

I thought to myself, “Who lit that candle? No one should be living there. It’s been vacant for years.”

I had always been a skeptic. My dad raised me to be strong, independent, and practical. I wasn’t the type to believe in ghosts or legends. I had spent countless hours venturing through the forest surrounding our home—hiking, climbing, and exploring the woods I knew like the back of my hand. But the cabin—Moore’s cabin—was always off-limits. My dad never told me why, and I never dared ask. Maybe I feared what I might find out.

I remember being a little girl, asking my dad why we stayed away from the cabin. He would always give me that far-off look, like he was avoiding the question. “Some things are best left undisturbed,” he’d say, his tone final. I hated that answer, but I’d never pressed him further. I didn’t want to look weak in his eyes. He raised me to be strong, like him.

The thought lingered in my mind as I stared at the flame. I noticed something else in the window—a reflection, like a large handprint on the glass. I flinched, my heart skipping a beat. I grabbed my binoculars from my dresser, my hands shaking as I looked through them, trying to focus on what I had seen.

To my horror, the handprint was real—and it was moving. I pulled the binoculars away in shock, but they slipped from my hands and crashed onto the floor. My heart pounded as I scrambled to grab them again, peering through the lenses. I could barely believe my eyes—the handprint was gone. In its place were words, crudely scrawled on the glass:

"It won't let us go."

I backed away from the window in panic, my body trembling as fear crept in. My thoughts raced, unsure of whether I should go outside to check, or stay in the safety of my room. But something gnawed at me—the land, the cabin... my dad’s warnings.

The temperature in my room dropped suddenly, and I could see my breath in front of me. The lights flickered and dimmed. First, the lamp, then my night light. Then, everything went pitch-black. I couldn’t even see my hands in front of my face.

Then a glimmer of light shone from behind me, casting my shadow on the wall. My body refused to move, frozen in place. A soft, eerie crackling noise filled the air, like the sound of writing on glass. I turned slowly, my heart in my throat.

The candle—the same one from Moore’s cabin—was now sitting on my windowsill. Its once golden flame had transformed into a deep, blood-red hue. It flickered violently as if mocking me. Written across the glass were the words:

"It sees you."

My legs wavered beneath me. I could feel the cold creeping into my bones as I whispered, almost breathlessly, “What sees me?”

The room was silent, save for the crackling of the candle’s flame. I dared not move, yet a part of me couldn’t resist. I walked hesitantly toward the window and wrote, trembling, beneath the haunting message:

"It?"

The room fell into an unsettling stillness, the air thick with tension. Then, a force slammed against the window, cracking the glass, sending me sprawling backward onto the floor. My vision swam, dizzy from the shock.

Through the dim light, I noticed two pairs of elongated handprints—spider-like—stretching across the glass. Something dark and jagged began to form into a twisted, grotesque smile. Something—or someone—was outside the window, watching me.

I screamed, my voice shaking the walls, hoping for someone to hear. Moments later, my father burst into the room, his heavy boots thundering against the floor as he rushed to my side, holding his metal Louisville slugger like a weapon. His eyes darted frantically around the room before locking onto me.

“What’s the screaming for?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

I opened my eyes, expecting to see the horrifying vision still before me—but the room was normal. The temperature was warm again. The strange red flame was gone. I glanced at the cracked window. It had all been real—or had it?

“What happened here?” my father asked, now more insistent.

I hesitated. “Something hit my window. I screamed.”

He examined the window closely. “Something big must’ve hit it hard. We’ll check it out in the morning. Get some sleep.”

He turned to leave, his voice softening. “You need rest. You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

I nodded numbly, but sleep was far from my mind. I stayed awake, staring at the window. The night was too quiet now, too still. I waited for whatever had been lurking outside to return. But hours passed, and sleep finally overcame my fear, though not without unease.

As dawn crept in, my father entered the room with a steaming mug of tea. He sat next to me, his expression distant. “You must be sick,” he said, glancing at me with a concerned frown. “You never wrap up like that unless you’re not feeling well. What’s going on? What are you looking at out there?”

I glanced toward the cabin. My heart ached with questions, but I didn’t dare ask. Not yet.

“That’s Moore’s cabin,” he continued. “That place’s been abandoned since I was a little kid. There’s a story about it—about Cole Moore, the man who built it. It goes way back.”

My father’s voice dropped low, almost haunted. “In 1880, Cole Moore came here from London with his wife, Ethel, and their only son, Billy. He was a wealthy man, seeking more. He didn’t settle peacefully, though. He took this land from the local tribe, slaughtering the men and enslaving one of the survivors—a man named Silas Moore. Silas had to serve him. But Cole’s son, Billy, treated Silas like family.”

He paused, his eyes distant. “It wasn’t long before Cole found something buried beneath the earth—a candle. It had black wax and strange symbols—an eye with claw marks. Silas felt something evil about it, but Cole was too obsessed with it to listen. When the cabin was finished, Cole and his wife celebrated by lighting that candle. That night, the land flourished. But soon after, Billy and Ethel began to grow ill. Their health deteriorated, and the land grew richer by the day.”

He looked me in the eye, his gaze heavy. “Silas tried to warn them. He begged Cole to get rid of the cursed candle. But Cole killed him in a fit of rage. And then, Billy and Ethel... they died too. By 1920, Cole was driven mad. He spent his days wandering the cabin, muttering about the candle’s power, unable to let it go. The candle was the power.”

My father continued in a softer voice. “Ethel died in 1914. The sickness had taken hold of her for months, but it wasn’t until that year that she passed. Then, Billy... Billy died in 1916. He was only a teenager. The illness claimed him slowly, like it had his mother. After that, it was just Cole. He was never the same after his family died. They say he spent the rest of his days in that cabin, raving about the candle’s power. And by 1920, he was gone too, lost to madness. Some even said he was a witch, using the land’s power to stay young. But it wasn’t just him—people started seeing things. Flickering candlelight in the windows when no one was there. Shadows moving when there should have been nothing. And people… disappearing.”

I shuddered as my father’s words echoed in my mind. “What happened to the candle?”

“People say it’s still there, in the cabin. The land’s prosperity was its price—Cole’s insanity, his family’s deaths. It’s a curse that doesn’t end.”

Later that night, after my father had left for bed, the room grew cold again. The light flickered. I could feel it—the oppressive weight of something in the room. The glass began to fog, and the same words appeared across the cracked window:

“I’ve got you.”

The candle’s crimson light flickered on the sill once more, and the spider-like hand appeared again, this time resting on my shoulder. The oppressive fear crawled under my skin, and I could almost feel the weight of Cole Moore’s madness pressing in on me.

For the first time, I understood that Moore’s curse had never left. It had been waiting for someone else—someone like me.