I RENTED A CABIN TO FINISH WRITING MY NOVEL – BUT THE TYPEWRITER INSIDE WAS ALREADY TELLING MY STORY

I stood up, heart hammering. The man didn’t move. Just stared through the glass, unmoving, his breath fogging the pane.

I grabbed the typewriter paper. The next line had already been typed.
“He locks the door—but it’s already too late.”

I spun around. The back door creaked.

Footsteps.

I grabbed my phone. No signal. Of course not. This place didn’t even have electricity.

I ran back to the desk, pulled out the paper, stuffed it in my coat, and ducked behind the sofa. The door groaned open behind me.

A long silence.

Then… the sound of typing.

I peeked. The man—now inside—was sitting at the typewriter, calmly typing the next page. Like he belonged there.

I leaned closer. The page read:
“He realizes now—this story was never his to write.”

And the title above it, typed in bold:
“The Cabin Guest.”

The lesson?
Sometimes we think we’re telling our story—until we find out we’re the character, not the author. When the pages start writing themselves… the only question left is:
How does it end?

Related Posts

Patel Says FBI’s Comey ‘Concealed’ Probe Into Hillary Clinton

FBI Director Kash Patel said last week that “the FBI concealed investigations for then-presidential candidate Hillary Clinton,” as he pushes for more transparency within the bureau in…

MY HUSBAND GAVE ME A SMART MIRROR FOR OUR ANNIVERSARY – I FOUND OUT IT WASN’T JUST REFLECTING ME

I stared at the mirror, heart pounding, every hair on my arms standing up. The reflection blinked out. Then the screen went black. I called my husband….

MY MOTHER-IN-LAW GAVE ME HER DIARY BEFORE SHE DIED – THE LAST ENTRY ENDED WITH MY NAME… AND A WARNING

I sat frozen, the book trembling in my hands. She’s in the walls. Was it dementia? Delusion? Or something she saw before the end that no one…

THE BLACK JUDGE WHO SENTENCED ME TEN YEARS AGO JUST EMAILED ME TO MEET HIM IN PRIVATE – HE SAID HE OWES ME THE TRUTH

He slid the folder across the desk. “Everything’s in here—documents, testimonies, even the footage that never made it to trial. I buried it. I let someone else…

THE BLACK WOMAN WHO BOUGHT MY PARENTS’ ESTATE KEEPS SAYING SHE USED TO LIVE THERE – BUT I GREW UP ALONE

I took the photo to the attic. Dug through every box I had from childhood—report cards, birthday cards, polaroids. All showed me alone. No other child. No…

I VOLUNTEERED TO ORGANIZE AN OLD CHURCH BASEMENT – THEN FOUND A COFFIN WITH MY NAME ON IT

I took the photo and ran out of that basement like the walls were closing in. My pulse wouldn’t slow. My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts….

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *