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?