Midnight at the Haunted Cabin

I was about twelve years old and eager for my first overnight camp. The day I arrived at the campsite, I was given a cabin with five other girls. That first night, around the campfire, our counselor told a scary story: a girl had died by accident in a cabin deeper in the woods—and now her spirit visited that cabin every summer.

None of us believed it—until curiosity won. Late that night, after the lights went out, six of us girls grabbed our flashlights in secret and sneaked out. We crept through the dark forest until we stood before a small, boarded-up cabin. A “do not enter” sign hung on the door—but we pushed through anyway.

Inside, the cabin was wrecked: torn walls, a dirt floor, nothing but dust and silence… except for one small, round table standing alone. With shaky courage, we sat around it and clasped hands, hoping—or praying—for something. The silence stretched on for two long minutes.

Then it happened: three loud, sharp taps came from the table. We all screamed, bolted out of that cabin, and ran straight back to our cabin as fast as we could. None of us spoke until we were safely inside, hearts pounding.

After that night, I never doubted campfire stories again. Whenever I think of dark woods or old cabins, I remember that moment—and the real fear I felt at midnight in that broken cabin.