The Tragedy of Bethany MacAllister

“Bethany, hello? Are you even listening to me?”

The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. That was the first thing Bethany thought—not about Dr. Sue’s question, just the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second, a small, precise accusation.

The last thing Bethany wanted was to sit for another hour listening to this woman who didn’t understand her.

Bethany lifted her eyes. She was taller than most women she knew, with long auburn hair and hazel eyes.

“I’m listening,” Bethany said.

Across from her, Dr. Sue adjusted her half-moon glasses. The lenses magnified her eyes just enough to make her face look slightly off, like a photograph printed poorly. Her hair was shot through with gray.

“You say that,” Dr. Sue replied, “but your mind is clearly somewhere else. Your friends invited you out again this weekend, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” she said. “They did.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“That I’d think about it.”

“As I was saying, Bethany, you should really just give going out with your friends a try this weekend. It might do you some good to be around people who care for you, instead of alone in that cabin again.”

The cabin. Her cabin. The only place where the air didn’t feel too thick, where every pair of eyes wasn’t secretly judging her. —

She cut the thought off.

“It’s not like I’m hurting anyone,” Bethany said. “I read. I walk. I rest. Isn’t that what you people keep telling everyone to do? ‘Self-care’?”

“You isolate,” Dr. Sue corrected. “There’s a difference. You’ve been doing it for nearly a year. Ever since the…incident.”

The word hung there, heavy and clinical. Incident.

Bethany swallowed. “I know what the court said.”

“Yes,” Dr. Sue said, leaning forward. “The court said you must attend therapy sessions and work on your coping mechanisms. This isn’t about punishment, Bethany. It’s about safety. Yours and others’. You can’t keep running away to that cabin every time life feels overwhelming.”

I’m not running, she wanted to say. I’m hiding. There’s a difference.

Instead, she glanced at the clock. Her heart skipped. “I think our time is up,” she said, a little too quickly.

Dr. Sue followed her gaze. “We still have five—”

“It’s close enough,” Bethany said, already reaching for her bag. “I’ll…try to go out this weekend. With my friends. Like you said.” The lie tasted like ash. “Thanks again.”

Dr. Sue watched her stand. “Remember,” she said, “when you feel your anxiety building, challenge your thoughts. Ask yourself what’s real and what’s fear. You are not in danger. You are safe.”

Bethany didn’t answer.

The road to the cabin climbed out of town like it belonged to another world entirely. The city peeled away behind her; storefronts turned into houses, houses into fields, fields into forest. The asphalt narrowed, curling along the mountain’s edge, a dark ribbon tracing the body of some enormous sleeping snake.

Dusk had already surrendered to night. Headlights carved out narrow tunnels of visibility while the trees on either side rose like a crowd pressed in close, their branches clawing at the sky. It was late—much later than when she usually came up here—but the familiar route calmed her in a way that no breathing exercise ever had.

The farther she got from town, the easier it was to breathe.

By the time she reached the little campground office, her dashboard clock read 10:03 p.m. The building glowed against the darkness, a squat rectangle of wood and yellow light.

Inside, the heater hummed, carrying the smells of coffee and dust. An older man in his seventies looked up from a worn ledger, his face lined in that way that suggested he’d spent a lifetime outdoors. There was something sturdy and earth-bound about him, as if the mountain had decided to shape itself into a person.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. “Back again for the weekend, dear?”

“Yes,” Bethany replied. “Same cabin as always.”

“The usual,” he said, flipping through the ledger. “Number four…” His finger stopped. His smile faltered. “Ah. I’m sorry, honey. That one was rented out about an hour ago. Only cabin we have left is number nine.”

The words fell between them with a faint weight.

Bethany felt it immediately—the tightening in her chest, the cold rush under her skin. “Nine?” she repeated.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, down at the far end. Past the main cluster.

Cabin nine always looked…wrong. Not obviously—no gaping holes, no broken roof—but wrong in the way a face looks wrong when one eye is just a little higher than the other.

She thought of driving back. She pictured three hours of mountain road in the dark, her shoulders locked, eyes burning. She’d already spent most of the day running errands, buying supplies, and filling the car. Her muscles ached. Her eyelids felt heavy.

Bethany thought of her apartment: thin walls, neighbors shouting, sirens wailing somewhere at all hours.

“No.” She straightened. “Nine is fine,” she said. Her voice surprised her with its firmness. “It’s just a cabin.”

The old man’s eyes flicked to her face, lingering for a moment on the faint lines beneath her makeup. Something like understanding passed over his features.

“Alright then.” He slid the key toward her. “Number nine. If you need anything, you know where to find us. The office is manned till midnight.”

“Thanks.”

As she opened the door to leave, he spoke again, his voice softer.

“Folks say that place is bad luck, you know. Stories about a fire, a family on vacation. Some say they hear yelling out there late at night, even when no one’s booked it.” He shrugged like it meant nothing. “Stories. But if you hear something…you just remember you can come back up here.”

Bethany managed a small nod and stepped back into the cold.

Cabin nine sat at the farthest fringe of the campground, set slightly apart from the others as if the rest of the structures had slowly edged away over the years. The gravel under her tires thinned to patchy dirt, the trees crowding closer until her headlights washed over wooden stairs and a narrow porch.

Up close, the age showed. The boards were grayer than the honey-colored cabins she was used to. A porch light burned overhead, but it flickered once as she climbed the steps, then steadied.

“Great,” she muttered. “Very welcoming.”

Inside, the layout was almost identical to that of the other cabins: a small sitting area with a worn couch and a small table, a kitchenette equipped with a fridge and microwave, and a bed against the far wall. But the details were off. The air smelled faintly stale, like a room that had been shut up too long.

A mirror hung beside the front door, tall and narrow, framed in dark wood. It reflected the whole cabin.

“Just another cabin,” she said under her breath. “Four was booked, that’s all. This isn’t…anything.”

She moved on autopilot: unpacking groceries, shoving ice cream into the small freezer, and stacking books on the bedside table.

By the time she changed into a T-shirt and worn-out pajama pants, it was close to midnight. The quiet pressed in around her, thick and complete, broken only by the faint rustle of trees and the occasional creak of the old cabin settling.

She slid into bed, turned off the lamp, and stared up into the darkness.

It was around three in the morning when she woke to a sound that did not belong to the cabin.

Thump.

Bethany’s eyes snapped open.

Another sound. Not quite a knock, not quite a scrape. A dull impact along the wall.

Thump.

Her first thought was wind. Branches were bending, rubbing against the wood.

She tried to slow her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like Dr. Sue had said.

Anxiety lies.

She repeated the words silently. Anxiety lies. It tells you you’re in danger when you’re not. It turns every shadow into a threat.

Thump.

This time it came from the other side of the cabin.

Bethany sat up, listening. The sound moved—slowly, deliberately—around the exterior: tap, brush, dull knock. As if someone were circling, dragging their hand along the outer wall.

The hair on her arms rose.

She waited, counting seconds. After what felt like forever but was probably only fifteen minutes, the sounds stopped.

Her muscles loosened by degrees. She lay back down, eyes on the vague rectangle of the window, where the trees outside made darker shapes against the night.

It must have been the wind, she thought.

Eventually, she drifted back to sleep.

The second time she woke, it was to the sound of footsteps.

Not the ambiguous scrape of something against the wall, not a thump or a knock. Footsteps. On the porch. Slow, measured, unmistakably human.

Boards creaked softly under weight, moving toward the door.

Bethany’s body reacted before her mind did. She jolted upright. Her heart hammered so hard it felt like it shook the mattress.

Someone is here.

She slid from the bed, bare feet touching the cold floorboards. The small digital clock on the nightstand read 3:27 a.m.

Another creak. Right outside the front door now.

She moved quickly hands shaking as she reached the door and checked the lock. The deadbolt was engaged. She tugged on the knob anyway. Solid.

And then she saw it.

In the narrow gap between the curtain and the wall, the window beside the door showed a slice of the outside world. Beyond the glass, under the weak glow of the porch light, stood the silhouette of a person.

Tall. Still. Facing the cabin.

Facing her.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no—”

The figure did not move. It simply stood there, featureless in the poor light, as if it had always been part of the night.

Bethany stumbled backward, a strangled scream tearing from her throat. She fled across the small room and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. The flimsy latch clicked; she pressed her back against the wood.

The bathroom was barely bigger than a closet. A small sink, a toilet, and a tiny frosted window set high in the wall. The showers were located in the bathhouse near the main office; this small room was designed solely for functionality.

Glass shattered somewhere in the cabin.

Bethany choked on a scream, her legs kicking against the door as she spun around. The sound had come from the front room—from the window, she thought wildly, the window beside the door, the one where the silhouette had stood.

She turned toward the small bathroom window, thinking stupidly of escape, even though she knew it was far too tiny for a grown person to fit through.

Something moved on the other side.

A face appeared at the glass.

Bethany’s mind broke in half between past and present.

The features were pressed close, distorted slightly by the cheap pane, nothing could soften the horror of it. The skin was carved and ravaged, deep trenches of scar tissue running from scalp to jaw, as though someone had dragged a butcher knife through it again and again.

She whirled toward the door, fumbling for the handle. It wouldn’t turn. Something on the other side was holding it shut.

The other intruder, she thought wildly. The one who came through the broken window.

She hammered her fists against the wood, pain blooming in her hands. “Help!” she shrieked.

Her palms slid in something warm. She didn’t realize she’d split the skin until she saw the smear of darkness on the cheap paint.

Behind her, the bathroom window exploded inward.

She fell as shards of glass sprayed the little room. Something grabbed her hair—fingers, too strong, curling in and yanking. Pain lanced across her scalp.

“No!” she screamed, scrabbling at the floor, hands slipping. “Let go! Let go!”

With all her power she pulled away, ripping her hair up by the roots. Her vision tunneled.

With a desperate, animal wrench, she tore herself free. There was a ripping sensation along her scalp, a hot flare of pain.

She ran.

Out of the bathroom, through the dark cabin, feet cutting on unseen splinters and glass. The front door loomed; the mirror beside it flashed a warped, fragmented image of her—a white, wild-eyed blur streaked with red.

She shoulder-checked the door instead of reaching for the lock, throwing her weight against it. The frame shuddered, then yielded, and she stumbled out into the freezing night.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t stop to see if anyone was following.

Run to the office, she thought, words pounding in rhythm with her feet. Just get to the office.

Gravel slid under her soles, then gave way to dirt. She took the turns of the road on memory more than sight, lungs burning, heart a relentless hammer in her chest.

Behind her, the forest breathed. Branches shifted. The darkness seemed to move.

Don’t look back, she thought. You’ll only survive by going forward.

Her bare foot hit something that wasn’t the ground.

For one impossible moment, she felt weightless, her body suspended between one heartbeat and the next. The world opened beneath her in a yawning drop.

Then there was only air.

Police Report – Incident #: 24-1039

Location: Ravine below Ridgeview Campground, Cabin 9

Reporting Officer: Officer R. Darring

Date/Time: 14:00 hours

Female, identified as Bethany MacAllister, found deceased at approximately 13:00 hours by hikers who reported a body at the bottom of a ravine in a restricted area behind Ridgeview Campground.

Victim appears to have fallen from a height estimated greater than 400 feet. Pronounced dead on scene at 13:18 hours.

Investigation at Ridgeview Campground confirmed that the victim had rented Cabin 9 the previous night. Cabin is located at the farthest end of the campground road, adjacent to the restricted ridge area.

Upon entering Cabin 9, the following was observed:

A tall mirror that had been hanging on the wall near the front door was found shattered on the floor. Frame damaged. Impact pattern suggests force from inside cabin.

Blood present on interior surface of bathroom door consistent with repeated impacts from bare hands. Smear patterns indicate the victim was striking the door from inside the bathroom.

Bathroom window broken outward. Glass on ground outside mixed with strands of auburn hair later matched to victim.

No signs of a second party

Preliminary conclusion: Victim appears to have experienced a panic episode (per later testimony from therapist), resulting in disoriented flight from the cabin. Evidence suggests that the victim fell while running along or beyond the restricted ridge path in darkness or low visibility and accidentally went over the edge.

Cause of death: Accidental fall.

The news spread fast in town.

At the diner the regulars shook their heads and said, “That’s cabin nine for you. Nothing good ever happens there.” They retold the old story about the family, the fire, and the screams in the night that people swore they still heard when the wind came down off the ridge just right.

Now they added a new story: a woman who’d seen something at the window, who’d run blindly into the dark and over the edge.

At her desk, Dr. Sue read the police report twice.

Then she gave her own statement.

She told them about Bethany, how she had stopped going out in public except when she had to. How she’d driven up into the mountains most weekends, insisting the cabin was the only place she felt “like all the eyes were gone.”

She told them about the incident in the store: How the security footage showed Bethany walking quietly down an aisle, glancing up, then suddenly erupting into screams, knocking over displays, grabbing a knife from a shelf, and stabbing an employee who had only reached toward her, hands open, saying something the camera mic couldn’t pick up.

All of it began the moment she caught sight of herself in the glass of a cooler door.

“When did she receive the facial injuries?” one officer asked.

“Before I met her,” Dr. Sue replied. “She was attacked. The assailant cut her face repeatedly with a knife. She spent weeks in the hospital. After that, she never looked at her reflection the same way again. Eventually, she tried not to look at it at all.”

“And she didn’t remember this?” the officer asked, frowning.

“She remembered the pain,” Dr. Sue said softly. “But the image—what she looked like—she suppressed it. She talked about feeling like a stranger lived in the mirror. I think when she saw her reflection unexpectedly, her mind saw a stranger with a butchered face. A threat. She panicked.”

“You think that’s what happened in the cabin?”

“I think she saw herself,” Dr. Sue said. “Maybe in the mirror by the door. Maybe in the window. She saw the face she couldn’t bear, and she ran from it. Literally.”

She hesitated, then added, “Bethany’s anxiety wasn’t just fear of people. It was the fear of being seen. By others—and by herself. She was haunted by her past.”

The officer nodded.

Up at the campground, weeks later, Cabin 9 stayed empty more often than not.

If you stand in the right spot at three in the morning, you can see a face in the bathroom window, mouth open mid-scream.

Whether she was haunted by cabin nine or by the echo of her own reflection depends on who you ask.

But all the versions agree on one thing:

The story of Bethany ended the night she ran into the dark and never came back.

Somewhere, in an empty cabin at the edge of a mountain, the mirror by the door still hangs—its wooden frame cracked, its surface a spiderweb of fractured shards, each one waiting to show someone a face they might not be ready to see.