"Echoes in the Dark"
February 15, 2025Video Details
- Style
- Realistic
- Genre
- Horror
- Voice
- Brian
- Language
- English
Creative Input
Prompt
"My Dad's Hunting Cabin" When I was 16, my dad took me to his old hunting cabin deep in the woods. No phone signal, no electricity—just a run-down shack with creaky wooden floors and the smell of damp wood. It was supposed to be a bonding trip, just the two of us, but something felt... off. The first night, we were sitting by the fire when we heard it. A low, drawn-out whistle from the trees. It didn’t sound like a bird or an animal. It sounded human. My dad froze. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Don’t react.” I barely breathed as we listened. The whistle came again, closer this time. My dad stood up slowly, grabbed his rifle, and walked to the window. The cabin had a small, dirty glass pane, just enough to see outside—but when he looked out, he went rigid. “There’s someone standing out there,” he whispered. I felt my stomach drop. I wanted to look, but something in my gut told me not to. Then the whistling stopped. We sat there in complete silence, waiting. The fire crackled. My heartbeat thudded in my ears. Then... Knock. Knock. Knock. Someone was at the door. My dad pointed the rifle at it. “We’re armed!” he shouted. “Leave now!” Silence. Then, the most terrifying sound I’ve ever heard in my life. A voice—raspy, uneven—mocking my dad’s exact words. “We’re armed. Leave now.” My dad yanked me up, grabbed his keys, and we bolted. We didn’t pack, we didn’t even turn off the fire—we just ran to the truck, jumped in, and peeled out of there. As we sped down the dirt road, I looked back just once. And that’s when I saw it. A tall, gaunt figure standing in the doorway of the cabin. Watching us leave. And then, as we turned a corner and it disappeared from view... The whistling started again.
Script
As I stepped into my dad's decrepit hunting cabin, the creaking floorboards seemed to groan in protest. The air reeked of damp wood and decay. My dad's eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity as he lit the fire, casting flickering shadows on the walls. A low, mournful whistle pierced the darkness, making my skin crawl. My dad's grip on his rifle tightened. "Don't react," he whispered. The whistling grew louder, closer. I felt eyes upon us. Then, a knock at the door. My dad's voice trembled as he shouted, "We're armed! Leave now!" The reply was a mocking echo of his words.