The Cabin by the Lake A Gold Coin Story

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Some things only show themselves in flashes—glimpses at the edge of your vision. And sometimes, what you don’t see is far more terrifying than what you do.


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The Nightly Storyteller’s Introduction

"A cabin by a lake—sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? The wind, the smell of pine, the quiet lapping of water… perfect for a weekend escape. But solitude can play tricks on the mind. Tonight, I’ll tell you about a man who discovered that some shadows should never be disturbed… and a coin that might have invited them."


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The Cabin by the Lake

Elliot had always imagined solitude as a balm—something to soothe the noise of city life. When he found a weathered cabin tucked deep in the woods, perched beside a glassy lake, he didn’t hesitate. The drive was long, winding through dense pine forests that swallowed the road whole. By dusk, the lake shimmered under fading light, smooth as obsidian.

The cabin smelled of pine polish and damp wood. Floorboards whispered underfoot. While unpacking, Elliot noticed a draft near the fireplace. Behind a loose panel, he found a small, golden coin, oddly warm, etched with strange symbols. A subtle vibration pulsed through his palm. Without thinking, he pocketed it.

That night, he hosted a few friends. The fire crackled, wine and roasted vegetables filled the air, laughter bouncing off the log walls. Outside, the wind stirred the trees like something pacing just beyond the clearing.

Then came the storm.

Thunder rumbled, lightning slashed the sky. Rain hammered the roof, drowning voices. Lights flickered… then died.

Elliot grabbed a flashlight. Its narrow beam cut the dark. A scream shattered the quiet. Marcus, wide-eyed, pointed toward the window.

"I saw something. Watching us."

"Probably just a wet raccoon," Elliot said, though his voice shook. The coin in his pocket burned hot.

Then the scratching began. Soft, deliberate, circling the cabin. Thuds. Heavy, rhythmic. Wet, gurgling whispers slithered through the cracks. The air turned cold, damp, metallic, mixed with something fouler—rotting leaves, stagnant water.

A shadow darted across the beam—too fast. Too tall.

Glass shattered. Olivia screamed as a webbed, clawed hand slashed through the broken window, grazing her shoulder. Blood blossomed across her sweater. Chaos erupted—flashlights swinging, guests colliding, shadows twisting on walls. Fleeting glimpses: a glint of scales, a glistening eye, a hunched, twitching silhouette.

Elliot seized the coin and threw it into the fireplace. Flames roared unnaturally high, casting the cabin in blinding orange light. The whispers stopped. Scratching ceased. The creature let out a guttural hiss… then vanished.

Silence followed.

Morning came pale and indifferent. The lake reflected a calm sky. No footprints. No blood. Olivia’s sweater intact. No broken glass.

Elliot reached into his pocket. The coin was back. Cold now.

Something shifted beneath the porch. He froze. A faint, wet scratch echoed—just enough to make him doubt everything he had seen.


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Storyteller's Outro

"Sometimes the things that scare us most aren’t the ones we can see. It’s the ones that make us question our senses… and leave us wondering if we imagined the whole night. Sleep well… if you can."

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And if you dare… drop a comment and tell me your favorite scary movie, urban legend, or horror memory.
We’re just getting started—and things are about to get dark.

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