In the remote outskirts of Akureyri, Iceland, stood a lonely wooden cabin. Around it, for miles, there was nothing but endless snow and the haunting green glow of the Northern Lights.
Erik, a retired writer, had moved there for peace. He wanted silence. But after a week, the silence began to feel... heavy. Like it was watching him.
The First Footprint
One morning, after a heavy blizzard, Erik stepped out onto his porch to clear the snow. He stopped dead. There, leading from the edge of the dark pine forest straight to his front door, was a trail of footprints.
They were large, barefoot, and deep. But they stopped exactly at his doorstep. There were no return prints.
Erik's heart hammered against his ribs. He checked his heavy security locks. Everything was bolted from the inside. "It's the wind," he whispered to himself, though the wind doesn't leave five-toed marks in the frost.
The Sound of Breathing:
That night, the temperature dropped to -20°C. Erik was sitting by the fireplace, reading, when he heard it.
Hooo... haaa... hooo...
It was the sound of slow, heavy breathing. It wasn't coming from the chimney or the pipes. It was coming from the empty rocking chair across the room. Erik stared at the chair. It wasn't moving, but the air around it was shimmering, like heat rising from a road.
He threw his book at the chair. The book didn't hit the wood; it stopped mid-air for a split second, as if it had hit a chest, before falling to the floor.
Erik ran to his bedroom and locked the door. He didn't sleep. He sat with his hunting knife, watching the door handle.
The Reflection:
The next day, Erik decided to flee. He packed his bags, but when he went to the bathroom to splash water on his face, he saw the ultimate horror.
The mirror was fogged up from his breath. Slowly, a handprint appeared on the glass—from the inside of the fog. Then, letters began to form, traced by an invisible finger:
"W-H-Y A-R-E Y-O-U I-N M-Y C-H-A-I-R?"
Erik backed away, stumbling into the hallway. He realized then that he wasn't being haunted by a ghost. He was experiencing a glitch in time. Iceland's ancient folk tales spoke of the Huldufólk—the hidden people—who lived in a parallel dimension.
He saw his front door open slowly. No one was there, but the snow on the floor began to compress under invisible feet. The footprints were moving toward him.
Erik realized with a chill that in the other person's world, he was the intruder. He was the ghost. To the invisible guest, Erik was the monster invading their home.
The Vanishing:
Erik didn't make it to his car. A month later, a search party reached the cabin. They found the door wide open. The fireplace was cold. Erik's car was still in the driveway, covered in snow.
Inside the house, they found Erik's journal. The last entry was written in shaky handwriting: "He is standing right behind me. I can feel the cold of his skin. He thinks I am the shadow. He is reaching for my throat to clear the air..."
Erik was never found. But sometimes, people passing that cabin in the dead of winter say they see two shadows in the window—two figures forever fighting for a space that only one of them can truly own.
Perspective determines our reality; what we perceive as a threat might simply be another soul trying to protect their own space."
In life, we often judge others based on our own narrow viewpoint. We see people as "intruders" or "enemies" without realizing that from their perspective, we might be the ones causing the conflict.
Before you react in fear or anger, try to understand the "invisible" side of the story. Most conflicts in the world happen because two sides are fighting for the same "chair," both believing they are the rightful owners. Understanding that reality is multi-layered can help us move from fear to empathy.
The End
Akifa,
The Author.