Darkest Mysteries Online — The Strange and Unusual Podcast 2026
Scary Airbnb Stories That Will Keep You Awake
08 Jan 2026
Chapter 1: What is the main topic discussed in this episode?
Hello, I'm welcome stories all the time. Glad you are here. Let's get into it. I'd booked a cabin for a lawn weekend just outside a tiny place in eastern Tennessee called Worthen Hollow. I wasn't going for some epic wilderness experience or anything like that. I just needed space. So, when I found a listing that promised unplugged serenity, it sounded perfect.
No neighbors within a mile, no Wi-Fi, no cell service, just woods and a small wooden cabin up on a ridge. At the time, that sounded peaceful. Now, I think about that detail a little differently.
Chapter 2: What eerie experiences occurred during the Airbnb stay?
The place was run by an older couple who lived at the bottom of the hill. I met them briefly when I arrived. They were polite, but didn't linger. The man handed me a big, heavy flashlight and said something about the power sometimes, acting funny in the wind. His wife gave me this quick smile and said, If you hear coyotes, don't worry. They're farther away than they sound. That was it.
No tort, no lingering questions. I think they liked keeping to themselves, which worked fine for me. I just wanted to drop off the grid for a few days and maybe feel a little more like a person again. The cabin itself was simple. Wood panelling, one bedroom, a porch with two chairs, a kitchen with exactly three forks, and one of those tiny hotel-style coffee makers.
No TV, no radio, not even a clock. It was clean, but it didn't feel lived in, more like a display model. The walls had a few faded photos of the nearby hills, some old logging cabins, maybe a church or two, but no signs that anyone had ever stayed long. My first night was exactly what I hoped for. I made a big bowl of pasta, read on the porch until it got too dark, then passed out early.
The silence was so complete it felt heavy. Not in a creepy way at first, more like a weighted blanket I didn't realize I needed. The next day, I drove a few miles to hike this little trail I'd found on an old blog. It was steep in places and not particularly well-maintained, but it was pretty, mostly trees, a few rocky overlooks, and not another soul in sight. I took a bunch of pictures.
Bark textures, tree roots, an old mossy sign that just said Ridge Trail Loop and didn't really look at any of them afterward. I got back to the cabin late afternoon, knee-aching, and made a grilled cheese with some stuff I brought from home. That night, though, something just fell off, and I don't mean in a dramatic horror movie kind of way. It was subtle.
The air felt charged, like the static you get when a storm is coming, but the sky had been clear all day. I brushed it off, probably just nerves, all my body finally slowing down after weeks of tension. It was around nine when I heard the knocking. I was brushing my teeth in the little bathroom, how zoning out when it happened. Three short knocks, clear, rhythmic, not loud, just firm.
And they came from the back door. Now, there was only one way up to the cabin, and that was the gravel path that led to the front. The back door? It opened on to dense woods. No trail, no steps, no lights. Just thick trees and waist-high weeds. I froze, two for still in my hand. I weeded. Nothing. Then again. Three knocks. Exactly the same.
My first thought was animal, or raccoon maybe, but it didn't sound like that. There was rhythm, like someone was standing there with a purpose. I turned off the bathroom light and crept out toward the back of the cabin, trying not to make any noise. I peeked through the window, total darkness. No movement. No flashlight beam. No sound at all.
Eventually, I talked myself into thinking it had to be something harmless. An old screen shifting in the wind, or maybe a branch hit the door just right. I locked both doors again, double checked the windows, and left the kitchen light on. I also slept in my jeans and kept my boots next to the bed, just in case. I didn't even brush out my hair.
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Chapter 3: How did the cabin's isolation contribute to the tension?
I went out to the porch with my coffee, and that's when I saw something that stopped me cold. A coffee mug. Sitting upside down on the edge of a gravel path, right before the tree line started. Perfectly clean. White ceramic. No writing. No chips. It was too far from the cabin to have just rolled out there. It had been placed intentionally. I hadn't brought any mugs outside.
I'd only used the same ship blew one inside the whole time. And this one? I hadn't seen it in the kitchen. I picked it up. It felt warm, like I had been out in the early sun for a while. I brought it in and set it on the counter, figuring maybe the hosts left it by mistake. Maybe they came by early and didn't want to knock. I even tried to message them through air, just to check.
There was no signal, but the message stayed in my outbox. Sending, I figured it'd go through when I hit town again. That night, the final one started out fine. I read on the couch, flip through a crossword book I'd brought, tried not to check the clock too much. I was halfway through a chapter when it happened again. Three knocks. Only this time, they came from the front door. I froze.
There was no reason, none, for someone to be at that door. No neighbors. No deliveries. No other cabins. I hadn't even told anyone exactly where I was staying. The knocks came again. Not pounding. Just even deliberate. Then a voice. It was a man's voice. Calm. Totally steady. Not I sat there in the dark, the book slipping off my lap and waited. There was no other sound. No footsteps.
No more knocking. Just stillness. After a few minutes, I heard something crunch softly on the gravel, like someone toning away. Then nothing. I didn't sleep much. I kept every light off and sat there with a flashlight in my lap until it was light enough to see outside. When I finally got the nerve to open the door, nothing was there.
But when I stepped around the side of the cabin, I saw the mug again, this time upright, sitting right beneath the bedroom window, right next to where I had left my boots the first night. I didn't touch it. I went inside, threw everything into my bag, and got out of there by seven. I stopped briefly at the host house to return the keys. Their place looked completely empty. No lights, no car.
I knocked, but no one answered. I left the keys on their mat and drove until my phone finally lit back up. The air blistering had gone. Like, completely vanished. My message still showed ascending. No reply. No record. I'd been burned out.
Work had been an unstopped loop for months, and everything in the city felt loud emails pinging, neighbors stomping upstairs, sirens every night, like the whole place was wound too tight. I wanted somewhere quiet, somewhere still, so when I saw the cabin listing, it felt like the right call. It was a smaller frame, red roof, two bedrooms, just a few minutes from Bishop Trail Preserve.
I'd had that trail saved in my notes since the spring. The pictures made it look peaceful somewhere between rustic and cozy. There was a little fire pit, a half-dead lawn surrounded by pine and poplar trees, and the kind of vibe that says, no one's going to bother you out here. The reviews were decent. A few people mentioned the Wi-Fi barely worked, and that cell reception was spotty at best.
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Chapter 4: What strange noises were heard during the night?
The sun was already starting to sink behind the trees, throwing long shadows across the gravel driveway. The cabin looked like the photos, but more. Tired. The paint on the trim was cracked and peeling. There was rust where the gutter met the siding. The steps up to the porch had a soft give to them, like the wood had started to rot.
When I opened the front door, this faint, mossy smell drifted out. Not awful, just damp. Like old leaves on rain-soaked plywood. Inside, it was fine. A little worn, sure, but clean enough. The furniture was all second-hand stuff, soft armchairs that didn't match, a low coffee table that had been sanded down and stained, and evenly a chipped ceramic lamp with a buzzing bulb.
but the sheets were fresh, the bathroom was stocked. There was even a binder on the counter labelled Welcome Guest, in big bubbly font, filled with local restaurant menus and a list of house rules written in Comic Sans. I tossed my duffel in the bed in the bigger room, cracked the window an inch to let in some fresh air and didn't bother unpacking. I wasn't there to settle in.
I just needed to break. That first night was pretty uneventful. I made some pasta, read a few chapters of the beat-up paperback I'd brought, and then brought a drink outside to the fire pit. The air had that clean, chilly edge that makes your skin feel tighter. Crickets were out in full force, and somewhere in the distance, I heard a few dogs barking. Farm dogs, probably. Otherwise, it was quiet.
Not peaceful quiet like full-stop quiet. The kind that makes you notice every creak of your chair every breath you take. I stayed out there until about ten, then went inside, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed. It was one of those rare nights where you expect to toss and turn but end up slipping under right away. Just as I was drifting off, I heard a sound. Not a knock. Not really.
More like a dull bump. Like something hit the outer wall. I froze. Ten seconds later, another bump. Same spot, same dull thud. Like someone leaned against it, slowly. I stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. Total darkness. The kind that swallows the glass. I didn't see anything. Didn't hear anything else.
After a few minutes, I went back to bed, told myself it was a deer or maybe a raccoon nosing around. The next morning, there were marks under that window, just a few small curved scuff lines in the wood, like something had rubbed up against it. Not claw marks or anything dramatic, just enough to notice. I stared at them for a minute, then shrugged it off. That day, I finally hit the trail.
Did the full six-mile loop. I took my time, stopped to eat a sandwich on a flat rock near the ridge, took a few photos that I couldn't post because I still had no service, and by the time I got back to the cabin, my legs were full of the satisfying ache you only get from walking farther than you meant to. I showered, made dinner, and by seven it already felt like night.
That second evening, I tried to sit outside again, but it didn't feel right. There was no wind, no bugs. No night birds, just this heavy stillness in the trees. Like everything out there was waiting for something. I know how that sounds, but it didn't feel like imagination. It felt like the whole patch of forest had taken a breath and refused to let it out. I stayed up maybe ten minutes.
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Chapter 5: What unsettling discoveries were made around the cabin?
Longer than normal arms just hanging at their sides. They weren't moving. Not waving. Not pacing. Not even swaying. Just standing there, looking at the wall. Or maybe the window. I couldn't see a face, just the outline. I backed away without making a sound. I sat down on the floor and waited for hours. Every muscle was tight. My breathing felt loud. I couldn't bring myself to check again.
I just stared at the holey wall until gray light started creeping in through the blinds. When I finally got the nerve to go outside, the ground back there was soft and damp, the kind that should have held every blueprint likely. There was nothing. Not one single mark. I should have left then. I know that. But I didn't. I made breakfast.
I sat on the porch for a bit, and I told myself it had to be some trick of my tired brain. I hadn't slept much. I'd hiked all day. Maybe it really was a tree I misread on my own reflection, or whatever I needed to believe. That night, I didn't even pretend to relax. I kept every light on. Sat on the couch with a fire poker across my lap like some character in a bad survival movie.
I didn't open a single curtain. Every so often, I'd check the locks again, even though I knew they were still bolted. Around eleven, something changed. It wasn't a noise. Not exactly. It was more like the air in the room tilted. You know that feeling when an elevator moves too fast and your stomach shifts before your brain catches up. That, but sideways.
Like the house leaned a few inches off center, even though nothing in it moved. I walked to the front door. Slowly, carefully, not to open it just to check the bolt again. I looked through the peephole. There was a man standing on the porch. No knock. No footsteps leading up. No sound at all. Just there.
He wore a flat cap and a long black coat that looked what a lot, even though it hadn't rained. His shoulders were squared, his arms perfectly still. The porch light caught his face, or where his face should have been, and it looked wrong. Like someone had tried to paint a face and gave up halfway. Blurry. Too smooth. I stood there frozen, watching him through the peephole, trying not to blink.
He didn't move. Not once. I backed away slowly, holding my breath, and didn't take my eyes off the door until dawn started to show through the kitchen window.
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Chapter 6: How did the host's behavior raise suspicions?
When I looked again, the porch was empty. I didn't shower. Didn't grab my bag. I took my keys, got in the car and drove until my signal came back. Once it did, I cancelled the last night of my stay and didn't leave a review. I didn't want anyone from the listing contacting me. I had booked a cabin way out in the foothills of eastern Kentucky, not far from a place called Leeville.
I say, not far, but it was still a solid two hours from the nearest grocery store or anything you'd call a town. I was behind on a writing deadline and thought a week in the middle of nowhere might kick me into gear. Just me, my laptop, a stocked fridge, and absolutely no distractions. The listing had great reviews. People used words like charming and peaceful and unplugged.
The photos were nice, wood-paneled everything. One of those old cloth hotels with window view. I wrap around porch with a single rocking chair, all nestled between thick green hills. Rustic, but not sketchy. The host's name was Claude. He sent me a message the morning I was supposed to arrive.
No cell signal past the Shell station, he said, and once I hit the gravel road, I needed to drive six more miles, then take a left at an old rusted mailbox. The key, he said. would be under the deerskull nail to the porch post. I remember thinking, okay, that's a little horror movie-ish, but I figured it was Kentucky. People have their own way of doing things. It was a long drive.
The last stretch felt endless, just gravel, trees, and silence. And when I finally pulled up, I realized just how remote it was. No other cabins. No power lines. Not even distant light on the hills. just wind through trees and a few birds I couldn't name. But the place looked exactly like the pictures. Old, yeah, but it had that kind of age that felt lived in, not neglected.
The front porch creaked a little. The steps were slightly uneven and sure enough, there was a deer skull nailed right to one of the posts. Staring down at me, I found the key tucked behind its lower jaw. Inside was cozy. Claude had left some dry firewood stacked near the stove and I lit it right away. The bedroom was upstairs, clean, simple, with a big old bed that smelled faintly of cedar.
I unpacked, made a basic dinner, and opened my laptop, but mostly I just sat there listening to the quiet. The first night passed without anything unusual. The second morning, I got up around 7, made coffee, and walked out to the porch. The air was cool, not cold. Quiet again. Still not a single car had passed by, but I noticed the rocking chair across from me was moving. Just a little. Barely.
Walking slowly back and forth. There wasn't any wind. The trees weren't even swaying. I washed it for a bit, then nudged it with my foot to stop the motion. I didn't think much of it. Maybe it just kept going from when I sat in it the night before. That evening, I brought out a blanket and sat on the porch again, this time facing the valley.
The air felt heavier somehow, like something had shifted. I glanced at the chair again. It was rocking. I am. I actually got up checked underneath it. No animals. No breeze.
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Chapter 7: What happened when the guest tried to leave the cabin?
No bugs caught in the wood. Nothing. I moved it, dragged it back into the corner of the porch, flush against the siding, just to be sure. That night, maybe a little after midnight, I was woken up by this low, dragging sound, kind of scraping mixed with a dull thump. It took me a second to figure out what I was hearing. Then I realized it was the porch.
Something was being dragged across it, slowly, back and forth. I sat up, held my breath for a few seconds. It kept going. Eventually, I worked up the nerve, got out of bed, and opened the front door. The rocking chair had been moved back to its original spot, and it was rocking again just like before, slow, steady, like someone had gotten up a moment ago. I didn't say anything out loud.
I didn't even fully step out. Just stood there for a second, then pulled it back again, this time wedging it tightly between the woodpile and the porch railing. I pressed it in so hard I could feel the frame bend slightly under my hands. Day three, I decided I needed a break. I drove into town, grabbed lunch, wandered around the local hardware store longer than necessary.
Just wanted to be around people for a while. Something about that cabin was starting to feel off, and I didn't trust myself not to spiral if I stayed alone too long. When I got back, the sun was just starting to dip. And there it was. The chair was no longer on the porch. It had been moved. Now it sat directly in front of the cabin door, square to it, like it was waiting for someone to answer.
Not tipped, not crooked. Just straight and still. I stood at the edge of the driveway for a long minute before walking around it. I didn't touch it. Inside, I locked the door. Then I locked the windows. Then I dragged the small table from the kitchen and shoved it against the door for good measure. I didn't care how it looked. That night, I barely slept.
I stayed in my clothes, boots on, flashlight on the nightstand, backpack packed, just laid there listening. At some point, maybe around three again, I heard the same dragging noise. It was slower this time, like something heavier. Then it stopped. A few seconds later, there were three soft knocks. Then silence. I didn't move.
I stayed in bed, stiff as a board, until the light started coming through the window. When I opened the front door, the chair was back where it started, rocking slowly. I took a picture. I needed to prove to myself I wasn't just losing it. I messaged Claude nothing. Later that afternoon, I drove out to the ridge where I could get a signal and tried to call Abe. Got put on hold.
Then the call dropped. I didn't bother calling again. That night, I didn't even try to sleep. I stayed in the main room, fully dressed, keys in hand, light on. Around four, I must have drifted off in the entree. I woke up to breathing, not inside, on the porch, shallow, raspy, like someone was standing just outside the door, trying not to be noticed.
Then came a sound I still think about, the soft, broken humming, like someone trying to remember a song they used to know, but only getting bits and pieces. The kind of humming that trails off, then starts again, like they're getting frustrated. It stopped after maybe 30 seconds, and then nothing. When the sun finally came up, I opened the door. The chair was gone again.
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Chapter 8: What was the significance of the mysterious messages received?
No trace of him. Nothing tied to the cabin. I was 27 when I'd booked a cabin. The little A-frame cabin out in the Blue Ridge Foothills about three hours from Raleigh. Looked like something you'd see on a travel blog. Cozy wooden walls. Very light-strung across the porch. Forests in every direction. Five-star reviews, more than 50 of them.
Guess went on about how peaceful it was, how clean, how exactly what I needed. Sounded perfect. I got there Thursday afternoon, a little after three. I remember that because I had a long debate with myself about whether it was too early to open a beer. The place was easy to find.
Long gravel road off the main highway, winding up through trees until it opened to a tiny clearing with a cabin and just enough space to park. The host had sent me the door code a day before. Super polite messages, very thorough instructions. The only the odd part was a single line at the end. Please ignore the shed at back. It's locked and not part of the rental. Seemed harmless at the time.
I figured maybe it was where they kept extra supplies or old furniture. I'd seen plenty of cabins with locked closets labelled own access only. Not weird. Inside, the cabin was exactly as pictured. Warm wood everywhere. Soft fur blankets on the couch. A basket of coffee pods and tea bags by the kettle. Someone had clearly put thought into the place. It didn't feel like a rental.
It felt like someone's personal hideaway. There was a binder on the kitchen counter with the usual info, Wi-Fi password, emergency contact, hiking trail maps, local restaurants, fire safety stuff. Everything laminated. They even included a stack of trail mix packets and a first aid kit by the door. Into the very back of the binder, almost like an afterthought, was a single loose page.
White printer paper, handwritten in thick red marker. Do not go past the creek. Ever. No context. No signature. Just that. I actually laughed when I saw it. Thought maybe it was a prank a guest had left behind. Or the host trying to add some spooky charm for effect. You know, like when people hang fake, beware of Sasquatch signed in mountain towns.
I showed it to a friend later over text and added, guess I won't find out what's past the creek. That first night, I made pasta and watched a movie. There was a decent TV with HDMI and strong Wi-Fi which surprised me given the location. After dinner, I read for a while up in the loft. The bed was tucked under the frame peak surrounded by little shelves of books and battery-powered lanterns.
Honestly, it was kind of dreamy. Around midnight, I heard something outside. Just a quick series of soft crunches, like someone stepping on dry leaves. I paused, listened. Nothing after that. It wasn't loud, barely louder than a squir, really. I convinced myself that's exactly what it was. A squirrel, or maybe a raccoon.
Still, I locked the front door and double-checked the windows before going to sleep. The next morning, I decided to go for a walk and check out the creek. It wasn't far, maybe fifty yards through the trees behind the cabin, just a thin stream winding through the forest with one of those concrete slab bridges barely wide enough to walk across.
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