The Cabin

I visited the cabin, finally. It was in a worse state that I thought it could be – even after so many years.

As my boots crunched over what remained of the cobbled pathway that led to the front door, I brushed aside a low hanging tree branch and got my first good look at the place.

The once sturdy wooden walls leant sideways under the weight of the collapsed roof. It had been caved in by a fallen tree. It had bisected the roof at a near midpoint, causing two halves of the tin plates to bend upwards. It occurred to be then that the angle made the cabin look as if it had eyebrows, and it was not happy to see me. The thought raised a sardonic smile on my lips. The wood, once a rich red brown, now hung in a sickly black hue. It looked infected, reclaimed, abandoned…sick.

I tripped over a loose cobblestone when I saw a children’s kite hanging down from one of the trees near the right side of the building. It looked as if it had gotten tangled among the branches mid-flight. The sad strings were knotted but had just enough length to hang down by the cabin morosely. The scene held a memory for me. The kite was a blue box kite, with white stripes. My kite.

I closed my eyes as my skin prickled, gooseflesh reaching out to meet the forest’s dew. Somewhere within me, a child giggled in delight. She smelled of sand, suncream, and ice lollies – it turned my stomach, and I coughed it away.

I kicked the loose cobblestone back to where I had stumbled across it. It refused to return to its divot, however, as a root had bubbled up the path beneath my feet. It must have been loose for a while.

I took extra care when placing my feet from then on, careful not to disturb any more of the winding, bumpy path on my way to the cabin door.

When I reached it, I gently laid a hand against the soft, rotting surface. It felt as if my arm would break through if I dared to push it with any force.

That was when I heard the ticking. A rhythmic, small heartbeat from inside the cabin. The corners of my mouth rose in a small smile.

‘Still running, despite the years,’ I thought to myself fondly.

Against my better judgment, I pushed the door aside. The rusted hinges cracked and whined in protest, along with the wood itself, which bent more than opened.

Then, the smell hit me. Hot sweet rot, and decay. It invaded my throat and stuck to my tongue. I spluttered, gasping in more of the claggy air. Dust and mould were so thick inside the cabin that it appeared as a grey mist, suspended in the air; it started to swirl at my disturbance.

I looked across the room, as far as the nasty smog would allow, and found the cabin in a dire state. Everything, every object and piece of furniture, was covered in a thick blanket of dust. Each plank of wood and floorboard was saturated with rancid water and mucus-like growths. It was a strange mix of dryness and algae. A horrid place.

I ventured further in, leaving the bent door behind me. The only sources of light going into the cabin were from the broken door, the large hole in the roof, and the smashed windows. I squinted through the shadows to see a soggy sofa, and beyond that, a fireplace. Charcoal sat within the hearth, almost pristine and glinting black, as if a fire had only just died within its cradle.

There was a mantle framing the fireplace. It was slate grey, but dripping with moisture. Three picture frames stood atop it, each free of dust or decay. Someone had been cleaning them. An awful prickle of panic rolled down my spine at the sight. I was not the only visitor to this cabin, and perhaps there was even a resident? Who could bear these conditions?

Suddenly, a sharp tapping began against one of the shards of glass in a windowpane. I gasped and turned to see…something, outside. It took a while for my eyes to adjust and for my brain to make sense of the shapes, but I managed to comprehend that it was the kite. The dowels that held the box kite frame were blowing in the wind and hitting the window rhythmically. Something about its knocking to get inside upset me, and I felt tears well up in my eyes. I could smell suncream again.

The weather outside seemed to worsen suddenly. The breeze turned into a howling wind, and rain began to clatter across what was left of the roof. The cabin did not want me there for long.

It was then that I remembered my reason for coming to the cabin in the first place: the artefact. I could not hear it ticking as I had when I opened the door. The downpour was drowning the noise out. I sighed in frustration. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

Something about the mantlepiece was drawing me in. The picture frames stood so clean, and the coals shone so brightly.

‘As good a place as any, to look for the blasted thing,’ I thought to myself, my temper beginning to heat. Why was it my job to find the artefact in the first place?

I took a step closer but soon stumbled. My foot had knocked a pile of wooden number blocks down, scattering them across the floor. They were so buried in dust; I had failed to notice them. I crouched down to pick one up, cringing as my fingers sank into the moulded wood. I held it up to the meagre light shining through from the hole in the roof, and I could see that it was black and slimy, with small shelf mushrooms clinging to the edges. My intrigue outweighed my disgust, and I looked closer. The number 10 could barely be made out under the slime, but it was still there, a red number 10.

Another memory tugged at the edges of my mind, this one far more vivid than the last.

Solid blues, yellows, and reds, painted numbers. Each block heavy and reassuring. My chubby hands counted: ‘1, 2, 3, 4…’ It came easy to me. I turned each bright number block to face me with the correct number; ‘5, 6, 7, 8…’

What a pleasure, to be happily counting in a corner by oneself. Ordering blocks just so and stacking them into a pyramid of rainbow shapes. I was happy. ‘9…’ I thought, adding another block. Then, taking the red number 10 block in both hands, I stood to place it on top of my creation.

Then, a schoolmate, perhaps a friend, or maybe a bully, crashed into the pile, roaring with laughter as they did. The impact spilled the blocks across the playground, and I felt my heart drop with them.

I returned to my body in the same position that I had left it, crouched low and holding the rotten number block in my hand. The memory associated with the kite had felt distant and fluid, like salt dissolved in water – just a taste, but the number block was more of a re-living. I soured and quickly resolved not to touch anything else in the cabin, throwing the number block across the room for good measure.

I trudged over to the fireplace and stopped only to notice that one of the three picture frames had been turned around to face the wall. The other two held happy pictures, but I was unwilling to focus my eyes on them. Instead, I dropped to my knees before the hearth and slid an old, rusted grate to the side.

The ticking that I had heard when opening the door returned slowly. It started as a tinny ring but soon grew louder as I brought my head closer to the coals. By the time I was close enough to reach my hand into the ash, it felt like a heavy heartbeat in my head – pressure. I was sure that the artefact was hidden in there.

Cautiously, I reached out my hand, intending to pick the pile of black apart piece by piece. However, when my fingers closed around one of them, it was unmoving. It was as if it had been stuck in position with superglue. Knowing then that the coals were indeed cold. I placed both palms on the sides of the pile and pulled – intent on removing the entire thing in one graceless lump.

I was thrown back across the room with stunning force. An overwhelming heat engulfed my skin, and I hit my back against the soggy sofa. The hearth had burst into flames. I froze in shock, watching as the orange fire licked high above the coals and caressed the walls of the cabin. The wet floor began to bubble, and the heat grew too fast to understand. The cabin was lighting up like a touchpaper! Soon, the whole place would be ash.

I scrambled to get up and run to the door. I pulled at the handle despately before bending the door back by the planks and squeezing through the meagre gap I had made.

I sprinted back across the cobble path and looked back at the burning building.

‘I am never visiting the cabin again,’ I thought bitterly, not staying to watch it burn down.

A/N: This was written for the prompt 'A Haunted Cabin' in my community's Thursday Writing Club! It will be a 3 part series, and it is meant to be an introspective deep dive into what it feels to grow up as a woman. I hope you enjoy!

-TWW