Death's Door

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It was a dreadful place, that cabin, a corner of the world where evil festered. With no one to live there, others made home in the cabin's crumbling bones. Most were woodland critters with eyes like worried wisps in the dark, hoping for safety from the owls who ruled from the canopy. There is another with claim to the cabin, however, something old and unfathomable. Few who have seen it remain, and fewer are sane enough to relay their stories. This is one of those stories; of three campers desperately lost and searching for hope. Instead, they found the cabin and its candle, luring travellers to their fate like an angler in the deep.

The campers were young, two boys and a woman a few years older. One of the boys, larger and more proud, chose a site off the path, well past the edge of town. The woman and the younger boy objected, but the older boy was stubborn and resisted enough that the three agreed on a campsite beyond the river. The site was past the paddocks and in a wild woodland, patched with occasional clearings where unwise campers might pitch their site.

After setting up camp, they realised they had forgotten to bring firewood for the night. The younger, more fearful boy protested,

'It gets cold past the paddocks,' he said.

Not only this, but the three had left the truck's headlights on while pitching the tent, and it had drained the battery dry.

The older boy offered an idea. His dad kept a wood axe in the truck, and he suggested they chop down a tree and use the wood for a fire. The woman scoffed at the thought, but they were running out of options, and the night would only grow colder. So they set out into the woods. It was then they found the cabin.

The cabin was angry, its roof slanted like a brow across the front, and its rickety windows leered like the eyes of an angry bird. A great, dead tree towered above the cabin and clutched the surrounding growth with its branches, coiled as if it could rip it all free at any moment.

The first thing the campers noticed was the candle. It flickered in the left window, shifting in a wind that wasn't there. It didn't reveal anything special inside, but the light leeched a memory in the woman's mind. She scratched her head and recited the poem she had heard only hours before from a man in the bar.

The House belongs to Father Death.

It may house your final breath.

If it's dark, then leave it be.

If it's light, then hearken me.

The man was sunken and hollow, like his life had been unkind. The campers had been eating when he slammed a hand on the table. His eyes were wet as a fish, and his unkempt beard dropped chunks of something brown onto their food. He recited the poem cautiously, like he was afraid of getting it wrong. Then he left as quickly as he had come.

To enter safe and leave at day,

You must know what keeps Death at bay.

Swiftly to you, Death will come,

If you're wrong or try to run.

You must knock and know for sure,

Just what waits beyond this door.

Suddenly, the forest erupted in sound. Hundreds of screeching, black crows wrestled far above the campers in the dead tree's highest bows. They twisted and tussled for space on its narrow branches, dropping thick, black feathers to the forest floor. Their cries were deafening to the campers below, and the younger boy clutched his ears in pain. Something big fell from the tree and landed with a thump. The woman screamed. It was a human skull, picked clean of flesh and meat. She looked back to the crows to see them perched in a line, still and staring.

She wanted to run, but the stress of the situation proved too much for even that, and she began to cry. The older boy saw this and huffed; he stormed across the clearing and knocked on the door several times. He went to call out to whoever might have been inside when the door creaked open. He squinted at something in the cabin the woman could not see, and his eyes opened wide with fear. A monstrous, black claw gripped the boy and hauled him inside before the door slammed shut. The crows launched into a frenzy, ripping the quiet air with piercing cries.

The younger boy ran. He made it a few steps before a black cloud shot across the clearing, and hundreds of crows descended upon him like rats, ripping and tearing at the boy until his body became limp, and his screams abruptly stopped. One by one, the crows flew back to the tree, and the cacophony quieted for a chorus of grinding beaks. The woman clutched her knees and vomited onto the grass. She dared not look at the boy or what was left of him.

The woman steeled herself and stared at the door. She had no choice; she must knock or die. She thought hard before raising a hand to her chest, where she felt her heart's fast but steady beating. Then, with a trembling hand, she struck the door to its exact rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The door handle turned, and the cabin door opened.

She called out to the older boy, but only the crows answered. She looked to the window where the candle sat. It was snug between two black metal prongs that stuck out of the wall. The woman leaned in for a closer look before they suddenly shifted and, like two fingers, snuffed the candle out.

The cabin fell to darkness, and reality warped in the woman's mind. The window changed and revealed to her another place. The forest was hot and red and in it was a river of flame. Near the window was an enormous ship with white sails crewed by a thousand chittering bugs. Something tall and thin was at the helm; the flames cast its shadow across the sails. The woman saw a long beak and a hundred wings unfurl before her mind broke, and she burst out of the cabin into the cold air of the woods. She ran as fast as she possibly could, tripping and tumbling but never looking back. Her mind sang with the beating of wings and the screams of the dying boy.

The woman was found the following morning collapsed in her tent, nearly dead and babbling nonsense. She was taken into town but escaped authorities when she saw a flock of crows and ran screaming.

Police searched the woods for the missing boys but found nothing, and they saw no cabin. No other campers went missing, and the old man at the bar was never seen again.

Somewhere another group will find the cabin. It might be a different forest, a different time, but it will be there when the time is right. Next time though, whoever wanders by will know the poem, imparted to them by a crazed old woman, fearful of the cabin and its candle, burning in the window.