Repeating Patterns

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. I didn’t want to get closer. I was just checking on the place because Mom asked. She can’t make the drive up to the lake the way she used to. But I was getting on in years myself—heart attack five years ago, knee replacement last year—and that drive wasn’t getting any shorter. I told her to sell the place and be done. It’s not like we had great memories there as a family. I’d rather let happy folks do something better with it. But she’s been committed to the idea of letting the place fall to ruin as a last spite for the husband that she outlived...the man who broke both her eye orbits, her jaw, and one of her ribs over the years. She always forgets that that man was also my father, and that maybe his legacy wasn’t as complicated as hers. After all, she’s the one who decided, over and over again, to keep us there with him.

I put the truck in park and killed the headlights. I didn’t want whoever was in the cabin to know I was there. All I could think of was the Ferguson cabin, just a few miles up the road. A few years back junkies broke in, and the youngest of the Ferguson kids stumbled onto them. He was my age. Had a wife and kids, too. Thank God his kids were mostly grown, but still.

I tried to text my wife to let her know what was going on. But the cell signal out there was bad at the best of times, and not even text was going through.

I was pretty sure I could ease up through the trees and catch a glimpse of what was going on. It could just as easily have been Mary, the old woman from the next cabin in the other direction. She lived there full time, even in the winter, and more than once she’d come to our cabin to warm up because ours was better insulated. I couldn’t imagine why she’d come over in the dark on a hot night, but who knows—maybe the old well finally gave up the ghost and she needed water.

I got out and didn’t even make it four steps before the candle went out. I didn’t see who or what blew it out, which unnerved me: I should’ve been able to at least see a face. I froze there in the shin-high grass, hearing the whining of the mosquitoes around me. What should I do? Keep moving forward, and hope to catch a glimpse and then get out of there? Or just let whoever was in there have the run of it? After all, it’s not like my mother really cared if it burned to the ground.

Something in the cabin cried out. It sounded like a baby. And the sound was suddenly cut off, with a strangled yelp that I knew from hard experience: it was the same noise I used to make when my dad would yank me out of his chair by one arm. You’d think I’d have learned never to sit in his chair after he separated my shoulder. But that chair was where the man of the house sat, and somehow in my kid brain I thought that was me when my dad wasn’t around.

But it was time to think like the real man of the house, because someone in there was hurting a child.

I went back to the truck and got into the glove box and pulled out my father’s old gun.

***

The cabin was obviously abandoned, and there had been no cell signal for miles, so I knew Bobby couldn’t track us here. I even parked my car at the old Ferguson place and walked through the woods to the next cabin over with Lena on my hip, because I wouldn’t know if he’d lo-jacked my car until he showed up. And he had the ability. And he had the willingness. And I knew from hard experience that even if I called the cops on him again they wouldn’t take him into custody. He knew too many of them, and he was funny and charming. Only Lena and I knew what happened behind closed doors.

Lena was fussy again, crying out whenever the pain from her ear would get too much. Poor kid, been through so much just that day: saw her mom get walloped by her dad, got walloped in the ear herself when she tried to intervene. Only two years old, and still trying to keep Daddy from hurting Mommy. Tough kid. That was the moment I knew it was time to GTFO: the moment Bobby fucking hurt my kid when she tried to defend me.

I’m tougher than a two year old, I thought. Why am I putting up with this shit?

So as soon as he passed out I packed our most important stuff—my purse, birth certificates, marriage certificate, meds, formula and diapers, snacks and water, all the cash in his emergency stash—and bolted. It was the first time I was grateful he’d “accidentally” killed the cat last year. That would’ve been a whole new level of problems.

But the drive to my sister’s house was way too long, and my eye was throbbing and tearing so bad all the headlights were going double in my vision. The lake cabins made a good enough halfway point.

I would’ve stayed with Grandma at her cabin, but Bobby knew her place anyway. If he tried looking for us there, I wanted her to have absolutely no clue where we were, because she couldn’t lie worth a damn. I remembered her saying the one next door had been empty for years. It wasn’t still being used off and on, the way the Ferguson place had been. The last thing I wanted was to break into some place and end up getting into a shootout with some random owner and then burning the cabin down to try to cover up a murder.

Because yeah, I had Bobby’s gun. It was the only way to make sure he wasn’t going to use it on me or Lena…at least for the next 24 hours, until he could buy another one. I thought hard about just chucking it into the lake, but then I’d have nothing to defend myself with if he came after us. So when I popped the flimsy lock on the cabin’s back door, I had that gun in its holster on one hip. And after checking the place thoroughly, I put Lena on the other hip and dragged our bag in after us and shut the door. Yeah it was a shithole, musty and moldy and frozen in time to what looked like the 70s, but I just needed a few hours’ sleep before I could get on the road again to my sister’s.

By the light of my cell phone I found a set of blankets in a closet that wasn’t too musty or moldy. I covered the broken-down couch and lay Lena down on it. Thank God she conked right back out again. Then I searched for a flashlight, a candle, anything that could provide light: my cell phone wouldn’t last much longer. I found a half-used taper candle in a kitchen drawer. I didn’t smoke anymore but I still had my lighter; I lit the candle, puddled some of the wax on the windowsill, and stuck it in place. It sat crooked, and I was afraid the thing would just topple over and go out, but it was the best option I had.

By that light I found a garbage bag I could use to relieve myself, and change Lena’s diaper when she inevitably needed changed. God knows I couldn’t use the toilet—as many times as Grandma’s well had gone out over the years, there was no way a place abandoned this long still had functioning water. And I fully intended to walk back out of there in the morning having done no more damage than a broken lock and a puddle of wax on the windowsill. I’d even take the garbage with me.

I took my cell phone with me to the bathroom at the back of the house. I wanted to have a look at my eye. The room was a shattered, moldy mess—part of the roof had been leaking there—but the mirror was clear enough that I could see. God, he’d really fucked up my face this time. The painkillers were doing some really heavy lifting. I took a selfie, and took pains to include all the blood down the front of my shirt. I’d get a picture of Lena’s ear later when it was good and swollen.

With a little mewing sound, my cell phone died. Fuck. I couldn’t charge that again til I was at my sister’s. I pocketed it and was grateful for what little light that candle provided. It was black as pitch out here away from everything, and without its light I’d be smacking into walls.

Then I heard a vehicle pull off the loop road. It parked not far away.

I froze. It sounded like a truck. God help me, Bobby owned a truck.

Just then, I heard that stupid fucking candle fall down. It went out instantly, and I was plunged into darkness.

I fled back to Lena as best I could in the dark. She cried out in her sleep. At nearly the exact same moment I tripped on something in the dark and clipped a door frame with my face. I yelped. But I made it back to the windowsill, and in the light of the moon I could see a truck parked, interior light still on, at the head of the driveway where it met the loop road. I could see a man digging in the glove box. It didn’t look like Bobby, and the truck was about twenty years too old to be his. I prayed like hell that the man was just a local pulling off to get at something in the box, and that he would get back in his truck and drive away soon.

Then he stood away from the truck and eased the door shut one-handed. I’d have had to be blind not to see the gun in his other hand. I’ve seen one in Bobby’s hand enough times.

My guts went to ice. I stumbled to where Lena lay on the couch. I sat on the floor and put my back to her. It left me with a view of both the front and back doors, and the window. I left the fucking candle where it was on the floor. It smelled like something might be smoldering over there, but I didn’t give a shit. I was going nowhere near that window until I knew why the guy with the gun was here.

I suspected I knew. God knows Bobby had enough friends with scary backgrounds. How the fuck he found us this fast I had no idea. Maybe he really had lo-jacked the car. Maybe he’d been faking being passed out. Maybe he’d been having me followed. I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.

Fact was, someone was here. And I’d shoot the fucker dead before he took Lena or me back to Bobby. My hands shook as I pulled the gun from the holster.

***

I eased up just a few yards away from the window, but couldn’t see anything. It was just too dark.

Part of my head was yammering at me—the part that sounded like my wife. It was generally really good advice. She was the one always telling me, Back off, cool down, think about this. She was the one who undid a lot of the damage from my upbringing. I’ve said it to myself a thousand times, even said it to strangers after they’ve thanked me, Anything good that came from me comes from my wife. That part was yelling at me now, telling me to turn around and walk away. Absolutely no good could come from me bringing a gun into whatever was happening inside the cabin. My mom wouldn’t care, I shouldn’t care, and for damn sure whoever was in there didn’t care a damn about the niceties. I should just leave them be and go home. My wife wouldn’t thank me if I got hurt trying to save some broken-down wreck of a dream.

There was a smell, though—like something burning. Goddamn it, it was junkies. It had to be. The guy at the general store had said they were cooking drugs in the Ferguson’s sink.

Maybe I could scare them out if they thought I was a cop. I stuck the gun out in front of me in a two-handed grip and ran as fast as I could up to the wall beside the window. I slammed my back against it and craned around to glance in.

***

All I could hear was Lena’s breathing, regular as a metronome behind me. I think I’d forgotten how to breathe as I waited. It was hot as hell in here. The sweat rolled down my ribs and face. I couldn’t imagine waiting here one minute longer, even if there weren’t a guy with a gun outside. I wished I could just pack up Lena and our bag and run. I regretted ever coming up with this idea. Surely a hotel along the interstate would’ve been better, even if Bobby could’ve found us easier. But as my sister said many times, Woulda coulda shoulda. None of it adds up to “did.”

It seemed like forever before I heard the swish-swish of the guy coming up through the grass. It sounded like he was moving slow, like maybe he was being really cautious. Maybe he knew I had Bobby’s gun. I kept telling myself to stay calm—none of it adds up to “did.” I could still get Lena and me out of here safely if I didn’t go to prison for murder. Be my luck the guy was innocent, and it was all a giant misunderstanding. If I was going to prison for murder, I wanted it to be Bobby’s. He’d earned it. So if this guy just left us be...if he just did a lap of the cabin and took off...I’d be out of here with Lena in the red-hot minute right after that. No harm, no foul.

Except the fucker suddenly charged the house like a cop, pistol in a low, two-handed grip, and slammed himself up against the wall by the window. I saw the moonlight gleam on his hair when he ducked to look in. The gleam was silver, but I didn’t know if it was because his hair was that color, or the light was. I couldn’t see anything of his face. It was just too dark.

My hands shook like a tarantella as I flicked the safety off and raised the gun. I wasn’t shooting unless he came in, or raised his own gun, but damned if I was going to let him get me first.

Then the smoldering smell suddenly burst into a little flame as the curtain caught.

***

I couldn’t see anything at all. It was black as pitch inside the cabin. I realized just then how profoundly stupid I was being—how much danger I’d put myself in. My wife would be furious. I decided to just get the hell out of there. Who cared if some junkie saw me turn tail and run? It was better than going to jail for a murder that was probably just some big misunderstanding. Hell, I might’ve even misunderstood the light I’d seen. Maybe it had been the moon reflecting on the glass.

Suddenly a little flame popped up on the floor just inside the window. It was so bright after all the darkness, it showed me exactly what I’d feared: a person sitting on the floor of the living room, with his back to the couch. He had a gun trained on me.

I staggered away from the window, screaming, and started firing as fast as I could.

***

He saw me. He screamed, and he brought his gun up. Even as I pulled the trigger I remember thinking he looked awful old to be part of Bobby’s crowd.

***

The old woman walked slowly up to the wreck of the cabin. It was even worse than she remembered; the moonlight made the jagged remains look like broken teeth. The burnt smell lingered. It was a hot, close night, much like the night of the shooting. She’d kept this anniversary once a year since then. The grass around her shins went swish-swish as she came close.

She’d heard the boys gathered at the general store swapping ghost stories before—once upon a time she’d been one of those kids, smoking candy cigarettes and getting mosquito-bitten far into the night—but this was the first time she’d heard a story involving one of the cabins, and a shooting, and a baby crying. She had a sinking feeling that the ghost story was nothing more than a retelling of her personal history, twisted into titillation for a group of kids who thought a story around the campfire was the scariest thing in the dark.

All the stories involved “a night just like this one,” and ghosts repeating their patterns of movement from just before they got killed—pacing a floor, running down the road, crossing the railroad tracks. Those kids telling the stories thought seeing a ghost would be terrifying.

They had no idea.

By far the scariest things anyone could face were the patterns repeated by the living.