Snowshod Mountain

We drove up the snowy, winding road toward the cozy A-frame cabin. The rental app was as frozen as the landscape, but we managed to check in just before it crashed. Coasting to a stop in the slick white driveway, we both took a breath to admire the serene mountain scenery. The afternoon sunlight, breaking through the clouds as they delivered their fluffy payload, glinted off the pillows of snow that covered everything in sight. Satisfied with avoiding the no-show fees, I was looking forward to this hard-earned weekend trip with my husband, away from everyone and everything.

Including the internet, cell reception, and probably any chance of getting back down the mountain based on the increasing intensity of the snowfall.

AJ wrinkled his nose as he stepped out of the car and nearly slipped. A thick, glossy sheet of ice coated the concrete, and a thin, crispy layer sparkled on top of the snow as we crunched our way toward the front door with our luggage and groceries. Retrieving the key from the code-protected box under the doorknob and eager to escape the bitter cold of the mountain, AJ wrestled the door open and walked inside. The switch on the wall near the entrance was ornamental—either all twelve bulbs in the ostentatious chandelier dangling in the center of the ceiling were dead, there was a wiring issue, or the power was out. As the door closed behind me, the darkness swallowed us.

I felt along the wall until I touched the course brocade of curtains. Throwing them open, I revealed the large bay window I saw on the face of the cabin as we approached. Dim light flooded the living room and showed a fireplace on the far wall, laden with wood and a fire-starter brick. AJ shuffled over to the hearth and retrieved a matchbook from the mantle, striking one and filling the room with the pleasant and unmistakable scent of burned sulfur. Soon, the fire roared in its brick domain, and the warmth and light encouraged us to kick off our shoes and explore the cabin.

The kitchen lay on the other side of the wall with the fireplace, and relief washed over us as the switch responded and a vintage fixture flickered to life over a small stone island. The spacious room featured the promised stove, fridge, and pantry (where we promptly unloaded the groceries into their designated temperature zones. Satisfied that the trip wouldn't be a complete waste, we climbed the stairs to see the bedroom and bathroom, both clean and tidy. After dropping our luggage at the foot of the bed, we returned to the living room and the romance of the rustic fireplace.

We sat, wrapped up together, on the plush patterned rug in front of the hearth and let the flames warm our cold and tired bones. The cabin was my idea; it had taken a long, tedious drive to get here. AJ wanted to go to the tropics, but the discount rental app I wanted to use didn't have any listings outside of the US, so we opted for a cozy mountain retreat instead. When we first saw the forecast, AJ cursed our luck; snow in September isn't unheard of, but it's rare enough that we didn't expect an alabaster blanket to ensure total isolation. Now, though, he relaxed in my arms as we basked in the glow of the fire. In minutes, we were asleep.

***

I heard it first. There was a thunk from the kitchen. I thought a pot had shifted in the island cabinet, and I tried to fall back asleep. Then I heard it again, and my stomach turned. Rats? Raccoons? What manner of wild beast was causing a commotion in the kitchen?

I sat up, trying to gauge how much time had passed and delaying the inevitable trip to the kitchen. The window was dark, but the fire was still blazing as though it had just been lit. It was evening, but not night.

Thunk.

This time, my husband heard it, too. He bolted upright, startled and disoriented by the unfamiliar setting. "What was that?"

"I don't know. I think it may be a rat."

"Ugh. I told you the price was too good to be true. First the power, now this?" He raised his eyebrows in exasperation.

"I know, I know." I rolled my eyes, cheeks flushing as I untangled myself from his body. AJ stretched and yawned as I stood and walked to the kitchen to evict our uninvited roommates. I turned on the light and searched every cabinet. I found plenty of pots, pans, serveware, flatware, and cutlery, but no rodents. Piling everything onto the island, I scoured the storage spaces for clues to the source of the disturbance.

"What's taking so long?"

"I can't find the damned thing."

AJ joined me in my quest to find the noisemaker, but our combined efforts yielded no more evidence or insight than my solo search had. Finally, we shared a glance and a shrug of surrender. Whatever it was, it was gone.

Thunk.

I stared at my husband in disbelief. The noise wasn't coming from the cabinets, after all. In fact, it wasn't even coming from the kitchen. Instead, the thunk came from below.

The listing never mentioned a basement or a cellar, and we hadn't seen any doors that could have led to one. So maybe something had taken up residence in a crawlspace? AJ evidently thought the same thing, dropping to the floor and looking for a vent, a trapdoor, or some other kind of access point to the space below the floor. I joined him, and we came up empty yet again.

THUNK.

The noise was so loud we both jumped, startled and shrieking. This time, the sound didn't come from below. Instead, it came from behind the rear wall of the kitchen. The wall that was a patchwork of hand-carved wood panels and had neither windows nor doors. The wall that trembled as the noise rippled across its surface.

Whatever unwelcome guest had made itself at home in our rental, it was both large and getting closer. AJ's eyes met mine, initiating a conversation without words: the kind of telepathic communication that blossoms between lovers and friends who know each other inside and out. Nodding to each other in silent agreement, we hurried up the stairs to retrieve the luggage. It was time to leave, with or without a proper checkout.

As we reached the top of the stairs, we heard a crash. It sounded like a dining table being dropped from a great height, and I realized that the wood paneling must have been concealing a door. Unfortunately, that door had just been broken down by whatever beast lurked in the basement, and now the beast stood between us and our only exit. Terrified, I scrambled into the bathroom with AJ following close behind. He slammed the door shut and locked it while I dragged the antique tub over to act as a barricade. The owner could sue for damages if we survived the night.

Judging by the heavy, echoing stomps ascending the stairs, that possibility seemed less and less likely. Suddenly, amid the panic and overwhelming sense of impending doom, I was struck by a bolt of clarity. This ridiculous situation, while unpredictable, was entirely my fault. The guilt of knowing that my frugality would cost my husband, myself, and our family more dearly than I could ever have anticipated broke me into pieces like the splinters of the kitchen wall. I sobbed, legs buckling under the weight of my conscience.

"You were right, baby. I'm so sorry."

AJ turned to face me, mouth open and eyes wide. His voice creaked. "What are you talking about?"

"We should have just gone to the Airbnb in Jamaica."