Specter of the cabin

The Cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The night was May 20, 1885, that the candle burned in the window on that dark and stormy night. 20 years had passed since the American civil War, and traitors of the southern army were hunted down and killed…some by their own friends and commanders.

Jack was one of these “traitors”, a captain who walked out of a field hospital just days before the war ended. He was tired of the fighting, tired of the bullshit. He had gotten word that his young wife, was brutally raped beaten and impregnated by a Yankee Major then bragged about it to her entire town as he dragged her still living body through the mud dragged behind a giant steed.

That incident happened on February 14, 1865…Valentine’s Day, but Jack Specter didn’t catch up with the Major until May 20, 1865. It was one month after the war was over, and traitors were being hunted down like dogs gone mad.

Jack Specter had had just lit the lantern in the cabin, not realizing that Commander Harper was still after him and was still out to kill him, but the murder wouldn’t take place for an hour. During that hour, he had caught a rabbit and killed it, and had it skinned and skewered over the roaring fire in the fireplace. He enjoyed that meal, not realizing that it was going to be his last supper.

Jack had finished eating the rabbit, just as the door slammed open and Commander Harper stood there, still in his old war grey uniform, that had truly become old and grey from wear.

“Jack Specter!” Harper cried out as he raised his short rifle to Jack’s head. “You are a traitor of the Confederate State Army! For those crimes, you are hereby sentenced to be executed on the spot!”

“WAIT!” Jack spat out. “Don’t I at least get to state my argument?”

“I tracked you for three whole months, I can wait for three more minutes.”

“Harper, the war ended a month ago, but you were tracking me for three, what gives?”

“It doesn’t matter what I was doing.”

“You’re a traitor yourself you stupid mother smucker!”

“I used those two months to move my troupes around to hunt your ass down!”

Fine,” Jack spat out, “whatever. But you know why I left the army. My wife was raped.”

“That schoolteacher of a wife of yours gave herself over to the Yankee Major!”

“That’s not the story I heard. He took her raped her and dragged her broken body across the town with him bragging how he had the right to do what he did! I will hunt that Yankee Major and his heirs down, even if it takes an eternity!”

“I don’t give a damn about your poor wife! Besides, your time is up!” A blast to the head from the short rifle was all it took, and Jack’s head was splattered all over the back wall.

Jack Spectre wasn’t done, he may have lost his head, but he got the last laugh, at least with Harper, for he had a double barrel shotgun aimed at Harper’s chest, and the reflex of the muscle pulled the trigger.

Both men’s bodies lay in their position for 20 years, the cabin was taken over by vines and shrubbery effectively hiding it until that dark and stormy night. Now on May 20, 1880, the cabin was again found with a light in the window. The old Major was dead, but his daughter lived on…the only living heir to the old Major Anderson.

Mary Specter found it odd that the cabin should have been there at all, as it was indeed obstructed from view, the only reason she even saw it was because of the light in the window. The cabin was old and dilapidated and should have fallen years ago. But it was a place out of the rain. How the person who lived in it survived was a mystery, as she had to cut away some of the shrubbery to even get to the door.

“Hello,” Mary pulled the door so hard it broke apart upon the slightest pull, revealing the scene that was inside; a Confederate trator was cornered by its hunter, but in and of itself was shot by the execution victim upon point of death. “Yikes!”

The corpse even though dead for 20 years had been preserved in the environment that had surrounded it and still stood fully erect with the shotgun still pointed out ready to pull the second trigger of the shotgun. She looked at the nametag Jack Specter.

“MOM!” Mary cried out. “You’ve got to see this!”

Clarice Specter entered the cabin she took one look at the corpse. “Jack!”

Jack’s spirit followed Mary around with the shotgun, and it came to her what was going on, he had gotten word that she was raped and dragged through the town and came after the man who raped her.

“Jack,” Clarice called out, “don’t do this.”

She knew, oh she knew that those 20 years ago he had sworn to avenge her death and more than likely kill the heir to the Major who raped her.

“Listen,” Clarice called out to the specter before her, “she is your daughter, not the daughter of the Major.”

The specter didn’t move, except for to follow Mary around with the gun.

“She is 21…the rape was 20 years ago. There is a one-year difference. When you went off to join the war in 1863 I was already with child…Mary is your daughter.”

“There is an offspring,” Jack said in a disembodied voice, “I’ve been waiting for them.”

“The child of the incident lives on--.”

“What happened to Major B. S.?” Specter’s disembodied voice was angered.

“He died, he himself was executed for war crimes,” Clarice explained

“But the offspring he made you carry lives on!”

“Yes, he is outside,”

“The only way I can be released from this hell is to get rid of the offspring to release me.”

“Oh, Bartholomew Strophes Anderson the Second,” Mary said sweetly, as she called to a third person of the party, “you can come in!”

“Anderson…” James Specter’s disembodied voice cried out, “son of Major B.S. Anderson?”

“Yes!” B.S. jr. said proudly, he puffed himself up.

“I say we get out of here,” Mary said as the shotgun sat point blank at B.S.’s head.

“Let’s leave junior behind,”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Mary said as the second trigger to the double barrel shotgun was finally pulled by Specter who waited 20 long years to pull the trigger, but it was well worth the wait.

“You would think that the story ends there, the storyteller, for this day in the year 2022,” the storyteller peered over the campfire at the six kids who were willing to stick around for the full story, “the Specter still comes around every year looking for one more victim, because--

“The story is a bunch of bullshit that you guys just made up to scare us,”

“No, it is not! It’s all true…mostly.”

“Uh-huh,” the kid groaned, “what parts of the story were wrong?”

“The shotgun was not a double barrel. It was a triple barrel, and on this night, May 20, 2022, they say he comes around looking for one final heir. Somewhere along the line, his great, great grandson will be his final victim.”

“And why would there be a great, great grandson?”

“How do you--?”

“Come on, this guy’s story has more holes in it than a strainer,” The lead kid said.

“Tell me…what is your name?”

Peter Anderson.”

“Anderson! As in the name of the of the Major!”

“No relation, asshole, not even worth the try!”

The storyteller looked up at the cabin, in which he was telling the campfire story which was actually based on the story of the specter that lurks in the same spot inside the cabin. The candle was lit. “How come the candle suddenly went on.”

“I know that trick, someone’s lurking around in there.”

“Nope!”

“Besides, how could I be related to that particular Anderson?”

“Anderson had a wife--.”

“CHEAT!” Peter Anderson cried out. “You didn’t mention that in the story.”

“Didn’t I mention he was married? Anyway, the wife’s name was Abigale.”

“I did have a great grandma Abigale that was born during the civil war. But that don’t mean nothing, besides she was supposed to be a southern belle that was forced into a marriage with--.” All of a sudden Peter gulped.

“With whom?”

“Some bullshit Major.”

“No. You mean Major B. S. Anderson!”

“So, you mean I’m supposed to be the last living relative of this guy.”

“Tell me about your lineage.”

“I’m the only son, my father was an only son--.”

“All the way back to the Civil War, making you the heir to the legacy of death.”

For a second, Peter was actually scared. But something came to mind. “You looked up all of that information on Facebook and augmented the story to fit my information.”

“Not even close,”

Peter reached for the door to see what kind of rigging the place had. He opened the door to face a 157-year-old headless corpse, standing there with a triple barrel shotgun aimed straight at him.

“Some sort of a robot--.”

It turned out the corpse was for real, the third trigger pulled, as Specter cried out “Finally.”

A hole the size of a plate was shot into Peter’s chest.

When all was said and done the corpse fell apart into a pile of dust, as it finally gave up the ghost. The cabin itself fell apart, as it was no longer needed.