The Cabin

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. That morning, hours before the mysterious illumination, Bret Kritch had only heard of the fabled cabin in stories told around backyard fires. Long after the flankers stopped their skyward procession and the marshmallows had been roasted to golden perfection. After the assembled s’mores clung to small sticky fingers, a face highlighted by a flashlight held below the chin would tell the story of a cabin that was sometimes there.

The cabin and the people whose disappearance it had been blamed for were the furthest things from Bret’s mind on that July fourth weekend. School had been out for weeks and while the rest of the small mill town of Cold Water barbecued and drank to the anticipation of the annual firework display, Bret and his best friend Sid Seymore swam under the small truss bridge in Jumper’s Brook. The day had been spent launching themselves off of the bridge into the rapidly moving waters below. The shallow brook deepened in the middle where the current would sweep the laughing boys towards boulders placed to prevent swimmers from reaching the churning waters of Cob River.

With stamina provided by a backpack stuffed with bags of Humpty Dumpty, off-brand bars, and discount cola they splashed away the afternoon. Once the boys had their fill of climbing the steep embankment to the top of the bridge they retreated to their towels, laying under the bridge they took refuge from the afternoon sun.

“Alex would have loved this,” Sid said after a few minutes of heavy-eyed silence. “Do you think we’ll ever find out what happened to them?” The trio has been inseparable since their first meeting in Mr. Loops Kindergarten class six years before Alex and Amy Wallace had become household names.

“Dad says that Amy probably snapped and killed Alex before doing herself in,” Bret said. Talking about dead friends was something adults did, and siblings killing each other was something that only happened in the city or the drug store paperbacks that littered his mother’s bedside table. At least that’s the way it was until last August. While most kids were developing a case of the back-to-school blues, Bret spent the last two weeks of summer vacation walking the labyrinth of neglected forestry roads that crisscrossed the miles of forest behind the old defunct mill. While others probed the countless trails that branched off from the main roads mostly leading to cabins and fishing holes the boys stayed to the main road. Neither had wanted to be the one to discover the missing siblings. They had been missing for three days before the search party had been assembled and the odds of finding them alive were slim. The adults had been careful to call it a search or recovery and not a rescue.

“Do you remember that old guy who was helping us look?” Bret asked laying on his back staring at the underside of the bridge on a Garfield beach towel he had rooted out of the linen closet in the hallway before leaving. “The guy with the big nose and the funny safari hat?”

“Dax Browne, Dad says he’s nuttier than squirrel crap,” Sid said through a yawn. Bret had seen Mr. Brown around town but hadn’t known his name. “He runs the town heritage center on Lincoln Street.”

“Do you remember when it started to get dark and he caused a scene until they called the search off for the night?”

“I told you he was crazy.”

“He kept yelling about a cabin that isn’t a cabin with evil trapped inside. He said that Alex was taken by the cabin and that the cabin would take anyone who went looking for him after dark.”

“There’s one in every town,” Sid said through another yawn.

“Haunted cabin?”

“No, a loud nut job.”

The tha-thunk of a truck crossing the bridge yanked Bret awake. They must have fallen asleep. Thankfully it wasn’t night yet, but the sun had disappeared behind the tree line. Shadows swelled in the dying light. The crunch of the truck’s tires on gravel faded as it eased its way along the pitted road leaving only the rhythmic croak of frogs.

“Sid,” Bret whispered moving to his knees. “We fell asleep, our parents are going to kill us.” Sid’s towel was empty. He must have got up for a leak and taken the backpack with him. Bret grabbed his yellow towel depicting the world’s most famous orange tabby and Sid’s star wars towel. He clawed his way up the steep embankment leading to the road, losing his footing in the dark as he scrambled upward. He reached the road and ran across the bridge, still no sign of the friend he had laughed the day away with. Fear of a summer grounded for falling asleep under a bridge in the woods turned to panic. “SID!”

Would he be the first kid in Cold Water to lose two friends before he had to shave? How many more people would the forest claim. Or would it be Sid who spent the next two weeks walking the gravel roads behind the mill calling out his name? “SID!” Why didn’t Sid wake him? Unless he was snatched up like the stories grandmothers would tell to keep little explorers from wandering too far. “SID! THIS ISN’T FUNNY! SID!”

He jumped at movement in the dim light. Something was bending a branch of one of the old white pines that lined the sides of the road. It hung like a bulky Christmas ornament. “Hello?” he called towards the dark shape. It hung lifeless from the tree with no wind to stir it. He took a step closer. “Hello?” Another cautious step, inching towards it with fleeing on his mind. If someone jumped out he could still be across the bridge before they caught him. What then though? How much further would he get before a claw tightened around the back of his shirt. “It’s Sid’s backpack,” Bret said the tightness of fear leaving his shoulders. It was a good thing no one was around to see the scaredy-cat afraid of a backpack in a tree. “Alright Sid, come on so we get out of here.”

Bret reached the backpack without getting a response. He lifted the bag from the tree and opened it. They had eaten all of the food and only Sid’s change of clothes and a book of scary stories lay in the bottom of the bag. The tree that the bag had been hung from had orange nylon ribbons tied to it, a common way of marking a trail leading to a cabin. Sid must have gone looking for help and left the backpack in the tree as a marker in case Bret woke up while he was gone. It didn’t make sense, why wouldn’t Sid just wake him so they could make the mile-long trek back to the mill together. Alex disappeared less than a year ago and they had sworn to their parents that they would stick together. What was Sid playing at? Had he lost his mind like the man in the safari hat?

Bret peered down the path. The overgrowth made the path prematurely dark. Shades of shadows created a mesh of darkness standing between him and whatever Sid had found at the other end of the trail. Slinging the backpack over his shoulder he took his first step down the path in search of his friend and hopefully a way home. Nothing grabbed him after the first step. Nothing bit after the second. After the third uneventful cautious step, he began creeping deeper down the trail, ducking to avoid low-hanging branches.

Did Amy bring Alex down a path like this before she did the deed that led to that hot summer afternoon spend in a church? Was there a path out there that was the reason for the hour-long sermon about wasted potential and missed memories with two empty caskets laying between the pastor and a sea of mourners? Bret was still thinking of Alex when the trail broke out into a clearing. The fat moon hung low over a large pond. An ancient oak playing host to a rope swing stood at the edge of the pond casting a line of darkness that crossed the cold campfire on its way to the dark cabin.

In the darkness, a white sneaker sat on the porch. Hopeful, Bret walked towards the dark structure. Just as he had suspected, the sneaker was one of Sid’s white New Balance’s. “Sid, come out,” Bret called at the door of the cabin. “We need to get home before the fireworks end and our parents get home.” Nothing. “Sid, they are going to freak out after what happened last summer.” The frogs stopped their night song as if waiting for Sid’s reply.

Dropping the backpack, Bret climbed the three steps and crossed the porch continuing his plea. “Listen, you scared me, good job, now let’s get out of here. SID! I don’t like this place.” Frustration boiled and he turned away from the door and kicked at the shoe. His two exploded into pain as his department store sneaker collided with Sid’s. The white sneaker refused to move and kicking it had been like kicking concrete. “You ass-hat Sid! What did you do to your sneaker—“ Bret’s breath caught when he noticed for the first time that the door of the cabin and the two windows flanking it were all held closed with large brass padlocks.

“Bret,” a voice whispered behind him, spinning him around.

“Who said that?” Bret called, his heart pounding. A flash of light drew him back towards the cabin where a single candle now burned in the window to the left of the door. Was Sid inside? Who had whispered his name? “Amy?”

Something large fell over inside of the cabin with a wooden clatter. Bret’s tried to leap from his body but settled with a dead run away from the cabin. He forgot the steps and came crashing down onto the gravel after a short stumbling flight. Rolling to his back and scrambling away on his elbows and heels he managed to put feet between himself and the cabin. There was just enough light to see the padlock on the door open and fall to the porch. The door opened silently revealing a blackness inside untouched by the candle’s light.

A large hand reached out of the darkness and grasped the door frame. The hand was pitch black with long thin fingers ending in curved claws that dug into the wood as the thing pulled itself towards the door. A face began to take shape in the darkness. Two yellow eyes peered out of the mass of sharp angles. The door frame began to splinter as the claws dug further into the wood. A mouth appeared in the face mouthing his name as the whisper appeared behind him again. He rolled onto his stomach scanning the clearing. He rolled back over again to face the cabin to discover the creature was now hanging out of the doorway. A long bone-thin arm swung through the air towards him.

The claws on the end of the newly freed gangly arm reached out across the porch and grazed his face causing it to burst with burning pain. His face felt hot and wet, he could feel the collar of his shirt become damp and we backed away. The arm took another long swipe, this time missing. The failed attack was a second chance at life that Bret wasn’t going to waste. He sprang to his feet and started running towards the opening to the trail that had brought him to this god-forsaken place.

He looked over his shoulder while headed towards the trail at a dead run. The cabin exploded outward showering the clearing with splinters as the beast freed itself. Not risking a better look at his pursuer, Bret turned back towards the trail entering it running as fast as he could. His heart pounded as he ran, branches scratched at his skin as he ran through them. He had to live. He would gratefully accept a summer locked in his room without the necessities of youth if he could just reach the end of this trail. But what if it followed?

Light! He could see light! “Bret, help us,” the thing whispered behind him. Ignoring the closeness of the sound he broke out onto the gravel road. The truck slammed on its breaks skidding to a stop. As he ran past the driver’s door his reflection in the window was a ragged mask of blood. He didn’t blame the young wide-eyed couple for staring, or the driver for reaching for the gear shift. Thankful they hadn’t put the truck in reverse or floored it to escape. He climbed into the back of the truck and pounded on the roof of the cab, screaming as if his life depended on it “GO GO GO!”

Whatever the driver thought, the truck's tires started to spin before they found purchase in the loose gravel and the old Chevy began to gain speed. Bret pounded on the roof repeating his demand. “GO GO GO GO!” Panic was replaced with a cold emptiness as he looked back towards the trail. There was no gangly monster with impossibly long limbs in close pursuit. Shrinking in the distance, by the entrance of the trail, stood three dark child-sized shapes.