A Father's Final Tale

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.”

I looked up and glanced at the abandoned cabin that was near our campsite.

“Dad, is this some lame ghost story you are making up as you go along?”

Sitting in the woods with my dad wasn’t my idea of a good time. I wanted to go to a friend’s party instead. However, my dad insisted I couldn’t miss out on this year’s trip. It was going to be special because my 15th birthday was just two days away.

He had been bringing me on a camping trip every summer since I was five. At first, his stories were silly and involved fluffy monsters and friendly ghosts. Then, as I got older, he moved on to werewolf stories. Although, in his version they were more like large badly behaved puppies rather than ferocious creatures. As I grew, he would try to scare me with these wild stories of mythical creatures.

“Seth, quiet, you know you can’t interrupt me or I will lose my train of thought,” my dad admonished.

“Ugh, fine,” I muttered as I grabbed another marshmallow out of the bag and jammed it onto the camp fork.

I held it out over the fire and watched the edges turn black as the orange and yellow flames danced around it. My father picked up his story, sighing faintly at my ticked off mood.

“As I was saying, the candle burned in the window. The father and son were sitting around the fire and they didn’t notice the recent development.”

I rolled my eyes and smashed my marshmallow onto the graham cracker in my hand. As I reached over to the chair to grab a chocolate bar, I noticed something odd.

“Um, Dad…”

“Look, Seth, I know you think you are too cool for this. I just want to spend time with you and make more memories before it is too late. I wish I could come with you and your children someday while you tell the stories... Can’t you just humor me?”

He seemed defeated, and I felt bad; for a moment I almost forgot why I had interrupted him.

“Yeah, yeah Dad, I know this means a lot to you, and I am not trying to be a jerk, I swear. But I think you need to turn around and look at the cabin,” I rushed out the words.

I was both uncomfortable because of his emotional words, and scared about what I had seen.

My dad turned to look at the cabin near us. We had been coming here for ten years. In all that time no one had been to the cabin. We also never used it. That would have been trespassing or something my dad had told me last year when I’d suggested we go inside instead of sleeping in the woods.

Not to mention he wasn’t even sure it was still structurally sound. However, the candle burning in the window meant someone didn’t have any issues with trespassing into a dilapidated wooden structure.

My dad stood slowly, and I watched him blink a few times. I barely heard the breathy words he gasped out…

“Not now.”

“Dad, what is going on?"

I stood up and moved nearer to him. I did not feel nearly as grown up as I had a few minutes before and reached out to grab onto his hand. “What do you mean ‘not now?’”

Without turning away from the candle in the window my dad said, “Seth, I need you to listen to me. Have you ever heard of ‘La Mano Peluda?’”

“No, but dad I don’t think this is the best time to finish your ghost story! We need to figure out who went inside there. For all we know, it could be some serial killer.”

His shoulders sagged, and he ran his hands through his hair giving it a light tug. After taking a deep breath, he reached into his camp bag and pulled out a leather journal. Without looking at me or saying a word, he handed it to me.

I flipped open the first page and read:

Sept. 24th 1980

Today will be the last time I will take my son camping. He is 15 and I know he really doesn’t want to come on this trip with me. I never wanted to go with my dad either, even when I was little. Finally, when I turned 15 and my dad brought me camping, he told me the truth.

He said that many generations ago, before our ancestors moved from Mexico, they had angered a local merchant named Senor Villa (who was also known by the name Horta). The man was a bitter, miserable person known for unfairly charging his customers. According to my dad’s story, when our ancestor was 15 he went down to the shop and tried to buy cloth for his mom. His dad had contracted an illness and had an awful fever. His mom wanted to make a poncho.

Senor Villa told the young man that the cloth would cost triple what his mother had thought it would cost. The young man became angry, as this was the last of their money. Horta refused to sell the cloth to the boy, and he went home empty-handed. Later that evening, the father’s fever spiked and by morning he had passed away.

The young man ran to the shop and began destroying all the items. Horta and the boy got into a scuffle, when the young man grabbed a sword off the wall and stabbed Horta in the chest. As he lay gurgling in a pool of his own blood, he vowed to get revenge on the boy.

The boy spent a few years in prison and was eventually released. He had a son. On his son’s 15th birthday, he was found dead—missing his eyes and choked to death—the hand print visible on his throat still.

They never found his killer but the grave keeper in the cemetery where Horta was buried swore he saw a hairy hand with rings clawing through the earth near Horta’s grave.

No one thought anymore about it until 20 years later. The man’s son was now grown with a son of his own, and he was found killed the same way on that boy’s 15th birthday. Apparently, our ancestors left Puebla after that.

Before turning to read the next page, I asked my dad, “Is this grandpa’s journal?” He nodded his head slowly, before telling me to read the next entry.

Sept. 25th 1980

I explained what was going to happen to Juan and what he must do. I have dug the hole, now all that is left is to say goodbye. I do not want to. Juan's mother will know what to do when he gets home.

I slammed the journal shut and stared at my father—Juan.

Finally, I squeaked out a few words, “Dad, what is going on?”

My dad took one last glance at the cabin before turning around to face me.

“Seth, when the men in our family have a son, La Mano Peluda, or the ‘hairy hand’ finds the father on the boy’s 15th birthday and kills them. My Great Great Grandpa started the camping tradition so his son could bury his body and avoid questions from the police. The American cops are not as accepting of mysterious deaths revolving around ancient Mexican curses.”

My heart beat so hard that I could hear it echoing in my ears. Looking at my father, I wanted to say something. However, I couldn’t form any words. I glanced back at the cabin and noticed the candle had been snuffed out. The cabin was dark once more.

“Dad, this is unbelievable…”

“Seth, you know your grandpa died when I was 15.”

That was true, I had known this, but no one had told me how he died.

“Dad, what are mom and I going to do? And why is this happening today, my birthday is not until the day after tomorrow! We still have time to figure something out!”

“No, son, there is no time. Our family has been trying to break this curse for over a century. The only thing we really have time for is to dig the hole and prepare you some more for what is coming—what I need you to do when you get home to your mom.”

My legs gave out, and I slumped to the floor. I stared at the flames, once again captivated by their movements, but the Smores were long forgotten. Only one question kept rattling around in my brain…

“Dad, why didn’t you just not have children? Wouldn’t that have broken the curse?”

“I had asked my dad that same question Seth. Apparently, in the years where the men in our line did not have children or gave birth to girls, La Mano Peluda would torment the people of our original village. My dad had found some records in his grandfather's stuff about children being pulled out of their bed by a hairy hand. Most of the time, the kids escaped… but a few went missing. It seems like when a baby boy is born to us the hand goes dormant until the 15th birthday, and then comes to kill the father. By 20, if the son has not had children, the villagers suffer.”

I was still sitting on the ground and realized that my butt had gone numb. Standing slowly, I exhaled a large breath I hadn’t realized I was holding while my father was speaking.

“Dad, what happens if our line dies completely? Like if this weird hand is going to come to kill you, and I die alongside you, will it go away?”

“I don’t think so, Seth. I think it will just continue to torment the villagers and kidnap children.”

Off in the distance, I heard some rustling in the trees. I looked toward the sound, but saw nothing. I was glancing back at the house just to make sure the candle hadn’t come back on. The cabin was, thankfully, still dark.

My father walked off back toward our Jeep and quickly opened the back gate. He pulled out two shovels and started making his way toward me.

“Ok son, let’s get started.”

Dad led the way to the tree line and looked around. I watched quietly. I didn’t really have any input to add about where he wanted his final resting place. My brain was working in overdrive trying to come up with some way to break this curse. However, no one in my family had been able to break it yet, and I didn’t really have any good ideas.

My dad pointed to a spot with his shovel and wordlessly started digging. I began digging next to him and the two of us worked in silence for about 40 minutes. Finally, the hole was deep enough to hold his body.

He looked over to me and said quietly, “I love you, son. Always remember that.”

“I love you too, daddy,” I tearfully mumbled.

Suddenly, the candle started flickering in the cabin. One moment it was lit, and then it was out, only to light up again.

“Dad, should we go check it out?”

I heard rustling in the trees, again. Staring off where the noise had come from, I tried to make out anything in the darkness. Nothing was there, and I noticed my dad hadn’t answered me. Frantically, I looked in every direction, but there was no sign of my father. The candle kept flickering in and out, and the rustling got louder.

The cabin door creaked open and there in the middle of the floor sat a hairy hand. A soul shattering scream drowned out all the other sounds, and I realized it had come from my mouth. Just then, I felt a hand clasp me on the shoulder. I turned around and there was my dad.

He had a goofy grin on his face, a beer in one hand, and his shovel in the other.

“Son, you should see your face! I think I got you pretty good!”

My mom stepped out of the woods with a birthday cupcake in her hand.

“Not funny guys…not cool at all. But mom, if you were in the woods, then who was lighting the candle?”

My mom giggled, and said how she had lit it before going into the woods.

“Ok, but who was lighting it and blowing it out? Who opened the door? I saw a hand there too!”

“What hand,” my dad asked.

Those were the last words I ever heard him say.