A flicker of fear

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

At a distance, the flame could be easily mistaken for a firefly, of which the area surrounding the decrepit structure -- and the nearby Vandeventer Shelter -- was in abundance of on this humid August night.

The fireflies were the only creatures of the forest willing to be near the cabin and the flickering flame that evening. The other nocturnal wildlife made sure to steer clear, seeking respite or foraging elsewhere. Their innate senses had been triggered, much as they are before a funnel cloud drops from the sky. Danger had been sensed, and they weren't keen to find out what type.

The candle's flame continued to flicker and dance, camouflaging itself among the fireflies, and it would until its purpose was served. That purpose, this night, was not to consume the dry-rotting timber of the cabin around it, or cast light upon the abandoned webs of brown recluse tangled in the cabin's nooks.

Rather, it was to attract the two unsuspecting hikers coming up the hill, much as moths are to a flame.

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Hiking the Appalachian Trail had been a bucket list item for newlyweds Scott and Brenna Roland. A hiking trail, in fact -- -- the vaunted Precipice Trail along Champlain Mountain in their home state of Maine -- was where the couple first met three years earlier.

They found themselves assisting each other -- and others in their respective hiking parties -- up the trail which ascends 1,000 feet in less than a mile and is considered one of the most dangerous in the United States.

After reaching the trails end, and finding their way back down to camp, the two hiking groups celebrated around the campfire that evening -- sparks from the flames dancing into the air and kindling a romance for the two 26-year-olds.

Scott, a firefighter in Lewiston, and Brenna, a nurse in Portland, considered themselves soulmates, destined to be due to their similar professions, a love of family and a passion for the outdoors.

So it came as no surprise when, after a year and a half of dating, Scott proposed to Brenna at the trailhead of the Precipice Trail and she said yes.

Nor did it come as a surprise to family or friends when the couple let it spill that their honeymoon, following their February wedding, would not be spent in some bleached seaside resort, or some noisy city draped with garish neon, but rather on the Appalachian Trail.

Scott had termed the trail as "God's Country," and about three weeks after their February wedding in Bay Harbor, the couple -- equipped to the teeth with their most cherished hiking equipment, along with all the vacation time they had banked over the past three years -- set off south from Baxter Peak, Maine, the northernmost end of the Appalachian Trail.

More than 1,900 miles later, the duo had endured cold, hot, scratches, scrapes, bites and gashes, but found themselves less than 200 miles from completing one of the grandest trails in the United States.

Not only were they so close to Springer Mountain, Georgia and the end -- or beginning of the trail, depending on which direction you were coming from -- they had become even closer to each other during the journey.

It was not a journey solely consisting of love and joyousness. Scott and Brenna had found themselves hiking in almost stony silence through the trail's Pennsylvania portion, due to Scott's erroneous calculations on where a waterpoint to refill their Camelbaks had been back in New York. Few words were uttered between the pair, and the periodic thought of their honeymoon becoming one from hell wafted through their minds.

But they had gutted it through that spat, and it soon became a journey where they had found not only that their physical, but spiritual reservoirs ran much deeper than they thought existed.

They had found themselves, and having not killed each other in the process of hiking one of the most challenging trails in the country, had also found more of each other.

They took turns reading to each other -- "The Long Walk" by Richard Bachman, aka Stephen King, being one of their favorites on the trip -- and took turns supporting each other when the other's energy level began to flag. The team effort not only deepened their love, but their resolve, and the potential of finishing the trail in the five- to seven-month span that most trail walk-thrus complete it in was a real possibility.

So despite the muscle soreness and the chigger bites, giddiness was starting to set in for the couple as they worked their way up the hill toward the Vandeventer Shelter near Butler, Tennessee. Only 200 miles lay between them, the end, and the completion of a life goal.

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The goal of completing the Appalachian Trail was one which also, at one time, belonged to 22-year-old Janice Balza of Madison, Wisconsin.

A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison's School of Nursing the previous month, Janice began her trek along the trail in February 1975, from Springer Mountain, Georgia, and heading north with all intentions of finishing the trail in one fell swoop at the very spot where Scott and Brenna had begun theirs -- Baxter Peak in Maine.

She found herself near the Vandeventer Shelter in April 1975, and decided to spend an evening there before continuing her hike through the Tennessee portion of the trail. Unbeknownst to her, her journey would end there.

A former mental patient from Tuscon, Arizona -- 51-year-old Paul Bigley -- would find himself lusting after Balza's backpack, as he lurked near her campfire.

He would proceed to murder her with a hatchet, exemplifying the stereotypical horror film slasher -- an escaped mental patient killing a young woman senselessly and stoking fear among the populace.

It would be the second recorded murder on the Appalachian Trail, and one of its most gruesome, reverberating throughout the trail's hiking community and making others wonder if the trail was safe to hike.

Bigley would die while serving a life sentence in a Tennessee prison, but his specter, along with Balza's, would linger over the Vandeventer Shelter area for the next 47 years.

Some hikers would purposely avoid that portion of the trail, picking back up after bypassing the area. Others swore that the shelter was haunted by the ghost of Balza, as they would hear stomping through the brush during the night, coming toward their camp at the shelter.

Scott and Brenna knew not of the grisly murder which had taken place, almost five decades prior, at the very shelter they were working their way up to.

All they knew is they were tired. It was 45 minutes past sunset and quite dark by that point. Vandeventer offered the chance at some shelter and sleep, and there was no better stopping point.

Their flashlights light the way further up the trail.

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The couple reached the peak of the hill, and the Vandeventer Shelter.

The nondescript structure appeared as more of a large bus stop, consisting of cinder block, wood and tin. But to Scott and Brenna, after a day of hiking which had begun at 6 a.m., it looked like heaven.

"Welp, we're here," Scott panted, still attempting to catch his breath after traversing the hilly terrain. "What would you like to do first, take a leak or start the fire?"

"If you have to go, I'll start the fire," Brenna responded. "Just leave your pack here so I can unroll your bag along with mine and set it up."

"Sounds like a plan, babe," Scott replied. "I won't be long."

Scott scurried off to find some brush to relieve himself, while Brenna began to pile the kindling in the already-established fire ring in front of the shelter. Scott, used to hauling oxygen tanks on his back while fighting fires, had been the mule for the couple's wood, which they had mostly purchased along the trail and, at times, scavenged for when making camp.

Finding a spot about 40 feet from the shelter, Scott unzipped and began to empty his bladder. His gaze was at first skyward, examining the canopy of foliage above, but upon leveling his eyes, he spotted what appeared to be a candle flame.

A candle flame in what looked like an old cabin, roughly 500 feet from where he stood.

"That is odd," he thought to himself. "I didn't know there was another shelter up here for hikers."

Finishing up, he walked slowly back to the Vandeventer Shelter, looking back once to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. He had been, after all, hiking for more than 12 hours.

The candle flame was still there, flickering back and forth like a serpent's tongue, through the window of the cabin.

Brenna had gotten the fire started and place four pieces of firewood upon it. Enough to get it going and provide some warmth as the night chilled, but not so much as to have a raging bonfire going.

"Feel better?" she asked Scott as he walked up. "My turn?"

"Not quite yet," he whispered. "There's another shelter up here, and I think someone's in it."

"So?" Brenna said. "We've stayed at other shelters with other hikers before tonight, babe. That never seemed to bother you before."

"We were all arriving about the same time at those other shelters, and we all got to feel each other out before closing our eyes," Scott replied. "Tonight isn't like those other nights. We came up on people already here."

"Just how far away is this other shelter?"

"About 500 feet."

"What makes you think someone's there?"

"The lit candle in the window."

"Any other light? Any movement? Any gear that you could see?"

"It's a cabin, Brenna. They probably have everything inside with them."

Scott was pacing now around the fire. Brenna had not seen him this perturbed since their argument back in Pennsylvania, when he goofed in reading the map and they passed up their water source. But while that time was visibly anger on his part, this time it was worry.

"You want to go wake them up, introduce ourselves and just let them know we're out here if they hear us moving around?" she asked.

"I'd feel a helluva lot more comfortable if we did," Scott answered. "It's better than us being here dead asleep at 5 a.m. and them stumbling over us. It's just courtesy and safety, love."

"Okay, we'll go over," Brenna sighed. "Just let me pee first."

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The couple walked slowly, almost shuffling, toward the direction of the cabin and the lit candle, which waved at them as if it was beckoning them to come closer.

Brenna had hooked the bear mace onto the right side of her belt, and held her flashlight to guide them back to the cabin through the ankle-high brush. Scott had shoved one of their hatchets into the small of his back, handle up, for easy access should he need to grab it.

They had not needed to utilize any of the weapons they possessed -- two hatchets and two knives, more survival tools than weapons -- or the bear mace, at least for self-defense, on this entire trip.

They had spotted some bears over the past few months, but managed to not draw their attention and ire. And all the hikers they had come across were as friendly as could be -- whether it was old hippies, younger couples like them or middle-aged adventurers tackling one last challenge before retirement.

But as both made their way toward the cabin and the tiny flame, goosebumps enveloped their bodies. The air around the area had suddenly become putrid, causing Brenna to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

"Scott, maybe we should just screw it," she whispered. "They're obviously asleep, and I don't want to wake someone out of a dead sleep, in the dark on the Appalachian Trail, and have them all pissed off at us."

"It's just now 10:15," he replied. "It's not that late."

"It is when you've been hiking all day and are dog tired, babe."

"Maybe, but they couldn't have been asleep for long," Scott added.

The pair reached the front porch of the dilapidated cabin, which looked as if it could cave in at the snap of a finger. Scott readied himself to knock.

"Here goes nothing," he said, and proceeded to knock three times.

No response, sound or movement came from inside.

"I told you, they're dead to the world," Brenna hissed. "Let's drop it and go back to the other shelter."

"Let me try one more time," he scoffed back softly.

"Fiiiinnne," she whined back.

On the second knock of the second round of knocking by Scott, the door creaked open halfway.

"Oh, shit," Scott murmured to Brenna. "Door's open."

"No kidding. What do you suppose we do now?"

"Shine your flashlight in there. If someone's in there, we'll see their gear at least."

"Scott, I'm at the point where I don't care if someone's in there or not," Brenna whispered emphatically. "I'm tired, I'm nervous and I'm not digging what we're doing right now. Let's get the hell out of here, go back and go to sleep.

"If you want to pull fireguard all night, because you think Hannibal the Cannibal is in there waiting for us to fall asleep, then by all means, do it," she continued. "But I'm going back and to bed."

"Just shine your flashlight in there, Brenna. Please," Scott huffed. "That's all I'm asking."

So Brenna did, illuminating the floor of the cabin, which they found was hard-packed dirt and nothing else.

No hiking gear.

No sleeping hiker on the dirt floor.

No sign of a human at all.

"Well, look at that," Brenna said. "We've been creeping around in the dark outside a rotten cabin, and there's not a soul inside."

"Explain the candle, then," Scott scoffed back. "Who the hell lit that?"

"I don't know, babe, but there's no one here," Brenna shot back. She pushed the door wide to the cabin wide open, stepped inside and swung her flashlight around. It illuminated plank walls and a dirt floor.

And a lit candle on the windowsill of the cabin window.

"See, Scott, there's nothing here," Brenna continued, turning around to face her loving husband who had suddenly become paranoid tonight.

All she saw was a brief blur of silver before fireworks began exploding in her eyesight, and the most painful, piercing pain she had ever experienced set in.

"Scotttttt," she mumbled, "wha happenningggg ..."

Another thunk. This time, the fireworks behind Brenna's eyes became darkness. She fell to the floor. One more effort to say something to Scott, to decipher the sudden loss of all her normal functions, left her looking like a fish out of water, mouth gasping for air.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Blood sprayed throughout the cabin. The dirt floor sucked it up like a dry desert soaking up rain. Scott, with hatchet in hand, continued to chop.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

After 10 minutes, Scott, breathing heavy, got up from his knees. Painted in red, he shuffled out of the cabin and back toward Vandeventer Shelter.

"I love that backpack," he thought to himself. "I wonder what's in it. Anyways, it's mine now."

He didn't hear the stomping footsteps crashing through the brush, tearing away from the cabin into the forest's darkness.

Nor did he notice the flame of the candle, in the cabin window, had gone out. The droplets of paraffin dribbled down the side of the extinguished candle, pooling and hardening at its base.

Much as his wife's blood now was around her head.