After Your Ears, Before Your Eyes

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

Instantly, your friend bursts out in laughter. “Ooh, scary guys! You’re starting off with the cabin in the woods,” your friend says with a chuckle. She’s always doing her best to be the comic relief. It’s especially annoying now, given her audience of two, rather than your usual group of friends. “And a ghost, right?”

Your other friend huffs annoyedly. He’s unimpressed with the scenario overall, especially the light, scattered rain, and the fact that your friend group has gone from five to three, given two cancellations. “You’re the one who wanted a scary story, and the first sentence in, you’re interrupting.”

“Right,” you agree with a shrug. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I wasn’t begging. I’m just bored. And cold,” she sighs.

“That makes all three of us,” he grumbles. “Weren’t you the Girl Scout? Why don’t you tell a story–”

“There’s a cabin right there; you could be more original,” she says to you with an eye roll. You all glance at the wooden shack–not really a cabin–that resides a good fifty meters down. “We actually passed by a few more on our way–”

“Duh, cause this was a campground, dummy.”

You shake your head, leaning into the fire with your food as your companions bicker. They should just hook up already. You’ve thought this many times.

“It’s actually a story my dad told me about a while ago. I added embellishments,” you interrupt, not quite wanting to entertain their pesky “not-foreplay.” They both look at you, cuddling into their respective blankets. Even they seem tired of their own bullshit.

“Embellishments… please entertain us, then,” she says, and your other friend chuckles to himself. She shoots him a Look. “I don’t care if you call it begging. We’ve got no cell service, and a puny fire. Scare me, chief.”

“Okay, okay. So.” You inhale deeply, entwining your fingers. “The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window."

No interruption. She looks at you with fake excitement, eyes wide, and he pokes at the fire. You continue.

“Pretend it’s that cabin.” You gesture at the cabin downhill for effect. “The property had been known to squatters, and others who tried to make it a reasonable home for ages, until finally, the people of the town gave up on it, leaving it to the ghost who haunted the grounds. For decades, nobody dared to set foot near the cabin, not within the official limits of the property surrounding it. It was said that as soon as you entered that area, you would start to feel the signs of the Cabin Slaughterer plotting your–”

“Okay, yeah, Cabin Slaughterer is just… wack. I’m sorry.” She waves her hand, leaning into the fire. “Different name?”

“Cabin Slasher,” he speaks up, nodding along.

“Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “The point is, it’s said that as soon as you enter the old cabin’s acres, the ghost of the Cabin… Slasher… begins to plot your demise.”

“Of course he does. He’s an evil ghost,” your friend says, and he shrugs.

You continue, putting a hand up. “But that’s not all. The issue is… nobody actually has been able to confirm even the hauntings. Many have tried to catch the killer for years and years, entering the property, filming or not, and many–too many–have come back alive and without a scratch. This has caused people to question whether or not the Cabin Slasher is real, or just a repeated series of copycat murders to keep the legend alive, along with the forest surrounding it.”

She frowns. “So… if people are going out looking for him, and he still doesn’t kill them when they’re on the property, where’d he even come from? Or does he only kill those who don’t know about him…” You’re surprised she’s even asking questions. She must be bored indeed.

“Well, that’s the thing. Like any serial killer, the Cabin Slasher has his criteria,” you say, wagging your finger to drive the point. “Foolish people lure him out by accident. The ones who lure him out on purpose… they’re even more ludicrous. For even after knowing his story, after knowing the danger, they still choose to taunt him, and themselves.” You watch your friends grow curious, the subtle expressions in their faces lit up by flickers of the flames as you all roast the food in foil packets.

“So like, a wrath thing. I’m guessing he kills you worse the more you know about him,” he nods. You watch him tune in, and you’re satisfied that at this point, they seem interested. Her big eyes no longer show faux-interest. “I’ve heard about dudes like this.”

“Precisely,” you resume. “It’s as if those people are laughing at the pain he faced at the hands of the place he grew up in. He was a frequent squatter at the cabin before it was haunted. By him, of course. One of the people who actually tried to make it a real place to live for himself. Back during the Depression, he was alone. Apparently, everyone knew he was a creep, but he never did anything bad.”

“Just bad vibes,” she interrupts. “I know dudes like that.”

“Right. Kinda like, ‘you haven’t done anything yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,’” he chimes in.

“Exactly,” you concur. “Apparently this guy knew he was weird, too. I think, based on the town’s account of him, he was doing his best to stay out of the way. He didn’t even talk to women, but he stared. Apparently his stare was like a hot iron burn into your skull if you caught his eye.” Both your friends frown in disgust. “Above all, people hated that he was so nice, despite his creepiness.”

“That does suck.” She finishes up roasting her chicken sandwich, quickly putting it between a sesame bun. You’re somewhat jealous that she’s eating first, but you’ve been focusing on your story. You decide to multitask, roasting your chicken patty more intently as you continue.

“Anyway, one day, it was as if people of the town finally all realized one day that they were in the Depression, and they went into a frenzy. People were getting robbed, and fires were set to the banks that tanked everyone’s money. The creep decided it would be best if he took all the supplies he could to live in the woods. He decided to be fully independent and live off the land, so he wouldn’t have to go back into the town for anything, especially in hard times when everyone was so hostile.”

Your friend nods. “Good decision,” he says, and he finishes up his patty as well.

“It seemed like it at first, of course. He actually seemed to disappear for a while. People had assumed he died, or went to a different town. In actuality, he ended up making really good use of the land, growing small fruit trees and vegetables. He made tons of wax for a lot of light in the woods, placing them strategically in the trees so they wouldn’t burn anything down. He ended up having a few animals around, and he dammed the nearby river to get a better flow of that tiny bit of freshwater to his crops. As you know, the land was dry.”

“He was doing well, then,” she says with a mouthful, and then she frowns, pausing to pick in her teeth. Suddenly, her eyes get wide, and she pulls something from her mouth. “Oh… ew.” She drops her shoulders, and her bag drops, a few items toppling out that she decides to ignore in the name of drama. Her phone, some lighters, fruit.

“Is that a feather?” he asks. You both frown as she stares at it before flicking it away. “Where are these patties from?”

“My grandpa’s farm,” she laughs. “That never happens. But he has new butchers. Sorry if you find one in your patties.”

“Not the end of the world,” he says, then he looks at you. “Continue. Uh… the land was dry, he was living on his own, blah blah.”

“Right,” you nod, recovering your spot in the story. “He was left alone for years doing this, almost a decade before it started to rain again. Then, people from the town discovered the flow of the river, and the property he’d made his own after so many people had tried by then.”

She shakes her head. “I know where this is going already.”

“Of course. It wasn’t so bad at first, though. It was a few families that would come by, having to pass through his property to get to the least dangerous parts of the river. He welcomed them to water, and even some of the goods he’d grown for himself over the years. He was gracious, helping who he could.

“One day two choir girls from the town had gone missing after an adventure in the woods, and of course, all fingers pointed to the man who claimed the cabin. The mayor at the time, also the pastor, led the manhunt after the man in the cabin, although they couldn’t prosecute the man without cause by then. They tore up his property, along with digging in the woods to see where the girls could be. They even searched the river.”

“So he finally acted on his creepiness,” she says, shaking her head in disappointment. “I was rooting for you, cabin guy.”

“But he didn’t act on it. Days later, the girls were found. Apparently, neither remembered anything that happened, and they appeared to be unharmed. If anything, it was suspected that the girls ran away for a while, or were meeting with boys in the area, choosing to hide for a few days rather than admit to it. Cabin guy was innocent.”

They both seem surprised. “Okay…” he says. “So they owed him an apology.”

“They did. But that apology never came. Instead, the mayor of the town pretended that he wanted to negotiate and trade with the cabin man as an apology. Once he signed onto the deal to let people on his land–the legality at the time made it his–the pastor used his mayoral status to take over his land, sending people to work on it at all hours of the day, tearing up his property, and taking his resources. Even the wax he used for his candles. Candles he lit every dusk, just in case a stranger ever needed his help well into midnight.

“But even worse than that, he knew the man had avoided women at all costs, so he would watch over the work on his property, using his daughter as bait to keep the man docile and distracted. He hadn’t talked to a woman in years and years, and the pastor’s daughter, also a choir girl, flirted with him in front of her father, knowing that if he ever responded, there’d be reason for the mayor to completely criminalize him.”

“Ew. I was a choir girl way back when,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m sensing a type. Wait, you knew this about me, right?”

You shake your head, wanting to laugh, but keeping a serious face for the sake of the story. “I had no idea.”

“Creepy,” she says in a sing-songy voice. “So then what?”

“Finally, the workers began to get so invasive with his property that the man noticed, instantly starting to complain to the pastor as he came by, but still grossly infatuated with his daughter. He didn’t know what to do, not wanting to sacrifice the time he spent with the mayor’s daughter, but seeing his home taken away from him, he couldn’t stop himself. He finally confronted the pastor and the town at a council meeting, voicing his distress about their abuse of his property.

“Of course, he wasn’t a very social man, and his efforts to stand up for himself were met with beratement, and even threats. The town that was already against him began to loathe him, outcasting him even further. However, shortly afterward, resources became more slim, and less and less people were on his property. The pastor, however, kept taunting him, watching over every project, taking whatever he could when he could. The final straw was when the pastor had dropped by with unsuspecting choir girls, eight of them. Two girls were those who’d the cabin man had been suspected of harming before. With that, he encouraged all the girls to take one of eight chickens home, stealing his crop.”

“Oh, the pastor is sick for that, really,” your friend says, waving his hand in the air. “He knows he’s a creep.”

“Yes. But he didn’t care,” you say. “He even brought them by at night–”

Just then, you pause your story, turning your head toward the shack downhill. Your mind hits a blank for a moment before feeling the goosebumps take over your skin. Out of the corner of your eye, you swear you saw a faint glow coming from the window, and you turn back, subtly proud that your own little story is creeping you out. You’ve told it many times now, but in the deep woods, it seems to have some effect. Given the stillness, and the listeners who actually ask questions, you wonder if this story is actually having some kind of effect on the group.

“What?” she asks, forcing a laugh. “You’re not gonna creep us out with that. I know you didn’t hear anything.”

No, it’s what you saw. “I thought the window was glowing, I dunno,” you shrug. “It’s nothing, though.”

“It’s been glowing. ‘The candle in the window,’ that’s why you said it,” your other friend says, shaking his head. She nods in agreement.

You frown. “There’s no glow–” you look again, seeing a black, empty window, and figure they’re trying to make this just as interesting as you are. “Well. Exactly. That’s the cabin we’re talking about.”

“Okay, okay. So the girls took the chickens, then what?” she says. “This sounds like a story my grandma told me way back in the day. This dude in town had all his chickens stolen, and he ended up going berserk and committing arson or something.”

You pause, frowning. “Well, that’s pretty close, actually. People who explored the woods at night regularly began to notice that there was no longer a candle light in the window. Those who actually enjoyed his presence began to see him less and less often, until there was no evidence that he lived in the cabin anymore at all. Large spider-webs on the doors, and of course, the familiar fire was gone. Ripened, old fruit that’d been left up to the forest animals. Those who suspected he passed didn’t bother looking inside, not even to loot, in case they found a dead body. Ironically, after he seemed to disappear, people left the cabin, and his property, be.”

She frowns. “That’s just sad.” She gently kicks at a stone on the ground, pushing it back and forth between her shoes. “I’d slash anyone who came on my property, too.” Upon closer inspection, you realize the stone is actually an apple that she dropped earlier.

“That’s not it, though,” he interrupts, seemingly disappointed with the “conclusion” of the story. “Because–”

“Definitely not all. Years later, the town had rebuilt itself. It seemed the woods were forgotten, and access to the water only had an empty cabin in it’s way. Those eight choir girls had grown up, many were married, some had children. One of them started an initiative to build a campground out of these very woods. The pastor’s daughter.

“She began construction, and that’s when things began to go amiss in the town. Two girls went missing again, and this time, the mayor had no scapegoat. A few people went into the woods again, including law enforcement, but they didn’t find anything. That’s when they decided it was finally time to enter the cabin, covered in vines and weeds, overgrown brush. That’s when they saw it. They hadn’t noticed at first in the daytime, the candlelight in the window.”

Your friends are mute, attentive. You almost wish they’d say something. The whitenoise of the woods almost makes it too quiet. Worse than that, she keeps glancing somewhat downhill, as if she’s looking in the trees. The tone shifts, and you feel it settle in that the three of you are alone in the woods, choosing to creep yourselves out, even if nothing has gotten particularly creepy.

Your fingers entwine again, and you lower your voice. “That’s when they noticed the array of cobwebs and weeds blocking the door handle and the entrance to the cabin. The only way in, and out, aside from the windows. Except, they were covered too. Weeds and brush, various insect nests. How could someone get in to light the candle without disturbing all the overgrowth? They were puzzled.”

“Stop,” he laughs, shaking his head, putting his hand up. “That is just creepy when I look at the cabin now. Cause now I’m wondering how someone did that.” You turn to look instinctually, and your heart skips. Geez, I’m creeping myself out. There’s no way the shack is closer than it was before. The shack even looks… bigger somehow. As if it’s expanded it’s size. Maybe your mind is trying to make the story match reality. You gut up to continue your tale, despite the illusion that you can’t shake.

“They were absolutely stunned. But even worse, they realized they had to check things out. Rumors of the man had left most collective memory, but the few who knew of him, remembered him, feared the worst. As they made their way toward the door, the dread set in as they twisted the knob, watching the dust, the dirt, the plumage of nature topple at their feet before stepping inside.”

Your friend suddenly starts eyeing you curiously, and he frowns, pulling out his phone. He types something quickly, then puts it away. You decide to continue.

“They felt relief for only a moment, with no sign of a smell, except the sweet aroma of forest fruit, apples, peaches. They noticed an array of items, including the very fruits they smelled. Until, of course, they saw them arranged in a circle in the middle of the floor, outlining a pool of something that was far off from any drink they could make with fruit. They wished the eight cross necklaces were the most disturbing part, soaked in blood, and sorted neatly in a row. Or the dead chicken that was in the middle of it all. The most disturbing part, of course, was the corpse of the pastor’s daughter–”

“Kneeling on the ground,” your friend interrupts, a distressed look on his face. “What… how do you know that? The other two girls were found killed in the room… how do you know that?” He shows you what appears to be an old article.

MAYOR’S DAUGHTER; CHOIR CHILDREN MURDERED IN ABANDONED CABIN

This time, the chills take over. “How do… you know that? I made that up…”

“Your embellishments… that was one of them? What did you make up? What part of it was fake?” he asks.

“I… what do you mean?” Suddenly, the tension has you creeped out, and you wonder if he’s messing with you. He’s the type to try and make a situation like this more intense. But somehow, for some reason, the look in his eye says otherwise.

He shakes his head, and you wonder exactly when this story clicked for your camping buddy. “I didn’t get it until you said the other two girls went missing. And then the story of opening the door—my mom always talked about her old uncle in law enforcement finding some creepy shit like that. And then… the dead chicken, the fruit, the necklaces… I remember this. It’s real.”

You frown, glancing at your other friend, and she looks back at you. You’re too creeped out to continue. Have you told this story in his presence before? He must be playing into this. You were about to circle back to your earlier point, the fact that there’s unsuspecting people who bait him by bringing these three items with him, but the look of shock on their faces makes you wonder if it’ll be pushing this story too far. Even if they claimed they wanted to be scared.

You try to cover your superstitions with a nervous laugh. “Yeah. It’s kind of real… a ghost story about a town is kind of real–”

He shakes his head. “My great uncle knew about this case. My mom has talked about it more than twice now. It’s something you don’t just go around telling people because it’s really fucked.”

Your other friend stands up suddenly, and you both jump. You, nearly out of your own seat.

“Guys,” she looks down, then back up toward the semi-open forest. “I know you’re trying to be creepy, but I… if you’re in on some joke, it’s not funny.”

With that, she reaches into her shirt, pulling a necklace from her collar. A necklace with none other than a cross on the chain.

In that moment, the coincidences are too uncanny to not ponder on, at least for the time being. “You saw my chain.”

“Why would I know you had that?” you say defensively, tossing your hands up. That’s when you remember the apple she was casually kicking about, and your eyes widen at the realization that it appears to be gone. “Did you kick it into the fire?” Your tone is softer now, and you realize that you all are actually interrogating each other at this point.

“Didn’t you say you were a choir girl?” he asks. She nods.

“...where did the apple go?”

“I’m literally so freaked out right now–”

“The apple,” you interrupt again. “I didn’t see you pick it up–”

“Is your necklace actually a cross–”

“Where did the apple go?!” you interrupt, standing up right along with her. She finally registers what you’ve said, and she looks down.

“I… I don’t know.” Reality, or some messed-up version of it sets in, when you realize that your subconscious couldn’t have put this many coincidences together. “But the fact that I found that chicken feather in my food… and that candle light is just freaking me the fuck out at this point.”

You shake your head, feeling your forehead break out in a sweat, as if the heat from the fire has finally set in. “There’s no candle light.”

The color drains from both of your friends’ faces, and the last of the group finally stands up.

“What. Do you mean. There’s no candle light? It’s literally right there. That’s how you started this entire story,” he says, gesturing behind you.

The drop in your gut makes you whip your head to the side, and you wish you hadn’t turned to look around at all. The cabin. It’s definitely closer. It’s a cabin. It’s… covered in weeds. Cobwebs. But there’s no light. He’s got to be messing with you.

“Stop joking,” you say shakily, voice cracking. He scoffs.

“You stop joking. You don’t see it? That’s what made the story so creepy in the first–”

“You guys…”

The pure, icy terror in her tone makes you both stop in your tracks. “Tell me I’m hallucinating.”

It seems like in that moment, even the ground noise of the forest fades out, leaving you to witness your own pounding heartbeat in your ears, the first time you’ve felt an anxiety like this. The type of fringe between wanting to understand what’s happening before your eyes, but not believing it for a second. The type of thing you have to stop yourself from believing.

Reality has lost all meaning at this point, as you wonder if you’re dreaming. Vividly, vividly dreaming.

“You… put it there,” he says. Denial does nothing. There’s no way you could’ve done this.

“I…” your words feel like they’ll be dust if you try to push them out. Suddenly, the fire in front of you feels very hot. Maybe it’s a panic attack. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t a group hallucination, unless of course, you are dreaming.

And you’re definitely not.

The three of you aren’t tearing your eyes away from the sight of the bird, hanging by it’s neck on the tree, right beside the cabin.

A chicken.

“The C… the Cabin Slasher is… real…” his voice is just as shaky as yours, if not more.

“No way it’s real.”

“C’mon. You’re looking at that, and saying it’s not real–”

“It’s not,” you say, not even believing the words that you’ve said yourself. This… this was an iteration of a story you were told as a kid. You even made some of it up! Even if it were real, this guy is from the 1940s, and you know ghosts aren’t real. They aren’t. They’re not.

“If he took the apple, he would’ve taken your neckla–”

You must be seeing things. No. You’re having the opposite problem. You’re not seeing things. Because your friend.

She’s gone.

Both of you look at each other at the same time, and he starts shaking his head frantically.

“What the hell. What the hell. What the–she was just here. What in the–”

“Calm down,” you whisper, scanning the dark with your eyes. The fire doesn’t help at all. 90% of you knows that no prank could be this elaborate. The other percent is wondering why this has to be the way you find out that ghosts are real.

He shakes you by the collar. You feel how fast your heart beats against his fingers. “WHERE DID SHE GO?!?!”

“What the fuck,” you curse under your breath. The dread sets in, and hopelessness on top of that as you realize you’re a million steps behind in this situation. The woods don’t seem real as you look out, seeing the swaying trees, unnatural it seems. It’s not a dream though. You feel the subtle bite of your friend’s nails at your neck as you internalize your panic, your shame. As if you should’ve known this was coming.

“We’re gonna die. We have to look for her. We have t–”

Suddenly, a gust of wind takes away your sight, and the fire is blown away in one gust. Your gasp is followed by a scream as your friend’s hands are ripped away from your collar, and the silence of the woods is suddenly interrupted by the blasting wind.

“Hey!” you shout desperately. You come face to face with something hard, something dirty, as you feel the detritus fall in your face.. Your hands stroke bumps of wood, and if your heart couldn’t sink any lower into your stomach, you realize that you’ve run into the cabin in just a few steps.

It’s too late.

You tilt your head up, right as you see the strike of a match, only separated by a pane of glass.

A single candle is lit right before your eyes.