Astray

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. I figured it was one of old Nick Dorrian’s family members, finally come to tidy up the place. Nick had been dead oh, must've been nearly three years at that point.

That rickety cabin hadn’t seen a lick of attention since—can’t say I blame them, though. Heck, my A-frame is in the meadow just across the wash, and I hadn’t made it over there once since Nick’s passing. I called him a friend for years, but I suppose he really spooked us near the end there. Grew his beard long and wild, started wearing all those strange outfits. I’d see red eyes and orbs of light in the trees, or Nick would be wandering around at all hours with candles and who-knows-what.

One night I heard a downright unearthly sound coming from Nick’s property. Most awful thing I ever heard, like a roar made out of a hundred jumbled voices all talking backwards. That got me asking questions alright. I know at least one of the neighbors must’ve heard it too, but they’re all hush-hush—I guess there’s some stories you can’t share in polite company without getting some side-eye.

But you’re all good, trustworthy folks, so maybe you won’t try to tell me it was an elk bugle or ask me if I was dreaming, like everyone else.

Everyone else sticks to the official story about Nick's death. They say an animal got him, a bear or a mountain lion, most likely. But the state of poor Nick’s body when his grandson Lucas found him, my goodness.

Lucas showed up on my porch a crying, shaking mess. He led me over to Nick’s remains, and I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen any animal do something like that. Nick left the property to Lucas—he said something once about how “the gift” skips generations—but it’s no wonder Lucas hasn’t been back, poor kid.

It makes me feel awful superstitious even to talk about all this, but I can’t keep it bottled up in me forever. I’d say it’s been a good thirty years since I got to tell a proper scary story around the campfire. And this one’s the stuff of nightmares. I should know—Dolly got so sick of me waking her in the middle of the night with my blubbering that she cleansed the whole house with sage and burning chili peppers.

You all know my wife Dolly, don’t you? Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s full Diné—her name is really Dólii, which means bluebird.

After everything, Dolly had me go see Ooljéé Taugelchee, a medicine woman she’s known since she was a little girl. Ooljéé means moon—she says her name taught her to be a light that shines in the dark without trying to chase away all the darkness. That’s certainly what she was for me, let me tell you. I couldn’t make heads or tails of my experience until she shared some downright terrifying Diné lore—

But there I go, getting ahead of myself. Where was I?

Right. So I’m looking over Nick’s wash at that candle. It was right around this same time of year, summer solstice give or take, which seems to be a potent time no matter where you’re from or what you believe. I couldn’t see any other signs of habitation over there, no cars or anything. But the aspens had filled out with summer leaves and it was too dark to see anyway, so I let it be until morning.

I didn’t sleep too well—had this unnerving dream where someone wearing a mask was following me around trying to take my picture, and for some reason I was deathly afraid of that camera. Anyway, I had to make myself an extra cup of strong coffee to get moving the next day.

Mid-morning I was headed out to pick some of the last early-summer irises for Dolly—the smile on her face, it just warms my heart. I nearly dropped my coffee and had to do a double-take, because I could’ve sworn I saw Nick Dorrian himself, passing in front of the cabin before disappearing from view around back.

It was hard to see much from that distance, but the way he moved prickled the hair on my neck: like when a video isn’t working quite right, so it sort of lags and then speeds up to catch up with itself, you know? Never seen anything like it. But then, I’m an old man who didn’t get much sleep, it’s probably my brain that’s not working quite right, I figured.

It took me a minute or two to steel up the courage, but I eventually headed over to Nick’s cabin. A wave of compassion hit me, seeing that old place falling apart and overgrown with foxglove and fleabane. That faded pretty quick as the cabin yard came into better view, though. A bunch of pebbles and something white like salt were arranged in circular patterns, and the big stump where Nick used to chop firewood was splashed with what looked an awful lot like blood to me. There were monstrous, mask-like ceramics hung on the trees near the cabin.

And, strange to say, there was that candle I saw the night before, still burning in the window. Big, thick candle, I could see now. Strange markings all over it, and the flame seemed just a little too still.

I saw the number 72, drawn with that same red liquid over the cabin door. I tried to tell myself maybe it was Forest Service code or something, that it was just red paint they were using to mark the place for demolition—but I couldn’t help but recall the last time I was inside the cabin, a little less than a year before Nick’s death.

Back then that same number 72 was on a big cloth banner inside, though Nick tried to obstruct my view of it until he felt obliged to make us some tea. I still remember, the place stunk with incense like the 1960s, and there were books everywhere with funny names, like Ars Notoria and Liber something, another one called Jinn Sorcery.

I tapped the banner and made a joke that he must’ve thrown a birthday party without inviting me. I teased that he had to be older than 72—heck, I was pushing seventy that year, and Nick made me look like a spring chicken. But he just looked at me with his beady eyes, grinning a toothy grin like he wanted to tell me something. Only thing he did say was that he better not trouble me with such things, and I suspect he was right about that much, at least.

These memories are flooding back, so now I’m quaking in my boots. What “such things” was Nick hiding anyway? Did I just see Nick’s ghost? For the love of all that’s good, why’d I have to come stick my nose in things over here, instead of bringing my wife some flowers and enjoying my coffee? But the thought of ghosts seemed so ridiculous all of a sudden that I scolded myself and headed around back.

Rationality is false courage, my father always used to say.

Behind the cabin, there’s a figure who sure as heck looks like Nick—in the flesh, not some see-through ghost Nick. Grey matted hair, his old brown Carhartts tucked sloppily into boot tongues. But he was impossibly still. I mean, as still as any stone looks, like someone had pressed pause on just him.

I called his name, kind of shaky and quiet at first, then with some more confidence, Nick, by God, is that really you? He still wasn’t turning around, so I told him it can’t be, I saw his dead body with my own eyes. Asking a ghost to explain himself, imagine that.

Oh but believe me, I wish it was a ghost I was about to come face-to-face with. None of those campfire tales as a kid prepared me for this, no sir.

I started inching around toward the front of him, still calling his name, telling him everything’s alright. Finally he’s moving again and he starts turning around in that same jerky, stop-motion kind of way. As he’s turning I can see these symbols carved into the tops of his hands, and there’s blood going drip drip drip onto the flagstone patio.

He turns around...and there’s Lucas. Not Nick’s face but his grandson Lucas’s, clear as day—though it did look off in some way, like a portrait that doesn’t quite match up. But people change.

I asked him what in the world he was doing, and did he need any help with those cuts on his hands. He looked angry and dazed and like he couldn’t find the right words. Family…business, he says at last. You’re…trespassing.

There was something seriously wrong with the pained, awkward way he was talking, but I thought the kid was just all broken up about his dad. Must’ve been an emotional thing coming back here for the first time since Nick died that awful death. I was happy to see myself off the property anyway—place was giving me the willies.

That night, I dreamt that Dolly left her reading candle burning and I had to go put it out. When I got to the den, I saw Nick sitting in the reading chair. Didn’t seem out of the ordinary in the dream, you know how that goes. I told him he was up awful late, and he looks right at me and says, It ain’t me, Buck, and it ain’t Lucas. It’s using my candle.

I told him that was Dolly’s reading candle, not his, but he said he only had a moment and he needed me to listen. Once it’s seen you, it steals your likeness, tries to cobble its own together. It’ll steal your skin too, Buck. You and Dólii need to get the hell out of here, he says, pardon my French.

Then he blew out the candle and disappeared, or maybe it was just the dark, but I woke up then in any case.

Over breakfast in the morning, Dolly thanked me for blowing out her reading candle, said she realized at sunrise she’d left it burning before bed. Imagine that.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about my dream, but it all gave me a hunch that I should call Margaret, Lucas’s mother down in Santa Fe. She and Dolly take walks together sometimes, go to art openings and such. Margaret and I got to talking back when Nick started acting strange. Margaret was very forthcoming about their family past, and I’m thankful for it. Helped clarify things.

She said Nick used to consort with some no-nonsense occultist types back in London, and that she didn’t like it one bit. Nick’s son Kier, that’s Lucas’s father, he had sworn off all of that before he and Margaret were married. Kier Dorrian roughly translates to small, dark wanderer, and it’s safe to say that man’s outrun his name’s destiny: he’s a tall man with huge hands and fair hair, and he can count on one hand the times he’s left Santa Fe County, where he was born. But Grandpa Nick had high hopes for little Lucas, always trying to "prepare the way" for him, even though his parents forbade it.

So I thought about how frightful Lucas looked the day before. I figured that, if Lucas was getting wrapped up in all that blood-and-salt 72 mumbo jumbo, Margaret would want to know about it.

Now get this: after we square away the usual small talk—been too long, how’s the family, how about those early monsoons, so on and so forth—Margaret tells me there’s no way I could’ve seen Lucas at the cabin, because she just talked to Lucas yesterday and he’s over in New York City. Been there for two years already, working on his Ph.D. in something, anthropology I think.

Well now I don’t know whether to head right over to Nick’s cabin and get to the bottom of this, or to hightail it over to Santa Fe. I looked across the wash, and what do I see but that darn candle still going. Not a moment later, Lucas shuffles into view, looking like the spitting image of Nick from afar.

When I got out my binoculars, it looked like Nick’s and Lucas’s faces were put on top of each other, scared the daylights out of me. I could also see that he was carrying a load of stuff: a bag of salt for de-icing the porch steps in winter, maybe some jars of liquid, and what looked like an animal fur over his shoulder. Thought I saw the gleam of Nick’s big hunting knife too.

I told myself to get a grip all the way across the wash, but then I heard Dolly hollering for me. My bluebird sounded deadly serious, all Buck Caldwell, you come back inside right now. But I told her I owed it to Nick’s memory, I’d be back in a jiffy safe and sound.

I guess I felt some sort of responsibility to look out for Lucas. Dolly and I don’t have any kids of our own, so I spend my time worrying about other people’s kids. I knew Dolly was right to be worried—she’s just got a sense for these things, especially because of her upbringing—but I’ll tell you, I just had to go back to that cabin. Couldn’t’ve forgiven myself if I hadn’t.

I’d seen Lucas go inside, so I knocked at the front door. No answer. I was sure wishing I had some sort of prayer to say—Ooljéé taught me one a couple weeks later, but in that moment I was empty-handed, sorry to say.

I let myself in and took some slow steps into the cabin. Seemed awfully dark inside for daytime. The wood floor’s creaking and there’s a dripping sound coming from somewhere and that awful candle’s still going like it never runs out of wax.

And the smell, my God. Like rotting flesh, all mixed up with dust and dank and exotic spices. It looked like there were piles of stuff and more circles on the floor, but I hardly had to time to take it in before Lucas came towards me.

I asked him what in the world was going on. Lucas, I said, you can’t be here. Your mother said she just spoke with you over in New York. Well I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as heck wasn't what came next.

That Lucas-thing didn’t say a word, just dropped its head forward like a limp doll, hair all hanging down. Hung like that for the longest ten seconds of my life, my heart thumping in my ears.

I looked around for some kind of weapon, but then the thing’s head shot back up and, swear on my life, it was my own face staring back at me, smiling this evil grin like I was in on some inside joke.

Something clicked for me—it’s using my candle—and I lunged toward that window and blew with all my breath at the flame. Nothing. Flame barely moved. So I licked my fingers and tried to snuff it until the pain was searing. Finally the flame was gone—smoke twirled up lazily.

I looked back and that thing was still there, with my face and Nick’s hair and Lucas’s young-looking hands with the bloody carvings. Except now its eyes were wild and bulging.

It cricked its neck violently like in a horror movie, and the candle flame came back.

I backed toward the door.

I thought I was a goner until, don’t know how else to say it, another Nick steps from behind me and puts himself between me and that thing.

This time Nick looked just how you’d expect a ghost to look: kind of wavering, pale, almost transparent if you squinted at it. And I knew beyond any shadow that that was the real Nick. Or, you know, the ghost of the real Nick. I don’t know how any of this stuff works; I’m just here to tell the story.

Nick spoke at me—his mouth moved and there was no sound for a moment, but then it was like I heard it inside my head. Get out of here, Buck.

He started moving his ghost-hands in weird ways, really precise little flicks and shapes, like he was drawing shapes in the air with the finest pencil. The thing lurched at him, and Nick started to bend and fade, like that monster was sucking him right in.

Nick raised his hands and yelled some prayer or something—I couldn’t hear it, but boy I felt it in my bones. The thing, still wearing my face, it stopped and just floated there, jerking in the air.

Nick’s ghost moved to the window, or more like (snap) he was there in an instant, making more signs over the candle until it went out and the wax rippled like sound waves in sand. The wick disappeared in the rippling and the white wax settled, like it was burying something that couldn’t ever be allowed to come back.

The thing cricked its neck again, but this time, thank God...no luck. It froze and shuddered in this horrible way, then it was gone. Nick’s old clothes it was wearing collapsed in a pile on the floor.

Nick’s ghost turned toward me, and I heard that eerie delayed voice in my head again, so soft and fading farther away with each word. Sorry for the trouble, Buck.

And with that, he was gone.

Well. I can see from your faces you think I might be pulling your leg, just spinning a yarn to steal the campfire spotlight. Heck, I wouldn’t believe it either if I wasn’t there myself.

As I was saying before, Dolly sent me down to Ooljéé after that frightful hullabaloo, and she fixed me up with a little ceremony that brings tears to my eyes just thinking about. The stories she told me eased my mind, made me a little more sure I wasn’t losing my marbles.

Now, mind you, it’s not my place to tell any of her stories. Ooljéé would only tell me the barest details, and even those were just to give me some peace and perspective about the whole situation.

She told me there are mysterious paths with many dangers, paths that take a lifetime to walk, that most people have no business meddling with, not unless you’re born into it.

Nick came from a long line of cunning folk, but Ooljéé said even the gifted ones can go astray when they get to be a hermit like Nick. She said at a certain point on a path like that, the gifted ones have to learn the dark side of their way, so they know how to balance it out. But the dark makes all sorts of promises—she said you never forget the taste of power, and some can’t let it go until it’s too late.

The way I understand it, power comes with strings attached, and poor souls like that get so attached to this world that when they die, they leave something behind. Like a husk of themselves. And the power calls in all kinds of dark, unholy things, things that want to climb through somehow into the world—so they find that leftover husk, rush right in and try to fill it up. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

Did you ever imagine you’d hear old Buck Caldwell talking like this?

You’ve all been real swell for letting me yammer on this long. Just one more thing I need to say before we break out the mallows and lighten the mood around here.

Ooljéé says it’s mighty difficult to get back on the right path once you’ve gone astray, especially when you’re a ghost. But I’ll tell you, it sure seems like Nick redeemed himself in the end there. And I’m awful thankful for it. Saved my life. Maybe my soul too.

If you can hear me out there somewhere, Nick, I’ll say it so everyone can hear: you’re alright in my book. May you rest in peace, old friend.