Dry Season

Dry Season

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

Local Park rangers occasionally checked on the Cabin periodically as it was said bums, vagrants, and junkies used the Cabin; but a lit candle, now that was reckless.

No open fires. No fireworks. No hunting. Especially in this neck of woods. The dry season had been the worst in years, and the National Park Rangers knew better.

At least, Luke thought they should have.

Luke had just reached his fourth and final Eagle Scout badge. The young boy was proud of his outdoorsman achievements and was confident he would be a Park Ranger one day. At just 14 years, he led his own troupe of scouts, most of whom were older.

The Old Forest sat between National Forests, and Luke's home was just a stone's throw away. The Old Forest was his favorite, and it felt all his own. Nearly a hundred years earlier, the forest burnt down, presumably, in a rather strange lightning storm. Ever since, new families of pines, spruce, and evergreens had grown carefully around a scattered collection of tall, half-destroyed trunks that spread for kilometers in every direction. These trunks stuck out like grey-steel knives, protruding three stories high, their angled and serrated edges cut into the blue sky.

Luke approached the lonely Cabin crunching twigs and fallen pine cones underneath his thick, rubber-soled boots. The Cabin was undoubtedly old. It was a unique run-down heap. Most abandoned wooden structures of the Colorado area were made of the same simple materials. A typical grey, dead wood with rusted metalwork and paint that had peeled away over decades. This lonely Cabin seemed to be pieced together with a peculiar and wide variety of wooden planks stitched by bolts and nails in a seemingly random fashion. Each Cabin side resembled a rotting Frankenstein's skin. A three-hundred and sixty-degree portrait of Frankenstein scowling or smiling. Luke shuffled around the splintered cabin corner and began to hear a murmur. The odd buzz took shape the closer Luke crept toward the door. Voices, he thought.

"Little lost are we," boomed a voice from behind. Luke swiveled and nearly lost his footing.

"Oh, Luke, it's just you," said the figure, hidden behind the shining flashlight. "Are you alone?"

"Just me, Mr. Santos," Luke beamed.

Santos's flashlight swiveled around as he scratched his beard. His broad-rimmed hat caught the silver glow of moonlight and cast a shadow across his eyes. Puzzled, Santos said, "swear I heard some other kids around here—"

"Mr. Santos, there's a lit candle inside the Cabin, and I was just going to —

"It's pretty late little Padawan. Don't you think you should be home?" Mr. Santos said as he continued to scan around, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"But there's an open fire in the cabin."

The Park Ranger peered around Luke and shuffled forward. He placed a large and knobby hand on the young boy's shoulder. "Go home, Luke, before your parents get worried. Don't worry, I'll take care of it; it's just a candle, after all".

Luke ambled away reluctantly. A flicker of a doubt, like a warm breath along the nape of his neck, tugged at him.

Dinner-as-usual was nearly complete when Luke decided to mention The Cabin and Ranger Santos to his parents. "I saw Mr. Santos today," Luke said over the last remaining potatoes.

"Oh really, a nice fellow, that guy..." his father droned. His attention fixated on the TV that flashed on the corner counter. Luke's mother smiled at him and nodded toward the untouched vegetables on his plate.

"It was strange...There was a lit candle in the window of that old Cabin, and you know, with the fires around lately I" --

CRASH.

The wine glass shattered on the floor next to him, by the foot of his mother. He saw a minuscule shard stuck in her leg, a droplet of blood inflating around the edge. But when he looked at his mother, his skin crawled. She was unaware of her wound and sat still. Nearly frozen. Eyes fixated on her plate, her neck muscles constricted and veins bulging like a scream was trapped within her throat trying to claw its way out.

"Mom..."

Her eyes trembled, then suddenly darted toward Luke.

"How many times have I told you to stay away from that Cabin, Luke!? How many!? You are forbidden to go anywhere near it! If you try and go near it, I swear I will cut your feet from your ankles, so you never go anywhere again!" She punctuated by pounding the table and the plate in front of her.

"Okay now, easy Patty, deep breaths," his father breathed. He began to lead the physically hysterical woman away from the table with agility and deft motions.

"Luke, her medication..." his father nodded toward the cupboard. Luke couldn't move. He dared not to. His mother had always been stern with him regarding the Cabin, but this outburst was new. Her piercing and unwavering gaze were unnatural. As if another person had awakened and puppeteered her body. Luke had never once seen even a glimmer of whoever resided beneath those eyes, even during her worst episodes. As his father led her away, her eyes remained fixed on Luke. The web of blood capillaries slithered and grew toward her iris in real-time. Her eyes trembled out of what Luke thought was rage but the rest of her contorted face implied fear. She looked at him like one might stare down an approaching cobra, for Luke would lunge out and bite her if she looked away.

"Luke! Meds! Now." his father snapped, unlocking Luke from the invisible knot that froze him in place.

The young boy remained awake that night, pretending to be asleep; he stared into a corner of the room. A sliver of amber hallway light illuminated a stripe along the intersection of walls at which he stared. Within the sliver of light, the sandy paint texture and wrinkles formed the face of his screaming mother. If he looked away and then back again, the wrinkles would retake her form. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a tree split by lightning. He heard his mother sobbing and wailing in their adjacent room. She would ebb from lamenting her actions to venting her anger, and back and forth it went. Soon the medication took its effect, and he heard her deliriously calm down.

Luke's father entered his room shortly after that, plopping the weight of the evening next to him, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. Luke turned over.

"It's not your fault Luke. Your mother is…."

"Psycho," Luke mumbled.

"…troubled", Luke's father edged. He let out a broken sigh, trying to find the correct words.

"It's not fair. I'm by the Cabin ALL the time. Even with you. We live in the middle of nowhere. There's never any murderers or junkies or whatever you guys said; what did I do?" Luke pleaded.

"It's not you, really. It's just your mother's past." He took a moment to collect his thoughts.

"See, when your mother was about your age, her parents died in a terrible accident."

"I know that. That's why she's crazy."

"Troubled," Luke's father corrected.

"It's not just that," he continued, "shortly before her parents passed, your mother said she saw a lit candle in an old abandoned railroad cabin near her home. Your mother thought she heard people inside, people calling for help, screaming, and when she opened the door, she saw no one inside. When she returned home, her house was on fire, and her family was inside.

"No wonder I never get any candles on my birthday," Luke grumbled.

His father squeezed his hand reassuringly. He smiled, "Just stay away from the Cabin for the summer, help your mother ease her nerves; everything will be okay."

Luke felt a bit at ease as his father gently shut the door, and sleep quickly enveloped him like a warm blanket.

That night he dreamt of a blinding sunrise, as red as freshly spilled blood and as raging as a fire.

Luke did stay away from the Cabin, for a while at least. He kept feeling a draw toward it, the curiosity he knew, just sitting on the fringes of his consciousness: it was simply hungry to know. At times, when Luke ventured just a smidge into the scarred territory of the Old Forest, he would hear and see things. Tricks of his own curiosity, the young boy knew. Sometimes it was the collective voice of a group of kids playing. Sometimes he saw figures, silhouettes of teenagers slipping into the shadows of the thickets just as it would catch his eye. This time he experienced another trick of the mind, the distinct stench of burnt wood. A forest fire. There was no visible smoke in any direction, no distant and rusted cloud mass. No visible sign of a fire. The wind could carry the smell for miles, but this stench was pungent as if the fire were on his doorstep.

His mother ate papaya for dessert that night. Usually, the vomit-like odor would make his nostrils curl, but instead, he only smelled the fire. Of course, he never mentioned any of the voices or visions for the last couple of weeks, and everything seemed right as fresh rain. His father switched the channel to the local news. His mother minded messages on her phone, and Luke slowly picked at his red-skinned mashed potatoes, marred with the slight taste of burnt.

The news channel repeated an ongoing story of a forest fire that day. It was small, taking only several acres, and was contained very quickly. The fire did, however, also swallow a single home.

His mother and father perked at the news. That must've been it, Luke thought. Its brief and particular nature made the fire newsworthy as the anchor said, "Officials report that their initial investigations reveal the fire began in the home of—"His father quickly switched channels.

"These fires are getting closer and closer every year," his father grumbled. "And no one's doing a damned thing about it."

Luke looked to his mother, his muscles tense and ready for an outburst. Instead, she remained chewing her food calmly. She shook her head slightly.

"That poor family…" she mumbled through a mouthful.

That night Luke dreamt of a sunset. He saw the light fall behind the canopy of a whole forest, and then the last rim of light peeled off the edges of a red shingled roof. The roof capped a simple wooden cabin, its walls stacked with thick old planks; the planks cut and chiseled by hand. An outhouse stood atop a grassless patch offset from the Cabin. Leafy fern bushes brushed up against the sides of the Cabin like green waves crashing against grey rocks. A warm light glowed in the window, inviting against the piercing blue of the recently awakened evening. Luke walked toward the Cabin with lucid steps. Even though he saw his feet depress against the rocky and needle-ridden ground, he felt as if he glided over, carried by the sounds of conversation inside.

He crossed through the closed door and felt his feet touch the dusty wooden floor. It was searing hot, and yet it didn't burn his skin. There were no people to be found. No bodies for the voices to emanate from. Before him lay a large mass of burnt embers still hot with white brushed edges and the hot cores glowing through jagged cracks. A candle sat between them on a roughly shaped bronze basin. Suddenly a gust of wind blew open the door behind Luke and sent the lit candle against the wall setting it ablaze. The flames licked and slithered along the dry walls until they reached the piles of embers. The cracks in the embers sucked in the fire lifting the mass into three distinct groups; the pieces grating and crunching into place to form the shape of a figure. The figures, now alight and trailing large swaths of flame, cracked their limbs into place, posing upright and reanimated. With mouths agape and blindingly orange eyes, they lunged toward Luke and shrieked. Each shout was like a crack of thunder. The cacophony of thunderous shrieks overwhelmed Luke's senses, and he woke.

Thunder rumbled and shook the windows to his 2nd-floor room. If Luke had screamed, it was most likely drowned out by the colossal thunderstorm outside. The young boy caught a figure darting across the window. He vaulted over to catch a glimpse and saw what looked like his mother running into the forest.

Luke darted out of his room and ran to his parent's bedroom. He flung open the door to see their beds empty. He ran throughout the house screaming their names. He was only met with the response of thunder and the flicker of lightning casting rectangles of white through the vibrating windows.

Throwing on his shoes and a jacket, Luke was out the back door and into the forest perimeter. He ran toward where he saw his mother running out earlier.

Luke reached the Old Forest and caught up to another figure he couldn't make out. He was buffeted by strong winds that blew in every direction. The moon was full and cast shadows like skeletal fingers clawing the ground. The figure took the shape of a broad man with a broad hat.

"Mr. Santos!" Luke yelled out. The figure of Santos didn't respond, surely deafened by the broken arrangement of thunder and wind. With every ounce of strength, the young boy lunged forward through the wind after Santos.

Luke reached him as they arrived at the Cabin. The winds still blew, and yet Santos calmly continued forward. He looked just as he did that night, weeks earlier, his wide ranger hat resting atop his head despite the violent winds.

Luke yelled out again, and this time Santos turned. His movements were slow, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Come in, Luke; your parents are inside," Santos gently said. Somehow Luke could hear him over the thunderstorm that raged in his ears.

The young boy wanted to enter, but he remained still. Santos strode toward the door. Beside it, he motioned to the door with the elegance of a royal butler and smiled with an aloof grin that made his bearded face seem like a caricature of his familiar self. His eyes were hidden within a rectangle of shadow, but his Cheshire grin reached the edges of the shadow, skewering the smile into a grotesque and stretched mouth. That was when he heard his Mother whimper from inside. "I told you, Luke, I told you..." she repeated.

Luke ran to the door and twisted the doorknob. When he pulled the door open, a tremendous hot wind blew past him, causing him to squint and choke. He regained his clear vision inside and what he saw froze him in his tracks, every muscle fiber frozen, every cell in his body static, every molecule of oxygen suspended in stasis.

The Cabin was empty. Devoid of life and devoid of light except for a strong shaft of moonlight that bounced and illuminated what remained. What remained were simply broken chairs, splintered shelves, the splintered remnants of what could've been a bed or bench or table. Every surface was caked with thick layers of dust and webbing. It was nearly impossible to make out what things were. It was like a small landfill of wooden pieces, opened cans, torn cloth, discarded knick-knacks, and rusted metals. With exception was the center of the room where the floor was charred in the form of three figures. The scorched area extended up the walls and grew like tree branches that turned and tapered into veins that dug into small crevices of the patchwork Cabin.

Luke felt out of breath. Intense pressure in his head squeezed from both sides. His throat constricted, and pressure on his chest made every breath a painful squeeze on his heart. His skin felt the touch of the damp and icy-cool air, but he was burning inside. Sweat oozed from every pore to bathe him in a frozen blanket. He didn't understand, and he couldn't think. Was everything he saw an illusion? Was he dreaming? He couldn't even remember why he was there. It dawned on the young boy when he stumbled back against a wall and caught sight of the lone window where the candle stood. Except there was no candle, there was no fire. Only a lit candle was reflected on the dirty and scratched window.

Luke didn't know what it meant, but he knew he shouldn't be in the Cabin. The young boy ran out the door and straight toward his home. He couldn't think of anything else except that he had made a grave mistake. He watched as every knife-like trunk in this graveyard of a forest passed him quickly and, at the same time, endlessly. He couldn't hear the thunder or feel the wind. Luke only felt a scorching fire he hoped would extinguish with every lunge as he ran. He ran for what felt like hours and he watched a red sun pour and filter through the thick expanse of the forest ahead. The red and orange of the sunrise became more intense as Luke neared the edge of the woods at the foot of a small clearing that made up his home's backyard. Finally, his mind broke free from its infernal prison, and he wondered how long he'd been outside.

Luke jumped over the last bush that marked the edge of the forest and saw the sunrise. It was no sunrise like he'd seen before; it was, in fact, not a sunrise.

It was his home.

Ablaze, his house was engulfed in flames the size of open ocean waves, spitting in all directions like that of a tesla ball. Surrounding the house were frantic moving figures and vehicles. Firefighters and Police were already at the scene trying to fight the blaze, but it was too late. His house was merely a black silhouette and series of black shapes, slowly splitting and tearing away. Within the window of his parent's room, he saw a single candle on the cracked windowsill. It was lit, calmly flickering, undisturbed by the maelstrom of fire around it. Beside the candle on the blackening windowpane, he saw the reflection of his mother's face, her piercing glare just as it was that one evening's dinner, staring directly at him. Reminding the young boy. "I told you," her eyes said before the walls and glass collapsed under the weight of the fire.

It's been said that the Police only noticed Luke because of his screams. He was screaming in pain as he bashed his ankles in with a stone. The Police stopped him in time to get him to the hospital and save his life. But luke never walked again.

Decades later, he taught outdoor survival skills to young scouts. Luke always finished his courses with a last warning about the dry season.

No open fires. No fireworks. No hunting. And never disturb the Cabin when you see a lone candle flickering in the window.