Host

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Strange, I thought. I had hiked past this dilapidated cabin on the Appalachian Trail many times and had never seen signs of life there. The cracked shutters screamed stay out while the warm light invited me in. I tugged the brim of my hood to ward off the rain pelting mercilessly through the canopy. The falling autumn leaves had taken my breath away during the day, but during a night deluge they provided no protection. My feet ached in my soaked boots, and my joints hurt. I liked the hurt after a good day’s hike. I hated this older, bone-tired feeling. Aging was the worst. Well, perhaps second worst to starving while alone in a rainstorm.

I smelled something delicious inside the cabin. There was warmth and food. Four days into my solo backpacking trip, I had no food in my pack. I needed to eat soon or I wouldn’t make it to a town. A tickle traced up my amygdala as it did every time I weighed a risk. I liked taking risks. Half the time they were worth the danger. Moving to Nashville for the sun and scenery had paid off. My last relationship had not. My latest boyfriend had found a much younger girl, kicking me out of the apartment. I decided to clear my head along this familiar trail before starting my life over . . . again. My annual backpacking trip was usually serene and refreshed my mind. Not this time. By trying to wait out the storm before setting up camp, I had walked right into another mess, another risk. But what kind of risk? Getting assaulted by a minacious demon in the cabin would totally ruin the trip. However, so would pneumonia. Wiping a stream of water from my face, I straightened my shoulders and trudged toward the front door, water squelching in my boots. The tantalizing smell of warm food grew as I approached. Hopefully this woodsman was the non-rapacious kind. Perhaps there’s even a family, like Little House on the Prairie. A whole family would explain why the place smelled so delicious.

I crept to the candlelit window and peered inside, trying to keep my body out of sight. I could barely make out a table set with two chairs just inside the window. Aside from the poor lighting and the rain, my eyes were not what they once were. The competition was settled. Aging really was the worst.

My breath caught. A small flash of light ignited on the far side of the room. The flicker gave the tell-tale sign of a match. It descended towards the floor, sputtered, then began to grow. Orange flames highlighted with a tint of green. Newspaper, I thought. The ink emits that green hue. Soon the flame illuminated a couple of logs in a small fireplace. A human form crouched in front of the flames. I spied the silhouette of a hand, the glimmer off a watch. Bigfoot isn’t likely to wear jewelry. If I’m walking into trouble, at least it’s human trouble.

I approached the front door and knocked hard. A door slammed shut. Somewhere inside, a piece of furniture scuffed the floor loudly. Wood floor, not dirt, I thought at the sound. Already warmer and cleaner than some cabins up here. Also, hopefully he’s not lunging for a shotgun. I stepped away from the door, leaning on the timber wall closer to the door latch in case this was an old-timer who shot first and asked questions later. I jumped as an inner lock rattled noisily in its housing. The latch lifted and the door flew open, rusty hinges shrieking over the din of the rain. A face leaned out toward me.

“Oh,” was all I could manage. The dim candlelight left most of the man in shadow. The curly blond hair was shaggy but tangle-free. I could make out a well-kept beard. The half-buttoned red plaid shirt revealed a ruddy bulging pec. A little cliché, I thought, but under the circumstances I don’t mind. One of his eyes remained in shadow, but its hazel partner caught the light. It studied me.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

That voice. The perfect dollop of southern honey on a baritone biscuit. No “ain’t” but he took his time with his vowels. An involuntary shudder ran up my spine. I played it off by folding my arms against the cold.

“Forgive my starin’. You must be wet to the bone,” he remarked. “It’s been such a long time since I ‘ve had company. I’m about to eat. Would you come in, ma’am?” He stood back, holding the door open. Thanking him, I stepped inside.

The cabin had looked small on the outside and felt smaller inside. From my old apartments, I guessed the space was perhaps 15 feet by 15 feet. To my right sat the wooden table under the candlelit window. Along the wall stood a washstand, an old cook stove, and a wooden cupboard cluttered with an eclectic mix of canteens and aluminum mugs. Against the far wall was a hand-carved rocking chair. Despite the mere ten-foot distance, I could barely discern the line of hiking packs against the wall in various states of disrepair. My host apparently had worn out several of them. Weird that he doesn’t throw out the old ones and clear some space in here.

In addition to the smell of dinner, a second aroma hit me. It was something old, familiar, as if I had been here before. It filled me with a sense of satisfaction, like the scent of a favorite flower. What could it be?

My host closed the door behind me. To my relief, he did not bolt it shut. He squeezed past me on his way to the stone chimney in the left far corner to tend the fledgling fire. Natural musk, I thought. I didn’t detect any deodorant or scented body wash, but there was still something entrancing. I took my eyes off his broad shoulders. Another window spattered with rain hung to his left. A large bed dominated this half of the room almost from the door to the wall. The bedside table had a collection of compasses, pocketknives, a few books. Above it, nearly twenty rumpled wallet-sized pictures and polaroids were pinned to the wall. It was not nearly light enough to make out if these were friends or family of my host. My eyes already stung from squinting in the dark.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had company,” he repeated. He breathed hard as he spoke, as if excited for something. His hands shook as he tended the fire. “It’s good to see another face. What’s your name?”

“Janet,” I admitted. I hated the name. It sounded too plain. But I wanted to hold onto something of my identity. One of the things that didn’t change in my turbulent life. “What’s yours?”

“I don’t remember,” said my host. “No one has called me anything in so long.” My host stood and wiped his hands. He pulled a long coil of paracord from his pocket. I stepped back in alarm. My host snorted a laugh then strung the rope across two hooks in the rafters. “You can hang some of your wet gear here to dry by the fire. I’ll keep gettin’ ready for dinner.” He moved towards the cupboard behind the table as I stepped near the fire.

What an oddball! I thought my terrible luck with guys and my inability to live in one place was weird. Surely, he had a name. I’ll get to that after I get warm. I laid my pack against the wall by the fireplace, groaning as the tension left my shoulders. After several firm tugs, my boots came free, making noises like suction cups. Wet socks reluctantly yielded their death grip. I left them by the fire.

“What’s your story?” I asked bluntly.

“Up here, long as I can remember. It’s lonely, but it’s home.”

“Really? I’ve walked past this cabin many times over the years. I’ve never seen anyone out here.”

My host shrugged. “I don’t get out much. Not much of a social person.”

“You seem to have a lot of friends, though,” I said moving over to the pictures on the wall. “None of them look like family.”

“Yup, just friends,” he said. “My family’s long gone. I don’t see people very often, but they often leave a memento if I have offered them a hand.”

I could use a hand . . . and a meal, I thought. “Did you say you were about to eat?”

“Yes. Oh! I guess I should set the table. Honestly, I don’t usually even use utensils. Let me see if I can find these fancy things.”

I peeled off my rain jacket and slung it over the rope. My long sleeve shirt was also soaked and clung to my flesh. I glanced at my host. He was respectfully facing the other way, digging plates out of his cupboard. I pulled the shirt over my head, leaving the sleeveless tank top underneath.

Self-consciousness set in. With makeup and hair dye I could make myself look forty. Wouldn’t you know it, I left my compact at home. The tank top clinging to my belly roll wasn’t flattering either. My host looked in his early thirties. In the past, I could turn an attractive man’s head. Currently, I wasn’t in his league.

Sighing, I took a seat on the bed, stretching my icy bare feet toward the flames. Suddenly I ran a hand over the bed cover. Fur, I thought. Is this from a bear skin? I wanted to wrap myself in its luxurious softness and get warm . . . perhaps with some help from body heat. Scolding myself, I dismissed the sequence of events that played in my head between my host and me. For now, I needed to content myself with the fire. The flames were quickly eating through the two meager logs leaning against each other. I looked around for a stack of wood, but only saw a dusty spread of splinters under the window where logs should have been.

“Not much of a fire,” I said. “Is there more wood in here?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Not much for lumberjacking? I thought you’d be a pro, living up here all your life.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I have wood piled outside. The rain started comin’ down in sheets before I could bring any inside today. I would go get some for you if it would do any good, but it’s all soaked by this time. We’ll have to make do.” He smiled. My breath caught again. A big smile, with straight perfect teeth. “It is an honor to have you here, Ms. Janet. Please, I haven’t heard from a visitor in such a long time. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

“Well, I’m most recently from Nashville. I’ve lived all over. Kind of a wanderer.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’ve done a little of everything. Was a waitress, acted on stage, sold cosmetics. I was even a nurse for a while before I had to leave that behind.”

“What happened?”

“An uppity family complained about how their family member was treated in the hospital and blamed it all on me.” I shook my head. That job had been a risk that did not pay off. My stomach rumbled. I wonder what he’s making. There was no pot over the fire or a plucked pheasant roasting on a spit. Do people even have fire spits anymore? It had been ages since I had seen one in real life and not in a period drama. Then I remembered that my host had been lighting the fire when I arrived. It wouldn’t make sense for him to be cooking something over here. It must be in the oven. No romantic pheasant then.

I started noticing what else was missing. I expected herbs, vegetables, and pots hanging from the rafters. None were there, only cobwebs and old hooks. Also, I noticed there were no other doors. I swore I heard a door slam after I knocked.

There. Beside my shoes glimmered the latch to a trapdoor. My host must store his additional supplies down in a cellar. I realized the second smell was coming from down there. The feeling of familiarity and satisfaction hit me again. I felt drawn to it. Crouching, I reached for the handle.

“We’re ready,” said my host. “Come on over.” He stood, his hands on the back of the chair closest to me.

Embarrassed, I stood, hoping he didn’t notice my snooping in the dark. I padded over to the table and took the seat he offered. He scooted the chair in for me. It creaked beneath my weight. I really need to lose this stubborn belly, I thought. He sat opposite me, with the stove behind him. The candle now fully illuminated his face. He had high cheekbones and remarkably clear skin for a woodsman without any facial cleanser. I guess there is something to be said about the fresh outdoors. And that smile. So warm.

I looked down at the table. Only empty plates and cups were there. “What’s for dinner?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

“Me too,” he said. “Janet, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. I don’t get much entertainment out here. Even your conversation brought me such delight. I’m sure you have interesting things in your bag I can enjoy later. But I haven’t eaten in years, and I just can’t wait any longer.”

I shuddered. That smile turned a knot in my stomach. His hazel eyes shone, no longer with charm, but with desire. Giddy from fear, I realized the irony of our food conversation. I came in to find whatever delicious meal was ready. He let me in as the main course. My feet tensed against the floor, ready to run. My boots and socks were across the room. “What is this?” I gasped. “You mean, you didn’t make anything? You’re going to . . . going to. . . .”

“Most of my former meals are on the younger side and are a lot more tender.” He leaned on the table, fingers twitching with anticipation. “But I can’t go out in the sun. Can you imagine how frustrating it is to wait in the cellar, to hear people talkin’ just feet from my door and I can’t do anything to get to them? I could forage at night, but after several hikers disappeared over the past decades, fewer of you come near enough after dark.”

“This is crazy!” I blurted. “This can’t be happening.”

“You are my saving grace, Janet,” he said. “I was down to my last candle. I’ve used them sparingly to lure someone here at night. When I heard you walking along the path, I knew I wouldn’t starve. I know you’re older than the last one, but I should still get a few months of life out of you.”

Before I could scream, he launched across the table. I barely saw the glint of elongating teeth before his body slammed into mine. The ancient chair shattered beneath me, and we tumbled to the floor. Spikes of pain pierced my carotid and scraped against my throat. I coughed, spraying him with my own blood. He whimpered with delight and sucked in a mouthful. I felt my lifeblood draining away. I felt his strength, the inhuman power of his jaw piercing into me. I felt my wrinkles begin to fade. It was painfully . . . delicious.

My host gasped. His face began to wrinkle before my eyes, that perfect hair became wispy. His brows knitted in confusion even as he sucked greedily at my neck. Strange, I thought, how men so often cling to the thing that is killing them.

“You see,” I croaked through my damaged throat. “The thing about a succubus is that we don’t drain blood like you do. We drain years.” I recalled the photos pinned beside his bed. That’s why my dinner had smelled so delicious. He was full of life. Stolen life. Now stolen again. Finders keepers.

My dinner’s breath came in gasps. Liver spots began to appear on his face. The skin of my face, belly, and legs already felt firm and smooth. His hairline began to recede. Yet he held on. I understood the desire. The tug of war between him draining my blood and me draining his youth was intoxicating and completely novel in my many years. None of my previous meals had been capable of putting up this kind of fight. But I knew I could not hold out much longer. I was getting light-headed and would soon black out from blood loss. Recalling a technique I had used to overpower my more muscular subjects, I jabbed both my thumbs into the nerve clusters under his jaw. My dinner’s head snapped back at the sudden pain, releasing his hold. It was all I needed. Grasping both sides of his face, I yanked him toward me and bit his neck. No blood needed. Just contact.

I felt ecstasy. His years, decades, centuries, flooded into me. I could feel my salt and pepper hair becoming healthy and shiny once more. The muscles in my hands strengthened, making it easier to hold my dinner still. My throat rapidly mended as the loose skin under my chin tightened. I continued to slurp in the delicious soup of youth until I realized I was sucking on bone.

I fell back with a satisfied sigh, letting the skull rest on my breast. Not exactly how I fantasized about ending the night, but it would do. I lay on the floor, letting the opposite forces of adrenaline from surprise and dopamine from fullness course their winding dance through my body. I laughed, testing my voice. My second laugh was genuine, delighted in the youthful lilt I hadn’t heard in nearly a century. During previous meals, taking five decades off a man aged me back about five years. My dinner must have knocked off nearly thirty. The night’s risk had paid off after all. Perhaps there was a perk to dating monsters.

Now that the delicious smell of dinner was gone, I breathed in the secondary scent once more, stronger this time. I slapped my forehead. What an idiot, I thought. It really has been a long time since my last meal. The intoxicating smell of dry bone. I peered toward the cellar door. A natural place to conceal meals. My dinner had quite the set up in the woods. Moving apartments between each meal and finding new jobs was such a hassle. Perhaps a stay in the woods would be the change of scenery I was looking for. I would add my own dinner scraps to his subterranean heap.

Suddenly, an idea hit me. A tickle along my amygdala told me a tantalizing risk awaited. I smiled, looking at the photos on the wall. Eighteen to be exact. This cabin was promising. A fresh start. And a fresh competition. I lifted the skull from my chest to look towards the photos. “Let’s see which of us can be the better host. But not tonight. I’m full for now.” I pushed my dinner to the floor, stood, stretched my lithe teenage body, licked my fingers, and doused the candle in the window.