It Comes For You

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Its faint light flickered from bright to dim, fighting for its continued flame. The wind howled through the surrounding trees, and slight gusts blew through the many jagged slits in the decrepit windows. A slightly illuminated figure paces back and forth in the wrecked kitchen of this crumbled dwelling. Their wide open, seemingly empty black eyes flutter from window to window, surveying what little can be seen in the vast darkness that had engulfed the surrounding thicket. Cabinets and drawers alike are thrown open and their contents are tossed aside with desperate haste. Mold and mildew have set in on anything edible, a result of the inevitable expiration that befalls all things. He slams the last drawer shut and lets out an exasperated sigh as he leans against the old, scarred wood of the counter. He releases short bursts of air from his nostrils as he rubs his hands down his face, the pressure indenting the skin, hanging loose as they reach the end of their descent. His left leg limps as he shuffles past the dilapidated table. He sets a fallen chair upright, then throws himself down upon it. It creaks heavily under his weight but manages to stay intact. He glares at the cracked wooden floor while fiddling with the frayed ends of his hastily cut shorts, contemplating how much longer he can survive under these grave conditions. The abrupt call of an owl disrupts his macabre thoughts, and he peers out of the window, seeking the source of the sound. He squints, attempting to make out what little movement he can spot in the black of night. His eyes widen in terror. He scrambles to blow out the flame on the old, melting candle, his only source of light. The last match he had scavenged lays next to it, used, as if waiting for the candle to join it in the darkness. He kneels so that he can just barely peek above the counter, searching the blackness where he had seen It.

At first, he had thought It was merely a part of his imagination. Something he had invented as a distraction from his dire situation. Being lost in the woods for hours, much less days, would surely take its toll on anyone. It’s something lots of people imagine. A figurative scenario people create inside their heads to debate whether they could survive being alone and directionless in the wilderness. Having nothing but the few pieces of wilderness survival he could remember from his time as a cub scout, he was experiencing it firsthand, facing the potential consequence of death. His cellphone was without signal and is now dead, and what little food he had brought is depleted. If only he hadn’t diverged from the trail to photograph the large reflective lake meeting the deep blue sky on his phone, he might be safely back in the loving arms of his girlfriend. The same girlfriend whom he intended to meet up with after his hike, to inform her of his recent infidelity. This walk was the prelude, where he could carefully pick his words and clear his mind. He hoped that she could somehow stay with him, despite what he had done. But, when he turned back, each tree was just as indistinguishable as the next. The uniquely twisted tree he had chosen as a marker was nowhere to be found. The green leaves and brown trunks blended and blurred together like smudged paint on a canvas. The full magnitude of his decision hit him, and it was on the third day of wandering alone with an utterly empty stomach that he first saw It. Birds fluttered from the tops of the branches overhead as It emerged from behind the warped trunk of a tree, its piercing gaze meeting his. With slow, steady movements, It prowled towards him. Terrified, he took off running, and as fast as he could, he weaved through the long line of trees seeking to distance himself from what he saw, his legs stiff with shock. Out of breath but still running, his left leg caught on a root, hidden in a clump of moss. He tripped and was thrown flat on his stomach. Exhausted, he dragged his body out of plain view and slumped himself against the rough surface of a large, weathered rock embedded in the side of the hill to regain his breath. He listened. The world was still.

Now, several days of walking later, here he was. Here It was. Again. The figure crept out into the moon’s light. Its features more terrifying in the night. It faces the cabin and continues with slow, creeping steps in its direction. He falls back onto the floor and begins hastily crawling away as the metal tip on his sheathed knife drags against the wood. He stands himself up and undoes the button on the stiff black leather sheath and slides his knife out. A shadow flows across the kitchen window, and he slides himself around the corner against the wall of the hallway for cover. He breathes slow deep breaths as his eyes dart around the dimly lit living room inside of the cabin. He peeks around the corner to look back through the kitchen window. His eyes meet with those of the figure. Shaded from the light, the blue hue of Its eyes are barely visible. He pulls his head back around and rushes down the hallway towards the other rooms, the creaking below his steps masked by the piercing shriek heard from outside. He slinks into the bathroom and pulls back the curtains, climbing into the cracked porcelain tub. From the kitchen, the sound of glass shatters and crunches under the weight of steps. He slides the curtain back closed and pulls the knife closer towards his body, clinging to it tightly, as if it is his only chance of survival.

His fingers slide along its worn handle, stopping over each letter of the engraved name “Ethan B. Pullard” as he sits in silence. The bronze pommel shaped like an eagle, a hunting knife that had killed and skinned countless beasts before. He remembers his grandfather gifting it to him for his high school graduation. It was his grandfather’s lucky knife; the same one he couldn’t bring himself to use to grant mercy to a deer they had shot while hunting when he was a boy. He remembers how proud everyone was for him when he graduated. Everyone telling him how great college would be and how the rest of his life was an open road for him to venture. He wonders how much longer the rest of his life will be.

An old board creaks in the hallway, sinister steps follow one by one leading closer to the bathroom. The footsteps stop. It steps into the room as his body shakes in fear behind the tattered shower curtain. A blood curdling scream is heard as the curtains are thrown open, revealing every detail of this figure, glimmering in the moonlight from the bathroom window. It is identical to him in nearly every way. The clothing he wears, the cuts on his face, the hair, the eyes. Anyone would mistake this thing for him. The only distinction is the crooked way It holds its face, contorted in an inhuman manner. It lunges forward. He shouts at the top of his lungs in his moment of bravery. The knife is thrust in the air closing in the distance to the neck. The blade pierces the skin and drops of blood begin spilling onto the layers of grime that had built up on the old, chipped tub. For a moment, the world stands still. An uneasy smile appears on his face, but quickly fades. Blood spews out of his mouth, leaking down his lips. His hands grasp at the handle of the knife inside his neck. He stumbles back against the wall, slowly sinking down. The deep blue of his eyes meets the forming liquid of his tears as his confusion ceases, and he realizes these are his final moments. The salty droplet reaches the bottom of his chin and falls. His body lies still. The cabin is otherwise empty, the same way its putrid ruins had been for years. The corpse of his lost soul accompanies it to oblivion. It is gone, as is any sign it had ever even existed.