Karma

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. That same night, a new owner of the cabin drove up in his green F350 diesel truck. It was almost deer season, and Chuck Hammond was eager to set up his new hunting cabin before the season began. His friend Rolly had been bragging for a year about the Fallow buck he’d bagged last season, and Chuck was determined to outdo his braggart of a friend. If only to shut him up for five minutes.

The cabin was very rustic. A simple one bedroom with an attached outhouse. But it was well maintained. There was a Well pump outside, and the wood stove and fireplace were in excellent condition. The candle burning on the table by the window was odd, but he supposed it made sense given that there was no electricity. Combined with the cleanliness of the cabin, it was clear someone had stopped by, likely from the realtor’s agency, before he arrived.

He hauled in his gear and luggage from his truck and started working on making the cabin home. Within hours the wall was covered in his trophies, his prized Grizzly pelt was on the floor beneath his favorite chair, and he was tenderly caring for his best hunting rifle. After setting the newly cleaned gun against the wall with his other rifles, Chuck decided to head to bed.

The bed was new and nice. Covered in fox and wolf pelts, it was soft but manly. For a moment, he almost called Barley, his old bloodhound, before remembering he’d had him put down last month. The dog had been impressive in his prime, but he’d slowed up a great deal in the past year. After losing a competition in Wyoming, he’d decided the dog was too slow to earn his keep. But sometimes, he still missed the old guy. Stripping into his long johns, Chuck lay in the bed and turned the kerosene lamp on the nightstand off.

A soft scratching sound woke Chuck from a deep sleep. He was instantly alert, just one of those guys who never seemed to dream. Chuck silently slid out of his bed and moved towards his bedroom door. His belt with a sheathed hunting knife was hanging on a peg along the wall. He slid the recently sharpened blade out of the leather sheath and carefully opened the door. He walked down the short hallway; the fire had died down but was still bright enough to illuminate the small kitchen and part of the main room. The scratching noise came from the other side of the room, which was not visible from his position in the hall. Holding his knife in a relaxed but ready grip, he moved until just one eye could see around the corner into the room. Something was moving in the shadows near the corner window and the table with the burning candle. His eyes narrowed. He was certain he had blown it out.

Someone’s trespassing in my cabin!

He stepped around the corner and swiftly moved into the room in a fighting crouch. Then he paused. The place was clearly empty. The soft scratching noise came again from the direction of the window. He walked towards it, the candlelight obscuring his view through the glass. He blew the candle out and squinted at the darkened clearing outside. He was about to turn around and head back to bed when the clouds parted, and the clearing outside brightened. Moonshine glinted off of a pure white stage with the most impressive set of antlers Chuck had ever seen. Chuck slowly moved away from the window so as not to alert the stag to his presence.

That deer was so rare; if he managed to bag it, a trophy like that would shut up Rolly and all his hunting buddies. He moved towards his favorite rifle. It wasn’t the most powerful of his guns, the caliber was small, but that was best when you wanted an undamaged kill for the taxidermist. Making sure it was loaded, he slipped on his boots and jacket and went to the front door. His movements were fluid as he lifted the latch on the door and eased it slowly open. The night air was brisk, and a gentle breeze blew toward him. He smiled, the deer was downwind, and the soft shushing of pine needles rubbing against each other would mask what little sound his feet made as he crossed the short porch and descended the two steps to the ground.

He reached the sharp corner of his cabin before he lowered himself to his knees. Every movement was slow and deliberate as he inched forward until he could just see around to the side of the cabin. It was still there. The moonlight pooled around it like a spotlight while it ate something off the ground. It was too easy.

He lifted the rifle and set his sights. He didn’t care about a quick kill. He cared about one that left him with a usable corpse. Choosing his spot carefully, he waited for the deer to raise its head. Minutes passed and the deer continued to graze, but Chuck had been doing this a long time. He knew how to wait for long periods of time, even crouched as he was in hardly more than a pair of long johns.

Time crept by, and then a sound behind him alerted the deer. Before the stag could bolt, Chuck fired his rifle. The giant deer staggered and then took off. Chuck smiled, hiked into the cabin, and grabbed his crawler before following. It wouldn’t take long. He’d hit the deer in the lungs, and it would slowly drown in its own blood. He jogged lightly as he heard the creature crashing through the underbrush and crying in pain. He knew the sounds well.

He pulled out the small tactical flashlight he kept in his jacket pocket, following the trail of the stag. He caught up with the animal just as it stumbled. Its legs gracefully folded as it reached another small clearing. The sound of wet gurgles and strained breaths became loud as he approached the deer. He was beautiful. Chuck moved towards its head, examined the stag’s chest, and nodded, pleased by the lack of blood. That snowy pelt was blemish-free. His gaze crept up the neck and met the liquid black eyes of the deer.

Intelligence shone in its eyes, and Chuck wondered, for a split second, if he had just killed a sentient being. If maybe killing this creature was wrong. The deer’s head lowered, breaking eye contact, and Chuck shook off the odd feelings. Seconds later, the stag’s chest stopped moving.

The creature was massive. It was going to take some work moving it back to the cabin. Chuck typically would gut his kill to reduce both the weight and the risk of spoiling the meat inside, but he was unfamiliar with the woods and unsure what predators the scent of blood would attract. Instead, he maneuvered his Hawk Hunting Crawler until he could get the carcass onto it. The crawler had saved him a lot of back pain over the years.

He headed back to his cabin, stag in tow. It took some sweat and elbow grease to get the stag inside, but once he shut the cabin door and looked at his kill, it was worth it. He ran a hand over the snowy fur and marveled at its softness. It felt more like a fox pelt than deer. He was almost reverent as he used his best knives to clean the carcass.

Hours later, still wet from washing up using cold tap water, Chuck fell into bed content.

Chuck shivered as a cold breeze caressed his body. His eyebrows drew together as sleep was peeled away from him. Did I leave a window open? His groggy mind wondered. Other sensations filtered into his tired brain. The hardness of his bed, the loud whispering of pine needles. Chuck’s eyes flew open, and he leaped to his feet. Where the hell am I?

He turned in a circle. He was outside. Surrounded by trees and smaller shrubs. He had been laying on bare dirt as grass did not grow in such a densely wooded area. He looked at the sky. It was still night, but the moon was not visible.

Did I sleepwalk? He looked around again, and the area looked eerily like the one where the stag had died. He felt a moment of unease followed by irritation. There is an explanation, and you are too old to be getting the heebee jeebees. He started towards his cabin when the sound of a twig snapping had him spinning and reaching for a knife he didn’t have. Shit, no jacket.

Movement caught his eye, and a beautiful doe stepped out of the shadows. Her eyes were large and dark in a striking red-brown face and her body was covered in spots. An eyeblink later, another spotted deer exited the shadows. A stag with a sharp set of antlers.

What are two Axis deer doing here? It was outside their range, although they were invasive, so he could kill both without a license. He smiled. How about you two stay right there while I get my rifle, he thought. He already had two Axis trophies, a stag like the one before him and a doe. He didn’t usually mount doe heads, but hers had been unique because she’d had spots on her face. Chuck backed up, considering what he might use the deer for, if not a mounted head trophy when she stepped closer.

Chuck’s smile faltered. Dainty spots trailed down her forehead to her nose. He took another step back, and the doe’s mouth opened unnaturally wide. A horrifying scream split the air. The stags head lowered, and he pawed the ground. Suddenly both deer leaped at him. Chuck dodged, but an antler caught on the sleeve of his long johns, and there was a rip as the stag tossed his head. He jerked away and caught a hoof in the stomach as the doe kicked him.

He swore and dove behind a tree, avoiding another hoof. He raced for his cabin, dodging the enraged deer and using the trees to his advantage. He stumbled into the area around his cabin and skidded to a halt. A whitetail stag and a bull moose were between him and the front door. They charged him, and he ran back towards the trees, then spun to avoid the Axis stag as he leaped over a shrub towards him. He ran towards the back of the cabin, animals chasing behind him. Rounding the back, he turned and headed towards the front. He made it to the porch, jumped over the steps, and was knocked into the door.

Stunned, he fell and slumped to the side just as the moose charged him. He rolled out of the way, barely avoiding a kick. The moose snorted and attempted to kick Chuck again, but the porch was narrow, and the steps forced the moose to back up. Chuck seized the opportunity, grabbed the doorknob, and was through the door, slamming it shut just as the moose connected with it. The cabin shuddered, but the door held. Chuck slid the lock into place and then looked around for his guns. They were right where he’d left them. The white stag’s carcass had not moved, but something was different.

A hint of fear crept into him as he looked at the walls. Every trophy plaque that once held a mounted head was empty. He gritted his teeth. I killed them once; I’ll do it again. He grabbed his highest caliber rifle and went to the window, nearly burning himself on the candle. Irritated, he blew it out and knocked it to the floor. He opened the window, and the muzzle of the moose shot inside. His teeth nearly took off Chuck’s arm, snapping shut with a click, centimeters from his skin.

Chuck raised the rifle and fired point-blank into the moose’s head. It collapsed, and Chuck made short work of the other three deer as they were more interested in getting to him than running away. He leaned back against the wall next to the window and wished he had a bottle of Kentucky straight bourbon. He closed his eyes, the lack of sleep hitting him, but a loud crack had them flying open again.

The front door began to splinter as something hit it. Chuck raised the rifle and aimed it at the door as a shape flew through the wood. A large white ram skidded into the room. It spun, its back legs propelling it with such force and speed Chuck couldn’t adjust the rifle’s aim fast enough. He could only dive behind his chair, which the ram hit so hard it flew back into his face with a crunch. Warm blood poured from his nose, and pain shot into his head. It was clearly broken.

He spun on his knees as the ram drove into the chair again. He brought the rifle up as the chair flew past him into the wall and fired into the rams torso until he’d emptied the gun. The ram turned towards him, staggered, and fell. Chuck stood, wiped his face with his arm, and looked at the broken front door. He gathered his guns and ammo, retreating to the bedroom. The floor caught his eye as he shut the door, and genuine fear buried itself in his brain stem. The bear rug was missing.

Chuck shoved his new bed against the door, which unfortunately opened out. He braced his back in the far corner, guns positioned around him, hunting vest on, and two large knives in the pockets designed for them. They may be resurrected animals, but they still lack opposable thumbs.

The doorknob would be an effective barrier. Chuck focused on that simple technology, finding comfort in his human superiority. He considered the bedroom window, which was small and high up off the ground. Even if something could get through, it would not be much of a challenge.

Let them come; I’ll be ready.

All good hunters learned patience, and the best honed their senses and skills of observation. He watched for shadows in the moonlight that passed through the window and formed a square on the floor. His ears strained to detect the sound of movement inside our outside the cabin. Although the bed blocked the door, he could still see the golden firelight that reached under the door itself. He watched for any break in the steady glow.

Then it hit him. He’d put the candle out.

Glass shattered as Chuck heard the unmistakable sound of an angry Grizzly. A huge paw reached through the window, and Chuck was on his feet, gun in hand in an instant. This was his chance to take out the bear before it entered the cabin. The cabin was raised, making the window close to 8 feet off the ground outside, a height a Grizzly could easily reach standing. However, the bear would be vulnerable, and Chuck’s 6’7” height gave him direct line of sight through the window. He swung the gun up, aimed, and then paused. The paw was gone; moonlight entered unimpeded. He crept forward until he could clearly see the trees. Then he heard a huff and knew the bear had dropped to all fours. He stepped closer to angle his gun down, and something flew through the window.

Chuck nimbly jumped backward, but the gun was knocked upwards, and he lost his grip. The rifle clattered to the ground as blinding pain seared through his leg. He looked down and found a honeybadger latched onto his calf above his boots. Dammit, forgot about the badger. The stuffed and mounted trophy was still in his home. He quickly grabbed a knife and plunged it into the animal, which let go, but only so it could jump at his arm. Shit, these things are dangerous.

Chuck barely avoided the badger, dodging and jumping onto his bed while swiping at the animal. The badger kept coming, no matter how many wounds Chuck gave it. Some part of him couldn’t help but admire its ferocity. Just as he delivered a killing blow, there was a deafening roar and the sound of splintering wood. Chuck looked up as the door caved in. Wood burst apart as the doorknob latch was forced through the door jam. Chuck dove for a rifle as a hinge broke, and the door was shoved forward with enough force that the bed flew right at him. The bed hit him in his injured leg, and Chuck knew he would die if he didn’t get out of that room. He abandoned the rifle, climbed onto the bed, and was through the broken window feet first a split second before the bear crashed into the room. He landed on his feet, ignoring the pain in his calf, and ran for his truck.

He could hear the bear inside the bedroom. His truck wasn’t locked; he just had to beat the bear to the front of the cabin. He raced past the spot where the white stag had grazed a lifetime ago and around the corner. He paused at the window, looking past the candle and into the room. There was no sign of the bear. He cautiously moved past the porch and the busted open door. It was clear. He didn’t question his good fortune; he just ran to his truck and climbed inside.

He pulled out his truck keys, slid the key into the ignition with a sense of relief, and turned. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. He looked out the windshield, expecting to see the bear coming right for him, yet the cabin doorway remained empty of movement. A chittering sound he knew well came through the vents, and he immediately knew why his truck wouldn’t start. With a numb sort of horror, Chuck recalled precisely how many squirrels he had killed in his life.

Shit. Chuck hurried out of the truck and ran to the small trailer hitched to the back. He removed the tarp, revealing his brand new ATV. He unhooked it and jumped onto the seat as squirrels poured out from under the truck in front of him. Hatred blazed inside of him because if there was one thing Chuck loved more than his guns and trophies, it was his truck. The ATV came to life, and he backed it up, then spun it into the horde of squirrels, running over as many as he could in delight and swatting away the ones that jumped at him.

A snarl pulled his focus from his gleeful slaughter. A gray wolf came out of the forest, followed by a second. The ATV wasn’t much of a weapon against a full-sized timber wolf, and neither was the blade still in his vest, but he could outrun them. He spun towards the overgrown dirt road that led back to the highway and raced forward. He glanced back and saw the wolves trying and failing to keep up with him.

Turning a corner, he glanced back again and nearly lost control of the ATV. Behind him was not one but four pronghorns. He floored his ATV hoping it could beat the second fastest land animal on the planet. Chuck cursed as another curve approached, and he had to slow. Movement in his peripheral ignited his instincts, and he ducked low as a pair of sharp horns sailed over his head. A hoof clipped Chuck in the shoulder, and the ATV jerked to the left. He looked up and found himself on a trail instead of the road.

He rolled over rocks and around trees, the four-wheelers capabilities making him proud. He glanced back once to see the pronghorns close but not gaining. Their speed was best for open fields and plains, not forests. The trail climbed, and a shadow covered the moon. Chuck flipped the ATV’s lights on and had only a moment to register that the trees had thinned and his headlights were not lighting the trail several feet ahead before the clouds parted, and he realized he was headed for a cliff.

He spun the wheel, and the ATV slid to a stop at the cliff edge. Chuck looked down and could not see the ground below.

He looked up just as a Pronghorn rammed into the back of the ATV hard enough to send its back wheels over the edge. Chuck hit the gas, the front wheels gripping the ground just long enough for him to stand, place a foot on the seat and propel himself off the vehicle.

The headlights flew upward as it slid over the edge, and Chuck was up and running before it completely disappeared. He was almost to the tree line when he noticed a rocky slope to his right. He headed for it, knowing it would slow him down, but the Pronghorn would also be at a disadvantage on the loose shale.

The sound of rocks skittering over rocks gave him just enough warning to dodge. The Pronghorn missed him by inches and kept going, unable to get its footing. He angled his path to keep an eye on the other three, who were moving more carefully towards him than their friend. Gravel turned to large stones and small boulders as the animals gained on him.

Chuck spotted what looked to be the edge of a ravine on his right. This could be his chance. He moved towards the edge and then turned to face the animals. The deer, bear and badger had attacked without any care for their safety, yet the four before him paused before splitting up. Two in front and two moving to approach him from either side. He noticed the one on his right limped as it moved into position. All four lowered their heads. It was the best way to skewer him with their horns but also placed them at a disadvantage.

In unison, they charged him. Chuck ran towards the one on his right and dropped at the last moment with a kick aimed at the animal’s legs. The Pronghorn jumped over him, and he couldn’t have planned it better as two of them collided, and the one that leaped up landed on the horns of another. All four tumbled over the side into the ravine, and he didn’t stick around to see if they survived. He made it underneath the trees and put his hands on his knees, panting. Tonight was possibly the worse night of his life, yet a part of him reveled in the thrill of surviving. By attacking and hunting him, these animals presented a challenge he had not faced the first time he had killed them. They had tried to take him out, but he was going to leave victorious.

His leg throbbed, and all his aches and bruises made themselves known as he navigated the forest as silently as possible. He noticed a lightening of the darkness ahead and approached a small clearing. The ground was raised around the clearing, forming a circle of trees. He turned to make his way along the raised forested ground. Suddenly his feet were knocked out from under him. He landed hard and within seconds jackrabbits and cottontails of various sizes swarmed him, kicking and biting. One sunk its flat teeth into his arm, and he grabbed the little thing and snapped its neck.

He shoved the mass of fur off him and quickly returned to his feet. He kicked the things away as they jumped at him, then spotted a downed branch near the clearing, and grabbed it. He swung the limb like a baseball bat and almost laughed as they continued to attack. As if a bunch of rabbits stood a chance against a human. Once all of them were lying on the ground, broken and bleeding, he walked away. He made it only a few steps before he was once again fighting off small furred creatures. It was almost impressive the number of animals he’d killed, he didn’t even remember killing a porcupine, yet there it was, rushing at him. He kicked it with his boot, thankful for the thick material as the quills stuck to the sides but didn’t touch his skin.

He was getting pretty fed up with the whole thing by the time the last critter was bleeding on the ground. For the first time in his life, he was happy he’d missed going on Safari the previous Summer because of Covid. Chuck had stumbled into the clearing at some point, and it occurred to him that he could see more clearly. His eyes scanned up the trees, and he realized the sky was lightning as dawn approached. Some part of him knew that once the sun rose, this nightmare would come to an end. He just had to hold out a little bit longer.

As if on cue, he heard the howl of wolves and the yipping of coyotes. He knew that there must be foxes out there as well; he’d certainly killed a number of them. Wolves were a threat, but it was bear that really worried him. The forest was still dark beyond the clearing, and he couldn’t make anything out. All Chuck had left on him was a knife. It was a good knife, long and sharp with a serrated edge, but it wasn’t enough to handle a Grizzly.

A rustling at the other end of the clearing drew his attention. Chuck considered his options. Pine trees were terrible for climbing, but they were dense enough that he could use them to evade the bear. The sound increased, and Chuck could see a shadow approaching. He realized, with some relief, that it wasn’t large enough to be a bear. He pulled his knife and waited, tense.

Out of the shadows stepped a beautiful bloodhound.

Barley! He’s come to save me!

Chuck was so happy to see his loyal dog. With the dog at his side, he could make it to town. Barley’s keen sense of smell and hearing would alert Chuck to the presence of other animals. The dog would give his life to protect him. Although he would hate to lose the dog again, as he had returned in prime condition, if the dog dying helped Chuck escape death, so be it.

“Come here, boy,” he called and Barley trotted forward. Tongue lolling, the same as it always had when he was happy.

“I missed you, boy,” Chuck said with a smile.

Barley’s mouth closed and he stopped moving. He stood and stared at Chuck, as if frozen.

“What’s the matter boy? Come here, come on” he called. He looked around, worried something behind him had made the dog stop.

“Barley, come!” He ordered, but the dog didn't move.

He met the dog’s eyes and suddenly recalled the last time he had looked into them. It had taken four vets before he found one willing to put the dog down. All four had said the dog was “perfectly healthy.” As the fourth held the syringe to his dogs skin, he had asked Chuck if he was willing to cross that line and kill his healthy dog.

“You’re not here to help me,” he realized.

Barley threw back his head and bayed loudly. A sound that Chuck knew well. It was the sound a bloodhound made when they had cornered their prey. A loud rushing answered the hound’s call, and animals appeared in the forest around the clearing. Every animal he had killed before and during that night.

“Well Crap,” he said.

Don drove up the dirt road and spotted the green truck in front of the cabin. It was a beast, which didn’t surprise him, considering its owner seemed to be a beast himself. But he didn’t care what sort of person bought the cabin; he was just happy it had finally sold. The cabin had been with his real estate company for decades, and selling it had earned him a promotion. Although the cabin had few amenities, he was sure that suited the owner just fine. Regardless, Don was there to check on the new owner and ensure he didn’t back out of the deal.

The owner had thirty days to call the whole thing off and could get his money back. Don was not losing his promotion. He walked up the steps and knocked politely on the door. After several minutes he knocked again. Did he go for a walk? He wondered. He tried the doorknob, and the door opened easily.

“Hello? Mr. Hammond?” he called. No response.

He opened the door wider and stepped into the living room. His eyes scanned the space, resting on the rifles neatly set against the fireplace wall.

Hunting was not allowed on tribal land. The owner had signed a contract when he purchased the place, that clearly stated that the killing of animals was strictly forbidden in this forest. Don was furious. Don could lose his license to sell in the area if the owner was caught hunting.

He pulled out a business card from his pocket and a pen. He would need to speak with Mr. Hammond right away. He wrote a quick note on the back and set it on the kitchen counter. As he turned to leave, a wooden plaque on the wall caught his eye. It was the kind you mounted hunting trophies on. Don’s anger ramped up as he realized dozens of plaques were on the walls. Then he turned to the fireplace, and his anger was replaced with horror. Mounted on the wall above the fireplace was Chuck Hammond’s head.