That’s Not Uncle Pete

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Alan’s Place had sat frozen in time, rotting slowly, undisturbed into the surrounding woods, since some time back in the fifties when the logging company that occasionally used it had closed shop and left New Brunswick for good. And in haste.

It was located at the edges of the Odawa Tribal Preservation, on the west side of the Mat’chitu; a deep, slow-moving, black-watered creek teeming with champion trout. The Mat’chitu’s eastern banks held both private and public land along a stretch of forest reserve known as the Achachak State Park, or just the Achaks for short. Rangers actively maintained a small number of simple cabins and lean-tos in the Achaks, as well as dozens of other undeveloped campsites consisting of little more than bare earth and stone fire pits. The few cabins on premise were nothing more than barebones, almost as if to make a statement: four walls, a roof, some bunks and a picnic table on the inside. Some windows and then either a wood stove or an old stone chimney, for warmth. No electricity and no running water, and crude jakes usually a few paces off into the woods. Alan’s Place had been the first one of these such cabins to be built, back at a time when the land boundaries with the Odawa were under dispute. But nowadays it was no longer on any of the park’s maps.

The Rondeau brothers had been coming to the Achaks every August for nearly forty years, never once missing even a single summer. Their parents had started the tradition back in the 1970s when Chris and Pierre were themselves boys. The idea had been simple: get out of Quebec for a weekend, disconnect and head to the woods for a weekend of quality family time. Live simply and “recharge the batteries”, as their father often phrased it. And even though Mr. and Mrs. Rondeau were no longer around to make the annual Grand Rondeau exodus up the A20 out of the city, they had passed that baton to their boys many years ago. For a long while it had just been the brothers and their closest buddies. The “quality family time” shoved aside for the raucous parties of young adults letting loose in the woods. But those days were long gone as well now, and this year was special. For the first time, Chris had his two children, a boy Nathan, five, and daughter Casey, seven, who were now both finally old enough to accompany their dad and Uncle “Pete” on their first ever, world-famous trek to the Achaks.

Chris’s wife, Amy, had planned to go with them all along as she always did, but it was now her parents with failing health, and she was forced to withdraw from the trip at the last minute, of course with regrets. Listen to your father, and ignore every last word from your Uncle Pete! She had told them before the loaded station wagon began backing down the driveway.

Whereas Chris had evolved from the party animal of his twenties into the form of a stable family man over the years. Pierre – well, Pete, certainly had not. An everlasting, eligible bachelor incarnate, the only real responsibility Pete had was to his truck, his prized Roush Mustang, and to his Northern Inuit mix, Chopper.

There wasn’t a single campsite, cabin or lean-to in all of the Achaks that the Rondeau boys had not stayed at over the years. They always sought The Vista, the largest of the cabins, located near the neck of Mount St. Augris, first. It was one of the longest hikes in the whole park, and the toughest, but the views of the Achaks from way up there were without peer. If The Vista was taken, then favor carried to Claude’s Cabin, which had the best firepit of the whole lot and was conveniently within sight of a lookout over Scouts Pond, where college-age campers sometimes went cliff diving and occasionally skinny-dipped.

Short of those gems, it was a crap-shoot between a dozen or so other great sites, each with their own perks and enticements. And over the years they had been to them all and had a lifetime of memories at each and every site. All except Alan’s Place.

The waters of the Mat’chitu were ancient, and carried on them many things. In particular, legends of dark forest spirits roaming its western banks. The stories all varied greatly, and every family living in the region seemed to have its own version of them. But several things always remained constant across each tale. One was how they were used, which was always to keep their children just afraid enough to remain in their beds the whole night. In some renditions, Paguk was a forest witch that preyed upon children who didn’t listen to their parents. In other versions it was a large, hairy beast feeding on children who complained about doing their chores. But the one main element to each version of the story was that Paguk was confined to the western shore of the Mat’chitu; and it could never cross those icy, midnight-black waters that bound it.

Chris and Pete had grown up listening to all of them, local folklore their parents had called it. And the stories, as much nonsense as they were, had successfully managed to keep those boys – now men – up and down the entire Achaks-stretch of the creek, but always on the eastern shore.

Well, this year certainly was different, and in more ways than just the one. Not only were the brothers now the sole weekend stewards to Chris’ children, 3rd generation Rondeau at the Achaks. But the options for campsites were slim pickens, and dwindling fast. All the usual suspects were taken: The Vista, Claud’s, even Bergeron Loft. The lean-tos within reasonable hiking distance were dropping like flies as well, with campers already staking claims on them and setting out clothes lines and kitchenware. It soon became apparent that Meadowview, the smallest and (despite its name) worst view in the entire park was the only remaining option for them. But that was quite a trek from where they were, and with the Friday afternoon sun already beginning to sink.

“There is an alternative,” Pete suggested, his mouth forming a maniacal smile that sent hackles up his brother’s neck. “Let’s make this the year we do Alan’s,” he gleamed. The word Alan sending a shot of panic across Chris’ chest.

“You’ve lost your damn mind, Pete! Even if Nathan and Casey weren’t with us, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. For one, there’s no easy way to cross the Mat’chitu –”

“We have swim gear and towels, and we can float our packs over on timber,” his brother cut off.

“Second, the last photo of Alan’s Place,” – the thought of setting foot on the western shore suddenly made him shudder – “that I saw must have been from the late 80s or early 90s. The picture was black and white, Uncle Pete!” The title of uncle had been slapped on with emphasis. “There’s absolutely no telling what kind of shape Alan’s Place is even in, or if it’s even still there at all.”

“Then we’ll just turn back and stay at one of the lots near the pond,” Pete protested again. “Kids, raise your hand if you want your first trip to the Achaks to be dull and boring.” Nathan and Casey just looked at each other and shook their heads. “Now raise your hand if you want your trip out here to be super fun and exciting!” Hands shot up in an instant, and Chris found himself outvoted 3-1. He never was much at setting boundaries with Pierre.

“We’ll give it a try for one night, Pete. One night, and if it doesn’t work out, we come back and tent in one of the lots at first light.”

“One night,” Pete quipped, ruefully. They filled up on some trail mix, took a few swigs from their canteens and poured a small bowl of water out for Chopper.

It took an hour or so to paracord together enough dead timber to support the weight of their packs. The kids had enjoyed changing into their swimsuits, and Nathan had especially enjoyed riding his father’s back across the creek. But looking around he had noticed something. Well, several things, actually. The forest on the far side of the water seemed dead quiet. And looking back on the shore they had just swam from, cattails, arrowheads and many other pretty flowers lined the creek bed up and down, as far as he could see. But on the western shore, there were no flowers. Not a single one. And something else unseen just felt…wrong to him.

They landed, dried off and changed. According to the old descriptions, Alan’s should be within a ten-minute walk of their crossing point, at the northern end of a small field. The overgrown herd path they followed sloped down and to the left away from the water, but as they descended down and out of the tree line, Chris looked off to his right and caught a glimpse of a wide-open, barren meadow. Scattered around the meadow were leafless, likely dead, Burmis trees, with twisted, cracked branches shooting out in random patterns through the air like warped, evil claws. A mossy stone wall, with several sections either missing, or slid out, ran up the left side of the meadow and back into the woods. And at the far end of that meadow, almost out of sight, but emerging clearly from the trees around it, was a shingled, wooden roof.

“There!” Casey shouted, seeing it at the same time. “That’s got to be it! I see a roof, Dad! Uncle Pete, do you see it too?”

“I sure do, missy!” Her uncle boomed back, tossing another quick, jabbing smirk to her father. “Let’s go see what we’re working with, here, kiddo.”

To their total surprise, Alan’s Place stood there, strong. The roof was intact. The door worked and swung freely, and even latched. It was as dusty a cabin as they had ever pulled up to, and a few broken panes in the one large window had let untold numbers of summer pollen drift in and settle out everywhere. But there were bunk beds, a chimney and even an outhouse that looked usable. The brothers went to work on setting up what they liked to call Base Camp while the kids and Chopper played.

“What’s that you’re playing with, buddy?” Chris asked his son. In the midst of the men setting up shop, Nathan had wandered back into the cabin and was up in his bunk fiddling around with something.

“It’s, umm…I think they’re, like, toys I found. In the woods outside,” the boy squeaked.

“Oh yeah?” his father frowned, pausing. Resting the broom against the chimney, Chris climbed up into the bunk where his son had been playing. He had to crane his neck so he could peer over the boy’s shoulder and see what he was holding onto. But what he saw turned his stomach. There, in each of the boy’s hands, was what appeared to be a handmade doll. Two of them. But made from parts of the forest, and…animal bones. Simple, skeletal frames fashioned from twigs and thin bones, bound together with some type of sinew, likely small roots. At the top of the….figurines…were small round faces fashioned from what looked like balls of clay which had been jabbed onto the stick bodies. And pressed into those faces, strewn wide like jack-o-lantern smiles, were teeth.

“Give me those!” Chris commanded, irritated, snatching them away from the boy. “Those could be dirty.” Climbing down out of the bunk, Chris examined the dolls closely. The teeth were all small and sharp, but took on different sizes and shapes, all likely once belonging to different forest critters. All of them except one: a small, rectangular flat tooth that almost looked like…

“Show me where you found these, Nathan,” he said. “You’re not in trouble, big guy, but I need to know where you found these.” The boy led his father outside to the stone wall. He led for several paces into the woods, where he pointed down to the ground. There, on the forest floor, sat a creepy, somber little display. A diorama of what was definitely the cabin and some mock inhabitants, all made from roots, twigs, clay, bones and teeth.

“Gross!” Casey cried out in disgust, catching up to them. “Daddy, are those real bones?!”

“It looks like it was made a long time ago, sweetie. Probably by whoever was last here,” Pete came over, and using their camp shovel, made quick work of burying the entire scene and putting it out of sight. And mind.

Now nearing dark, their setup was done. A warm fire crackled from inside, and Pete was preparing their traditional first supper: a large can of Camp Master stew.

“Pete?”, Chris asked, looking out over the foggy meadow that made those dead Burmis trees almost seem alive and staring back at them. “Have you heard a single sound since we got here? I don’t think I’ve heard even a single bird call, or bug chirp.”

“I don’t know pal,” his brother returned, “I’ve been too busy enjoying myself to notice.”

“Chopper’s sick, Uncle Pete.” Casey chimed. “He won’t move, and he’s whining like he’s hurt.” Pete stood from where he was stooped over the stew, and strode across the cabin, following his niece outside. Chopper was maybe fifteen or twenty feet from the cabin, facing the meadow which was now consumed in a thick mist; strange for these woods, this time of year. There the dog was: head down, ears perked, and tail stiff. And whimpering ever so slightly, in a trance. Pete couldn’t tell what his dog was looking at, or smelling in the air, but whatever it was, the dog didn’t like it.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Pete asked, placing a hand on the dog’s shoulders. Chopper snarled, and in an unintended, frightened reflex, violently lashed out a short bite at Pete. Letting out a howl, he recoiled his hand, cradling it back into his chest. “What the hell’s the matter with you?!”. Chopper knew his mistake immediately, tucking tail and putting his head down onto the ground.

“Something’s got him all worked up,” Chris spoke. “You ok, there?” Pete looked down at his hand. The bite had left a few small puncture marks, which bled moderately, a few drips hitting the ground here and there. But it would not likely require stitches.

Pete would spend the first night sleeping outside in a hammock slung between two of the ghoulish trees; he had done that every year since they were teens. To Pete, hammock sleeping was true camping.

He awoke some time later that night. His eyes were mostly shut and his vision blurred, but he could tell by the moon it was maybe 2 AM. At first he wasn’t sure why he woke, but then he heard it. And felt it. Sniffing.

That dang dog was sniffing at him through the hammock, and gently pushing his nose into Pete’s hand, clearly smelling the wound opened only hours earlier. Pete moved his hand, but the sniffing followed it. But then came another noise, one Pete was not familiar with. A clicking. A gutteral clicking, almost insect-like. He moved his hand again, and the dog’s nose followed the wound again. “Get outta here, Chop! Let me sleep for crying out loud–” Pete’s voice trailed off as a sudden realization took a vice grip over him. The brothers had learned a hard lesson one year when Chopper had disappeared for two whole days. He couldn’t be unleashed overnight. Chopper was still in the cabin sleeping with everyone else.

Pete launched out of the hammock and sprinted the distance to the cabin door. Once inside, he latched it shut, and tried peering out the window to see what had been…smelling him. The moonlight danced off the tops of the few lifeless, contorted trees in the meadow, but nothing else could be seen. Had to have been a coy dog or a fox, he told himself.

Saturday morning, after breakfast, Pete had planned on spending the day fishing the Mat’chitu whilst Chris took the kids for a day hike. The weather was not pleasant, however, and a steady rain drizzled over their camp. Chris decided to stay back in the cabin and play games with Nathan and Casey, but Pete wasn’t about to let a little rain ruin his plans. Chris was surprised quite honestly; he had noticed his brother sweating profusely that morning despite the cool weather and figured he was maybe on the verge of a cold. But off he went anyway with a raincoat, a pole, tackle box, a case of beer and Chopper, out into the fog.

“I think a porcupine was here last night, Daddy,” Casey remarked casually as they played their first game of Uno, playing a red nine over her father’s green.

“Why’s that, sweetie?” He answered, nudging Nathan to take his turn.

“I heard it scratching at the wall outside my bed. It kept waking me up.”

“Well, it could have been a porcupine, but it was likely just a tree branch brushing up against our cabin here.” he grimaced as Nathan tried playing a blue six. “Sorry buddy, but you have to play either another red card or a nine.”

“But then it got onto the roof,” Casey pressed on. That made him look up.

“How do you know it got onto the roof, honey?” It wasn’t that he was concerned, it was just turning into a strange story. Likely a bad dream she was having from being so far out into the woods. Amy was never going to let him hear the end of this.

“It was scratching the wall by my bed for a while. And then it climbed up onto the roof and was walking around. I could hear it scratching around near the top of the chimney.”

“OK, “ Chris cut in, this was getting out of hand. “I think you might have just been having a bad dream, honey. Porcupines can’t climb up walls.”

“But this one really did, Daddy,” she insisted.

The morning crawled by slowly. A curtain of fog had rolled in so thick it was almost difficult to tell whether it was midday or dusk, but their bellies told them it was well past noon and time for lunch. As he was rummaging through the food pack, a sudden, loud, unsettling shriek rang out of the woods from somewhere off in the distance, cutting the forest silence like a knife.

It wasn’t a human cry, but it wasn’t anything familiar, either. Almost a groaning caterwaul mixed in with some type of clicking or chirping. A bobcat, maybe? A mountain lion? Definitely some type of big mountain cat. Except mountain cats don’t click like beetles. Not exactly.

Stepping out of the cabin, Chris paused and listened to it. It was definitely coming from the direction they came from yesterday, from the creek, but it was moving fast along the herd path they had followed. Growing closer and louder, Chris began to worry for his brother.

“Hey Pete! Peeeeeeeete!” He screamed as loud as he could manage. But the only sound returned besides his own echo was the indescribable cat-cry barreling down the trail towards him. Looking past the trees into the fog, Chris could have sworn he saw movement. It was a strange fog that seemed to wrap around the tree branches in vines of smoke, creating the illusion they were more than swaying.

Whatever the source of the noise was, Chris wasn’t about to find out. He did an about face and began striding back to the cabin. Just before he reached the door he paused for a moment when something at the forest’s edge caught his eye. The bone diorama depicting their cabin, discovered by Nathan yesterday, was right back exactly where they had found it. Along with the dolls! It seems Pete was back to his old pranks again. What was he thinking?! Digging them up and putting them back on display again, trying to scare them like that? He was going to get a firm talking-to whenever he got back from fish–

The shriek hissed out again, this time much louder from the edge of the meadow, just beyond sight, enveloped by fog. Chris slammed the door shut. And latched it. “Who's hungry?” he asked his kids.

They continued playing cards and games for hours, and when Chris checked his watch it told him it was now time for dinner. But still no Uncle Pete. It wasn’t like him to miss dinner, especially beef stroganoff. Not for fishing, not for anything. But he couldn’t let the kids know he was growing concerned. If they saw their father panicking, they might lose their minds. I’ll set a candle in the window for him, Chris told himself, and we’ll hike out of here first thing in the morning, fog or no fog. The damn fool! He had probably gotten drunk and passed out in his hammock somewhere by the water’s edge.

Chris conjured up a story for the kids about their Uncle being out running errands for them, and that he might come back that night or they might meet him back at the car in the morning. Now dark, he put them to bed, doused the fire and went to sleep leaving the door latched shut. If Pete came to in the middle of the night, he’d be able to see the candle in the windowsill and make it back. But he would have to knock.

Nathan woke up some time later, full moon beaming down an eerie glow onto the field which was now entirely shrouded in mist. Fog that now came right up to the doors of Alan’s Place. At first he wasn’t sure whether to giggle out loud or stay quiet, but his Uncle Pete was right outside that big window, staring in, directly at him. He looked like he had earlier in the day, very sweaty and tired-looking, except he had cuts and scrapes all over him and clumps of gray fur all over his clothes, matted to his oily skin. His Uncle was always goofy and playful, but there was something different about him now. Something different about his eyes. They looked…wrong.

Pressing a hand against the window, and his face into a spot where a glass pane was missing, his Uncle’s head shook, as if trying to smell the inside of the cabin, taking short sniffs, the way dogs do. Well, he had missed his supper, surely he was hungry.

A thin, wispy tendril of fog slithered in through the cracked pane. Down the inside of the window it went, almost like a long finger feeling its way through the dark. He wasn’t sure what was going on with his Uncle, but something about that fog scared the boy to his bones. Down the window, and the cabin wall beneath it, down to the floor. Then, like a snake made of smoke itself, it began meandering across the cabin. Feeling. Nathan became so frightened he couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone breathe. But then he looked back at his Uncle, face still pressed up against the window, eyes now bulging, but no longer looking at him: they were fixed on the door.

Nathan watched, frozen in terror, stomach wretched, paralyzed with fear; unable to even scream for his father. As the tendril of fog crept its way to the door, it started flowing upward. Up, up, up. Up towards…towards the latch.

As the latch started to rattle, Nathan mustered enough courage to lurch out of bed and hurl himself towards the door. The lone finger of fog seemed to be testing the latch, unsure of what it was or how it worked, exactly. But without question trying to loosen it. Nathan slammed into the door and pushed his back up into it, wedging it closed and severing the tendril. Squeezing his eyes shut and cupping his face in his hands, Nathan waited for any sign of sound. Only his sister’s faint snores could be heard. Seconds passed, maybe minutes. Slowly he opened his eyes and peered back across the room to the window outside. To where his Uncle still was, now glaring at him again, with his bulging eyes now, glowing in the moonlight.

“Uncle Pete! What’s wrong with you?” He pleaded, now aware that there was nothing playful in his Uncle’s gaunt stare. Nothing at all.

“Let me in, kiddo,” His Uncle responded, which made him feel a little better. That silent stare had been like deep winter ice. But only better for a moment. “I fell in the water today, and it's freezing outside.”

“But you’re not even wet,” Casey spoke up, now awake, by the recent commotion. “And why are you covered in…fur?”

“That’s not Uncle Pete.” Chris whispered, now also awake and out of bed, stalking slowly towards his son by the door. Never once taking his eyes off whatever was at their window. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave here. Now.”

“Why are you being mean to Uncle Pete, Dad? I think he’s cold,” Nathan lamented.

“And hungry…” the Uncle murmured, bringing his nose to the open pane of the window again. “...could eat a horse.”

Reaching the door and picking Nathan up in his arms, Chris now used his weight to keep it shut. “Your Uncle Pete has a tattoo of a knife surrounded by wings on his right arm. He’s had it since Iraq. You…” he continued, pointing to the man in the window, “do not.”

The man in the window’s eyes somehow bulged even wider, a strange, malicious clicking arose from somewhere deep inside its throat. The plain stare now changed to a sour, disdainful expression. In silence it slid away from the window, and began scratching the outside walls of the cabin with…with what? Long fingernails? Scratching the walls all the way around, right up to the front door.

Setting Nathan down he motioned for Casey to bring one of the cabin’s chairs to him. He propped it up on its back legs, and wedged the back of the chair right underneath the door knob. Clasping the cabin broom like a baseball bat, Chris backed himself and the two children up against the far wall, opposite the door. The scratching grew louder, harder, and the guttural clicking giving way to hiss.

“Go awaaaaay!” They began screaming. “Leave us alone, please!” But the hissing and clicking grew louder. And continued for what seemed hours, like a cat toying with its food, until their voices were hoarse from yelling and choking back tears. Then, thankfully, the noises stopped. Chris could tell by the moonlight-cast shadows that something on two legs still stood outside their door. But it stood there, motionless. Minutes passed, and neither the visitor nor the Rondeaus made a peep.

Then, as if lifting into the air, the shadows of those two feet outside the door were gone. Gone, and replaced by that menacing scratching again. But this time it was scratching neither on the door, nor across the cabin walls, but up them. Up, up, up. Up towards…towards the roof.

The children wailed as they listened to the sounds of Uncle Pete, now prowling on all fours across the roof of Alan’s Place, all the way to where the chimney protruded out into the midnight sky. Once again that horrible caterwauling returned, mixed with hissing and almost that of a woman screaming. A rumble at the mouth of the chimney, then grains of black soot rained down into the fireplace below. Another brief moment of quiet, giving the weeping Rondeau children just enough time, in between panicked breaths, to tell their dad that they just wanted to go home. And finally their silence broken, ended at the encroaching sounds of something large sliding down the chimney.

* * * *

When there had been no phone call by Sunday afternoon, Amy left her parents house to make calls of her own. By nightfall she was so beside herself with worry that she had called the local sheriff’s office four times already. But they wouldn’t file missing persons reports for 24 hours. By the next morning she was at the Achaks herself with a small posse of friends and neighbors. The local forest service and deputies would only help search up to the eastern shore of the Mat’chitu, the western bank was – by law – Algonquin Nation.

It took three more days of frantic voicemails, bad press in the media and special calls to certain politicians’ offices before tribal police would make a move. It was like trying to mold stone, they almost seemed afraid to go into those woods to aid with the search & rescue. Afraid! The same woods where her husband, little boy and little girl and that good-for-nothing Uncle Pete, who was probably the one to land them in whatever mess they were in, must be holding out.

The call came Friday morning, just shy of noon. And when they began explaining it to her, Amy could only bend over and vomit.

It would take up to a week for the lab work to come back, but they had found fingernails and teeth inside the cabin. A mixture of adult, child and canine molars. Casey’s shoes were found neatly tied and clasped together. On the edge of the cabin’s roof, next to a strange doll made from the forest.

They never found any sign of Pierre Rondeau.