The Angler's Cabin

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Few know the dark truth of the cabin and those who do are in no position to offer aid as this cabin is not the only one of its kind. In fact, you might even call it one of the school.

They are the core of urban legends. Whether it’s an abandoned house surrounded by shadows, a crumbling hospital haunted by the victims of an over-zealous doctor, or an imposing hilltop manor where evil runs through the walls and the eyes of the portraits of the dead do more than watch you as you tread the stairs. Everyone knows of one, there are even some lucky few fools who have survived a night in one, not knowing just how fortunate they were snooping around the sleeping belly of a beast.

Often these buildings stay silent, content in their slumber, tormenting and digesting their prey. Then like horrors of the deep they use light to lure in their prey with promises of sanctuary, discovery or treasure. For what is more alluring than a light to offer hope in the darkness, to guide the lost or convince the most desperate of hunters that their search is at an end.

And now, the cabin has awoke.

The candle burns, an unassuming sight at first, the dull amber glow picking out the edges and corners of dark shapes in the room. A desk, a bookcase, the worn headrest of a wingback chair. There is the occasional pop and crackle as motes of dust disturbed by a gentle but unseen movement float into the flame. But the flame does not move, it does not even flicker.

No-one has ever seen the lure up close or taken the time to examine it. Why would they? What could be sinister about a light?

But there is something sinister about the flame, a tall perfect teardrop of fire, but perfectly still like a moment captured in time in a photograph. The usual blue veil at the base of the flame instead burns with a sickly chartreuse green glow that begins to expand and insinuate its way through the gloom.

The cabin begins to change.

The metamorphosis is slow but deliberate. Less like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon and more like a snake shedding its old skin. A strange atmosphere of pain fills the cabin as rotted and splintered furniture slowly cracks backs together. Once warped floorboards groan and creak back into place. A faint wet lapping sound accompanies the change to the walls, as the dark and shiny patina of mould and decay slowly oozes its way below the floor and into the ground.

What emerges from this transformation is not a brand-new snake, the cabin is old after all, but the interior is now at least presentable, exuding a non-threatening appearance of lived in but loved. The exterior of the cabin also shifts and mutates. Dark and dripping, the old wood seems to slough off like dead skin, leaving behind aging but well-preserved log walls.

The cabin almost looks normal and welcoming. Almost.

With the grime and devastation removed you could be forgiven for thinking that the owner of the cabin had once planted climbing ivy or wisteria to cover and adorn the walls with luscious green leaves and cascading purple pendants of flowers. However, this horticultural arrangement seems to pulse and undulate like a mass of leeches on an unsuspecting dog.

On the edge of hearing, a low menacing hum begins and with a gentle but sticky rustle, the green and purple sprouting mass separates into thick oscillating tendrils, each one slithering slowly into the ground. Now fully unobscured, the candle can be seen, its unnatural yellow-green glow radiating enough light to illuminate every window in the cabin.

Faintly shimmering particles dance in the still stale air of the cabin, mixing with the dust but swirling away independently and seemingly avoiding the candle flame. The particles form swirls and eddies in the air, occasionally coalescing into something that could be the outline of a person, a hand reaching out or an eye staring blindly.

More shapes emerge and drift through the cabin, gathering in a corner just out of reach of the candle’s glow. Then with a collective aura of melancholy, they too descend into the depths.

Hidden beneath the cabin, a grey stone staircase spirals down into the dark, the only light provided by the dim glow of the spectral procession gliding despondently onward. Moisture glistens on the wall and irregular drips of water punctures the silence. A not unpleasant smell of the sea rises through the gloom along with a faint cool light.

The staircase plunges forever downwards, and the man-made feel of the stone walls and steps gives way to roughly hewn rock tunnels both eroded over time and chiselled away as the harsh lines of tools scar the pumice surface. Ammonite shells also pockmark the walls, at first the pattern seems like a random polka dot amongst patches of algae which illuminates the tunnel with an electric blue light.

The shells on the tunnel walls become denser and more packed together, sometimes a pattern can be seen but then immediately lost as the swirls and spirals become an incomprehensible blur in the blue neon glow. The fresh salty scent of the sea now gives way to the bitter tang of rotting fish and there is another smell present but faint, a sweet smell that plucks at the brain and tells it to run.

As the tunnel opens out onto its final destination the full wave of sweet, sickly decay hits. The tendrils which encased the cabin, now a blood red, cover and crawl across the cave wall. Bones litter the floor, and a dark, thick, tar-like substance covers everything. The only unspoilt area in the cave is a large geode cracked open with its deep blue crystals pointing to the sky. The blue algae sprawls around the base of the geode casting an ethereal glow and lighting up the inside of the geode like a tropical rockpool.

Some of the tendrils detach from the cave ceiling, reaching down and out to the ghostly huddle at the mouth of the cave with a beckoning motion. There is a sudden change in the air as the morose march downward is replaced with a wave of absolute fear as the insubstantial forms attempt to clutch and cling to each other. The tendrils advance, this time with menace as panic strikes and the ghosts scatter, but too slow.

The forms try to run, screaming silently as they flow through each other and attempt to race back to the tunnels. Tendrils lash out with unnerving accuracy and spear each form which droop passively as they are lifted into the air like marionettes before the macabre resurrection begins.

Bones skitter and dance across the cave floor before leaping and snapping back to their incorporeal owner. Each joint and socket popping into place filling the cave with a chorus of cracking as each reformed skeleton flings their head back in an attempt to scream. The substance that had covered the walls and floor begins to roil and churn, then in a horrific display of magnetism, blood, organs, and viscera manifest from the primordial soup of innards and launch across the cave. Writhing around on the end of a tendril, each form becomes more human as skin is stretched across their bodies, hair forces itself through newly created scalps, eyes push their way through skin covered sockets, and vocal cords not used for years vibrate with the screams of the damned.

The tendrils slowly lower their naked thralls to the ground, each one with skin that glistens a pallid grey and the milky eyes of the blind. Still attached, the tendrils gently guide each figure to the geode where they circle it and hold out their hands to lightly touch the edge. They all flinch as if stung but their hands remain outstretched, fingers brushing the rocky outer shell.

Slowly the luminous blue of the crystals within begins to fade as colour and life returns to the thralls, each one now casting their head back and chanting. The chanting sounds formless at first, nothing but moaning, crying and gibberish. But gradually the chorus find a rhythm and the syllables become defined.

“…SSSssssss”

“…Errrrrrrrr”

“…Hssssssss”

“…Terrrrrrrr”

“…Hester….”

“…HESTER…”