The Ballad of Mitchel Figgs

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

An old moonshiners shack, some said, that was rumored to be haunted by the spirit of the spirits maker, Old Man Oscar. It was guarded by his ghost, who never let anyone inside the cabin, lest they learn the secret to his age old shine technique.

If you had told Mitchel Figgs this story, he would have laughed at you. Mitchel "Mitch" Figgs had been the owner of the six acres of land just north of highway 6 in Mound, Tennessee, for the past twenty years.

First Mitch's father had owned the land, and before that Mitch's grandfather had owned the land. Back in 1947, Mitch's grandfather may or may not have been a moonshiner. If you had asked Mitch this, he would have told you to ask him something else.

"Nobody in my family did moonshine, not since my great grandfather," he would tell you, "that was how he got by, but god dam times have changed."

The cabin that was on Mitch's land, where he lived in solitude and quiet, backed up to woods that covered the last acre of his land. If Mitch looked through the kitchen window he could see, at least in the daytime, the little cabin that sat alone in the woods. As of right now, Mitch used it to store seeds for the garden that was directly behind his house.

Up until 7:32 on a cooler than normal Sunday night, Mitch didn't have any reason to think that something was going on in the old cabin.

As he was setting his dinner plate into the sink, however, a gentle meow behind him made him turn his head. Standing up on the kitchen counter was Mouse, the small grey tabby cat that Mitch had had for the past six years. She stood with her ears up, seeming to look past Mitch, through the small window that was above the sink.

"Hey, you alright baby?" Mitch turned to extended a hand to pet Mouse.

In response Mouse only chirped again, turning quickly away from Mitch to descended to the floor. She paused a moment in front of the cupboard under the sink, then jumped up onto the sinks counter, still looking out the window.

Now Mitch turned to look keep looking at Mouse, but glanced at the window she was suddenly so obsessed with. Mitch saw his garden in the getting-dark light of the sky. He looked at the tree line, then saw it.

Mouse was now almost touching the window with her face, her green eyes cutting through the gathering darkness to observe the cabin that sat amongst the trees.

In the cabin, shining just enough for Mitch to see, was a light. Not the kind of light that a lightbulb would throw off either. No, this light had a gentle wiggle to it, like the movement of a candle.

"What's that about, huh?" Mitch put a hand on Mouse's head now.

Mouse chirped again now, turning to look at Mitch. If Mitch knew anything about cats, which he liked to think he did, Mouse's face would have shown Mitch some form of worry. Or discontent.

Looking away from Mouse and back to the light that was magically appearing in the cabin, Mitch clicked his tongue. He took his hand away from Mouse's head, and squinted at the light in the cabin.

He blinked, thinking that for a second he had seen something move past the flickering, dot of light. Like a shadow, or even a person. That wasn't possible thought, because Mitch had a gate around the cabin that was rigged with a tripwire. If you pushed open the gate, it would jangle the wire and an alarm would go off inside of the house. If you managed to climb over the six foot tall wire fence that went around the entire cabin, it would set off the same wire and sound the same alarm.

Mitch turned away from the light then, looking into his living room. He walked from the kitchen and into the living room, where the television was still on, playing some old black and white show about cowboys on Netflix. Mitch wasn't any stranger to the modern age of 2019, he just liked his peace and quiet.

Now the forty-six year old was passing a hand through his falling-out brown hair, which had stopped growing at the temples and the top of his head around sixteen years ago. Walking past the couch and the coffee table Mitch went through a doorway that lead to a sitting room on the left side of the house, if you were standing inside at the front door.

In the sitting room was a fireplace. Sitting on top of the fireplace was a dark wooden box, and Mitch took the box down from the fireplace now. Flipping the lid up he took a revolver from the box's smooth-lined inside, and clicked out the cylinder. It was loaded. Good Mitch told himself you might need this thing.

Now Mitch left the box lid open, and carried the revolver at his side in his right hand. He turned back around to the living room, and walked from the sitting room. The TV suddenly felt like it was to loud, but Mitch only squeezed his eyes shut for a second. opening them again, the TV was still at it's moderate volume that Mitch liked, and he stepped up to the front door.

Reaching out Mitch gripped the knob of the front door, and took a breath.

"Calm down," he told himself then.

Mitch swallowed, suddenly worried about the light in the cabin. It had been abandoned for a good little while, even Mitch seemed to rarely use it now-a-days. Swallowing again Mitch turned the knob on the front door, it was unlocked, and he pulled it open.

Outside sounds came inside the house to greet Mitch now. He heard the buzzing of mosquitos, the chirping of cicadas, and the gentle call of frogs that liked to spend time in the small creek that ran further back in the woods.

Now Mitch let go of the doorknob and stepped out onto the front porch. He almost felt like something was pulling him outside, an invisible hand wrapped around his body. No, he was outside at almost eight o' clock at night because a light was on inside a cabin that nobody had physically lived inside of in almost thirty years, give or take.

Healthy paranoia at best Mitch thought to himself.

As he nodded to reassure himself, Mitch reached behind himself, pulling the door shut. In one of the front windows now was Mouse, who watched her faithful human companion stand on the front porch, still dressed in his jeans and collared shirt from work.

It was muggy outside. Mitch disliked the feeling of the air, but that wasn't the important part. Right now he turned his whole body, and stepped from the smooth, brick sided pathway that connected the driveway to the front door. His pick up truck sat in the driveway, right where he had left it. Mitch looked over the front yard a moment, wondering what this whole thing was going to turn out to be. Maybe he was dreaming.

Now Mitch let himself laugh at that thought, but flexed his fingers over the grip of his revolver, hands feeling shaky. He walked over the grass now, the green, well groomed yard just tall enough to hide to tops of Mitch's brown work boots.

From the front yard he went around the side of the house, looking over the corner before taking himself there. The yard was empty, save for the tree line that wrapped around the left of the house, then the back of the house, until it tapered off and gave way to the other side of the house, where most of Mitch's land stretched out.

Walking along the side of the house now Mitch took a breath, and let it out slowly. He wasn't afraid, but apprehensive. If there was someone inside of the cabin, they could come out with their hands up as Mitch called the police, or they could find themselves on the receiving end of his gun.

Mitch was halfway through the yard now, and getting ready to come around to the backyard. Again he let out a breath, reaching up a hand to wipe away sweat, despite the air not being hot enough to cause him to perspire. Mitch watched the vegetable garden he had planted a few years back start to come into his field of view. He looked at it from the corner of his eye, looking over the carefully planted and well-tended to rows of corn, carrots, beets, and other vegetation. It all seemed to be in order.

No rows were disturbed, no plants were pulled up or thrown awry. Turning his eyes back ahead, Mitch fixed his gaze on the tree line, and then the cabin. Now, as he stood there, he saw darkness.

Mitch blinked, almost sure he had seen the light as he came around the corner of the house. He squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could get them, and opened them again as wide as he could.

There was no light. Mitch looked at the trees, and saw through them the cabin. It sat with its slightly slumped in roof, which Mitch had been meaning to start looking into fixing soon. There was, as he looked into the cabin, no light.

Now Mitch let out a breath, and began to let himself smile. He continued to smile as he looked at the trees and the darkness, and let himself relax. He let out a breath, turning some to look back at the window where the kitchen was. As he looked past the garden at the window, Mitch let himself chuckle at the lights he had left off inside of the house. All the light, minus one.

Off Mitch's brain told him, no, that's wrong. You just ate dinner.

Now Mitch's smiling face faltered some, and he remembered the gun he was holding in his hand suddenly. He looked at the dark kitchen window, with the single, shimmering light in it. The light that looked like it was coming from a candle.

Mitch felt more sweat come onto his brow now, and he whirled around, the gun in his hand coming up now to be gripped with both hands. Mitch looked, and as Mitch saw the cabin sitting in the woods behind his house, he saw the light was still on.

"Fuck, no..." Mitch's voice cracked.

He gripped his revolver in his hands, no frozen in place. If he turned around again, would the kitchen lights be off still? No, they should be on, because Mitch had to clean the kitchen up before he went to bed. He had to check now, to make sure.

Mitch turned with his gun up, lowering it just some as his body turned. Again he looked past the vegetables, the stalks of corn off to the far left side of the raised rows. The kitchen light, to Mitch's amazement, was on.

"it was..." he stopped his words early.

He was almost in disbelief now, and Mitch turned his head some, looking over his shoulder. He saw the tree line yet again, and as he kept turning his head he saw, shinning in the window, the light that was alive in the cabin.

"No!" now Mitch shouted at the trees, his voice carrying over the empty fields.

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Mitch's face now, but he ignored it as he walked forward, keeping his gun up. Was he going crazy? Or was this all some kind of trick on his tired mind?

Mitch walked across the backyard now, gun raised up and his pointer finger sitting next to the trigger. His blood felt hot from the adrenaline that was seeping into his system, but at the same time cold from the air that wrapped around him.

Further across the field Mitch walked with a purpose. He wanted to know why he was seeing this light in the cabin, and where it was coming from. He was getting closer to the trees, and a gentle gust of wind shook the lighter branches, making the leaves sing their outside song.

Mitch was maybe ten meters away from the start of the tree line. He didn't take his eyes off of the light in the cabin, its wiggle and waver almost drawing Mitch in, like the sirens song draws in the weary ship to its watery grave. Now Mitch was walking a little faster, his breathing getting more fast paced.

Now he was about five meters away from the trees. The light in the cabin was still flickering, and Mitch could almost make out what it was. It had to be a candle, the way it jiggled and moved on its own. Not even a swinging blub could make those kinds of flickers.

He was at the trees now. Mitch felt like he was floating over the grass, his body carrying him into whatever sick and crazy mystery was happening inside of the cabin that rested in the woods. His boots changed from semi quiet footsteps to the crunch of sticks and small rocks as the grass gave way to the forest proper.

Mitch felt a chill run down his back. This was still his land, but he rarely went out here to the cabin. He didn't use it often, at least not in the winter that was coming up soon.

Under his boots more small sticks and twigs crunched and snapped under his boots. Mitch felt as if all of his weight was in his hands, the gun there feeling heavy. He was focused on the light in the cabin, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He was so close, but at the same time felt very far away from it, and everything else.

He was coming up to the cabin now. The front of the sagging roof looked liked the arch of someone's eyebrows, as if the dilapidated dwelling wasn't happy that Mitch was coming to investigate it. One window to the left of the small place was broken, almost falling out. The window on the left of the door had the candle sitting in it, burning brighter than ever now.

Mitch swallowed again, he felt like a rock had been shoved in his throat. What was out here that had lit this candle? For that reason, had Mitch brought a candle to the cabin one night?

Coming to the gate now Mitch moved a leg, pushing on the gate. It didn't move, and Mitch took one had off of his gun to pull up the lock bar that held the gate shut. It squeaked some, and as Mitch left it up he pushed at the gate a second time, the worn iron swinging inwards with as much noise as the locking bar had made.

Mitch was closer than ever, where he could have reached out with a foot-long stick and touched the cabin door. It wasn't locked, Mitch knew it wasn't locked. With another step, the light that burned in the window was dancing with a sinister tango, as if daring Mitch to come inside and snuff it out.

Keeping his hands on his revolver Mitch shook his head, shaking off sweat in the cold night air. He was suddenly aware that it was dark, and as he took a hand from his gun, Mitch reached for the cabin door.

As he touched the knob it was cool, but not cold. Mitch turned the knob, it moved easily in his grip, and he pushed on the one and only door. It creaked as it opened, the hinges long since needing to be replaced. The door swung inwards like the gate door had, and Mitch looked at the cabin's inside.

It was dark. Almost to dark to see, as if the candle in the window had gone out as Mitch opened the door. Mitch stood just outside the doorway, the barrel of the gun resting in the space where the door had been shut.

Mitch swallowed again, then took a step forward. Whatever was in here, he could handle it. The cabin was cold as Mitch stepped into it, and he looked at the walls. They were lined with the shelves that Mitch had put up, most of them covered with small plastic buckets that held seeds. The names of the seeds were on the outside of the buckets, and James swallowed yet again, his throat feeling comparable to sandpaper.

The cabin, as Mitchel turned in a full circle, was empty. He was the only person in there. The small table and chair that was in the far side of the cabin was in it's place, and nothing else looked like it had been moved around or misplaced.

Mitch swallowed more, trying to wet his throat. He let out a breath, and thought for a second he could see his breath. In the window where the candle had been burning was nothing. Just the cracked window sill, where a chuck of wood was missing.

Mitch let out a soft groan then, and let his hands fall, his right still holding the gun. He let out a sigh, feeling a small weight lift itself from his shoulders. As he stood there, he looked at the empty window, and let himself laugh.

He laughed for a few seconds, then felt his laugh catch in his throat as he saw light. Not light in the window, but light behind him.

His hand was holding the gun still, and Mitch turned around, feeling himself start to slow down. He smelled something foul, like the body of a rotting deer in the summer heat. He put a hand to his mouth, turned around now, and looking.

Sitting on a shelf, with its flame flickering brighter than before, was a candle. Mitch coughed, his eyes watering. Now the smell was coming from someone else. Someone who stood just beside the flickering candle, not even five feet away from Mitch.

He had his gun up still, and Mitch only thought to fire. He saw the figure standing up, dressed in its tattered jacket and black shirt, the pants ripped at both knees and the feet bare. Hair long enough to reach the horrid things shoulders, the smell bad enough to make Mitch want to gag.

Mitch's finger was on the trigger and he fired his gun, the flash brighter than it should have been. Almost to bright, because it seemed to swarm his eyes, blinding him with light. Mitch yelled then as the light got so bright he wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to, and as the light got to be to much to bare, Mitch blinked.

As he blinked and opened his eyes again, he saw the wall of his bedroom. He jerked his body like he'd been electrocuted, and shouted, his hand coming up to aim his gun. His hand was empty, however. Mitch gasped, his chest heaving. He panted, body warm with sweat and his face hot.

He was in his bedroom, upstairs in his house. Mitch breathed, his chest tight and warm. He looked around, seeing his bed, the nightstand to the right. The closet at the far side of the room, and the window that was next to the dresser on the left wall.

Mitch gasped, blinking again. Had he dreamed that? The candle in the cabin, the figure in the cabin, who was rotting right in front of Mitch's eyes?

He sniffed then, taking in fresh, house-smelling cool air. The vent above his head in the ceiling was rattling quietly, like it always did. Mitch gasped again, his chest starting to settle some. He looked right to his nightstand, at the digital clock that sat there. It was 7:32 p.m.

Mitchel Figgs groaned then, and dropped his face down into his hands. He took a deep breath, then picked up his head, letting the breath out. It had been a dream, after all.

As Mitch got out of bed, he rested his feet on the floor. He had his boots on, as well as he shirt and jeans. He'd come upstairs to lay down, and fallen asleep. He let himself grin then, and laughed at the hardwood floor.

Shaking his head, Mitch moved from his bedroom and began to head downstairs. His stomach rumbled, telling him it was time to make dinner. Coming to descend the stars, Mitchel heard Mouse chirp at him from the bottom of the stairs, the small cat peering up at him.

"Ah, there she is!" Mitch called out.

"Mrow!" Mouse answered back, coming to scamper up the steps.

As she reached Mitch she rubbed herself through his legs, and Mitch finished descending the stairs. Now he passed through the sitting area, and looked at the fireplace. Sitting atop the brick fire feature was the wooden box that had Mitch's revolver in it.

Now Mitch nodded to himself, and went through the sitting area to to the living room. The TV remote was sitting on the coffee table, and Mitch leaned down to scoop it up. He turned, flicking on the TV and wondered what he was going to watch.

After a few minutes of looking he found a black and white show about cowboys. Desperados of the Divide was what Netflix was calling it. Perfect Mitch though to himself.

Setting the remote onto the coffee table, Mitch went from the living room and into the kitchen. He wandered to the refrigerator, pulling open one door and looking over what he could make for dinner. After a moment of perusing he settled on leftover meatloaf, and pulled it out.

When he'd eaten three slices of meatloaf, Mitch stood up from the couch with a groan, raising one arm over his head to pop his elbow. It popped with an audible sound, and Mitch took his plate from the coffee table, turning to take it to the sink. Walking from the couch to the sink, Mitch reached the sink, and made to set the plate down.

He paused however, as he was looking out through the window that was past the kitchen sink. Through the window he saw some of the stalks of corn that were growing in the garden behind the house.

Past the stalks of corn, he could see the cabin. But as he felt a chill run past him, Mitch could also see a light.

A light that was coming from the cabin.