The Curse of Cambine Cabin

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It flickered tentatively as Troy worked on his new short story, part of a Halloween anthology featuring all the big names of horror including himself. It was really important that Troy Peters get this right, he hadn't written anything half decent for almost two years and his publisher had been hounding him. Troy had experienced some moderate success after his first novel, ‘Killer With a Serpent’s Smile’, which was followed by his next hit, ‘Cold as Ice, Red as Blood’.

Yes, this was the perfect place Troy thought, Cambine Cabin with its suitably dark history. A quiet place where he could get away from it all and focus on the task at hand. He stared at the half blank page in front of him and sighed before ripping it out of the type writer and pelting it at the overflowing waste paper basket. It was terrible! Was a story about a killer pumpkin all he could come up with? Troy rubbed his eyes and stretched, getting up to turn the light on. The whole moody candle-lit vibe was getting him no where.

He ventured into the kitchen to make himself another black coffee as he took in his surroundings. The bright mass produced furnishings and cheap modernization did little to mask the cabin’s ageing, slightly musty interior. He had been here before, but that was before it had been renovated and advertised on a holiday accommodation site as the ultimate haunted house experience; a place where thrill seekers payed a premium in the hope of experiencing the supernatural or scaring themselves silly. He chuckled to himself thinking that now even haunted houses were being gentrified and marketed as an opportunity for selfies.

The cabin certainly had a chequered past, but where truth ended and urban legend began was anyone’s guess. One of the cabin’s earliest inhabitants was said to have been tried and hung as a witch. Since then it seemed as though murder and often bizarre accidental deaths had plagued the little dwelling. Even the notorious serial killer dubbed, ‘The Baby Sitter Slayer’ hid out here after escaping from prison in ‘88. You could still see the impression of bullet marks around the front door where police had opened fire. Then there was the unsolved murder that had happened here less than two years ago. Some guy was stabbed 33 times but the details eluded Troy’s memory.

He wandered back into the lounge room with his steaming coffee, but it was dark. Troy was sure that he had already turned the lights on as he flicked the switch and illuminated the cozy, yet somehow somber little room. The fire popped and crackled as a log fell. Must be those ghosts he thought, more like dodgy old wiring. If only these walls could talk, what stories they could tell. He certainly wished they could talk, then at least he would have something to write about.

He sat down at the type writer his wife had given him for his birthday. It had once belonged to his idol Max Steele, one of the greatest horror writers of all time. He caressed its well worn keys but nothing came. So he snapped open the lap top and began researching the macabre history of the cabin. There were lots of reviews online from people who had stayed there. Some said they experienced nothing at all, others described very vividly all manner of supernatural experiences from flickering lights to objects moving around the room as if controlled by an unseen force. Others described an oppressive dark energy; feelings of hate, anger and even an invisible entity attacking them. A few people said they had even heard the Cambine Cabin Witch screaming at night.

“Crazy Stuff” exclaimed Troy.

He searched the ‘Cambine Cabin Witch’ and came up with a bunch of local history sites and paranormal investigators recounting the story of Mary Ellen Rae, the cabin’s original inhabitant who had been accused of cursing her husband to death and was ultimately hung for the crime of witchcraft. How backward, thought Troy. But this was apparently where the so called ‘Cambine Cabin Curse’ had begun. Mary Ellen was said to still inhabit the area and wreak her vengeance on men like her husband. Her grave was only a stone’s throw away from the cabin, where she was sometimes seen perched in the trees like a ghostly specter.

“Great Stuff”, remarked Troy to himself.

He researched the Baby Sitter Killer for a bit, reading about the notoriously grisly murder spree which happened in the 80’s as the killer preyed on teenage babysitters like some kind of real life Michael Myers.

Troy paused to throw a log on the fire before returning to the type writer. He suddenly felt unusually light headed, then momentarily disoriented as though he was on the precipice of a dream state. The lights flickered, snapping him back to the moment and the typewriter before him. He began typing and it was as though a gate had opened as the words poured forth without restraint, like he was plucking them from the air or some unseen force was working through him. His fingers navigated the keys furiously, clicking away, faster and faster.

This was fantastic, better than he had hoped for. It was amazing, the words coming out, the thoughts, the darkness. He had never written like this before in his life. It was a masterpiece pouring forth from beneath his fingers through those rickety keys on to the crisp white paper. Hours passed before he knew it and he only stopped when he felt an intense chill ripple through his body. It was past midnight, pitch black and freezing. The fire had burnt down to just a dying ember and that lone candle which had originally lit his way was now no more than a stub of wax and a swaying yellow flame.

He stared out of the window into the night that seemed almost infinite and wondered if he might see the Cambine Cabin witch staring back at him with grim dead eyes. But she wasn't there, the window was caked with frost and it had began to rain. Suddenly a deafening boom of thunder and a jagged wedge of lightning tore the sky, lighting up the room for just a moment. He jumped and thought he saw someone standing in the lounge room, momentarily revealed by the brief flash of illumination. His eyes probed the darkness, there was no one there. He figured it was just his imagination. Still shivering he quickly began to build the fire back up. Once the fire leapt to life he turned the light on, it went off again, so again he turned it on cursing the faulty wiring.

Returning to the type writer he began inspecting the freshly typed pages that he had stacked so neatly. Skimming over the words he marveled at how they flowed so perfectly and this was only the first draft. It was entitled, ‘A Masquerade of Murder’, about a deeply flawed and emotionally unstable couple on their honeymoon. He barely remembered writing the words, where had this all come from?

“Oh Wow this is fantastic” he exclaimed.

This guy, the husband, he is so narcissistic. These characters are despicable, I love it! He thought as he read on.

The husband is murdered by a mysterious yet sexy stranger dressed in all black wearing a black feathered masquerade mask. This is way too good for a Halloween anthology he thought, there is a novel in this and at the rate I’m going it will be finished before dawn. But who is the killer behind the mask? He wracked his brains, it had to have a good twist, maybe something supernatural.

“Who is the killer!” he yelled with frustration.

Then he heard a faint voice as thought it came from within the house, “is someone there?”

“What, who’s there?” Troy exclaimed.

Then more muffled voices, a male and a female. But he couldn't understand what they were saying.

He checked the kitchen, no one was there. Then the bedroom, the light was on but there was no one. You are going mad, this place is really getting to you, Troy thought. Maybe he was just tired, yes that must be it he decided returning to his make-shift desk.

Troy turned back to his lap-top venturing again into Cambine Cabin’s more recent past. He scrolled through the accidents to the most recent murder. That was an unsolved mystery, it might offer some inspiration or fill in some blanks. He began reading about the honeymooning couple. That’s a coincidence’ he thought, I must have read this somewhere before, either that or I’m picking up the vibes of this old place. He kept scrolling then stopped dead, his heart lurched in his chest and sank like a stone. He didn't understand what he was seeing, this can't be right… “what!” he exclaimed out loud.

Staring back at him from the gently glowing screen was a photo of himself with the headline, “Horror Hack, Hacked to Death’. He read on, skimming the article, ‘Mediocre horror writer Troy Peters murdered at cursed Cambine Cabin… stabbed 33 times… in the bedroom… still unsolved… loving wife utterly distraught”.

He ran to the bedroom and it all flooded back to him. The recollection was like a rubber band snapping back into his body with a violent recoil that jolted him. He saw the events as though unfolding before his eyes. He had stayed here on his honeymoon with his wife, Vanessa.

Outwardly they were the perfect couple; gorgeous, successful and blissfully in love. But their marriage was like this cabin, cursed from day one and crumbling; rotting from within with lies and deceit. They had already began talking about divorce on their honeymoon and Vanessa had stormed off in a rage, taking the car and leaving him alone in the cabin. She had said that she was leaving him once and for all.

He saw himself lying in bed reading his favorite Max Steele novel when the door creaked open, he looked up to see a figure dressed in black wearing a black feathered masquerade mask. It was the escort that he had called to keep him company after Vanessa had left. They might be over, but that wasn't going to stop him enjoying his honeymoon.

She came towards him, her movements were sensual like a stalking cat as she drew closer and straddled him. She was gorgeous, he thought, with her perfect body, long blonde hair and her piercing blue eyes staring into his as though penetrating his soul. They seemed familiar, then he realized they were hard and cold. There was anger behind them. No, more than anger, absolute rage. Then suddenly she revealed a long knife from behind her back, its silver edge glinted in the light and before he had time to react she plunged it violently into his chest. He tried to scream but couldn't, she had mortally wounded him with the first blow. He reached out flaccidly grabbing hold of the mask and ripped it from her face. It was Vanessa, with her cold hateful eyes.

“Why?” he gasped pitifully.

She screamed, “They were my stories! MY stories. I wrote them all and you stole them from me. You told me they were no good and belittled me, but behind my back you were selling them as your own. You became a famous horror writer with MY stories”.

She screamed incoherently and laughed maniacally as she stabbed again and again as Troy’s life faded away.

Standing in the doorway of the bedroom Troy looked on in terror, watching his own death replaying before his eyes. He ran into the lounge room in a fit of sorrowful fury and grabbing his type writer from the desk he threw it as hard as he could through the front window of the cabin as he yelled, “It was Me, I was MURDERED! I’m DEAD! Dear God no.”

The glass shattered with a high pitched peel as though in slow motion. He was immediately startled by a petrified scream coming from from just behind him. Troy turned to see the young honeymooning couple who had rented the cabin, grasping their faces in horror and screaming at the scene before them. The typewriter had levitated in mid-air before being violently propelled through the window of their honeymoon cabin by an unseen force… by a ghost.

The couple ran from the cabin, still screaming and he heard their car tearing away at high speed along the old dirt road. Troy turned back to the desk, utterly crushed and noticed a small plaque next to the blank space, below the broken window where his type writer had been. It said ‘Famous Horror writer Troy Peters was murdered here. This was his typewriter. His ghost is said to still haunt Cambine Cabin’.

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Suzanne Boleyn.

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