The Old Cabin in the Woods

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The simple light cast an eerie glow to the clearing around it, so much that one could imagine that the flickering shadows were creatures lurking, seeking solace. The darkness was thick in this part of the woods, the weeds overgrown in the treeline surrounding the cabin. Oddly enough, the weeds hadn’t overtaken the cabin. The air was hot and thick, even in the middle of the night. The single flickering light looked out of place, as did the young woman sitting next to it.

She was seated in the old rocking chair beside the lighted window, staring straight ahead to the front door as if waiting. She looked to be in her mid-to-late-twenties, long blonde hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail, makeup smeared around her eyes. The black leather jacket she wore over ripped jeans made her look like your typical college student, but the shotgun she held with both hands across her lap said otherwise. She slowly rocked back and forth in the old rocker, watching the door with purpose.

At her feet lay an assortment of objects. Shotgun shells. A small metal cross. A Morton salt container, tipped over and empty. An electric lantern that gave a soft glow at her feet, but enough light that she could see around the bleak cabin.

She stopped rocking when she heard a scuffling noise outside. Something…dragging across the dried grass. Her grip on the gun tightened. She swallowed thickly. The sound stopped. Then started again. As she fought to control her breath, she stole a glance out the window.

Nothing but darkness.

Probably an animal, maybe a fox that had found something to eat and was rustling the dead grass.

Right, she thought to herself sarcastically. Not in these woods.

The woods surrounding the cabin had a history, and a bleak one at that. More than twenty people had gone missing in these woods since the 1980’s. No evidence left behind. No bodies. Nothing. They were just…gone. The local police had given up and eventually just warned people to steer clear, that the woods were not safe. They posted warning signs all around in an attempt to keep people out. What they should have done was put up an electric fence.

How do that many people go missing without leaving anything behind? With no trace, no footprints or evidence of any kind? It was impossible. But it had hit too close to home, just recently.

Her younger sister Callie had left on a hiking trip with her boyfriend, Jack, five days ago. Neither ever came home. Their tent and vehicle abandoned, all of their belongings left behind in the woods where they had camped. Even their phones were found, the batteries drained.

Some townsfolk said Jack and Callie had run off together. Eloped. Their attempt at escaping a small town no one wanted to live in past high school.

No chance, she thought to herself. Callie was not like that.

She told Callie not to hike in these woods. Every Jacksonville resident knew the stories. The cult gatherings. The ghost stories. And of course, the disappearances.

This cabin is more than what people think it is. I just know it. There’s something here. Something the police have missed. If I can figure it out...

The cabin itself was old and seemed ready to collapse at any time. The fact that it still stood was nothing short of miraculous. The inside was decrepit; a simple wooden table and two matching chairs in the far corner, an old stove next to it against the wall. The wooden floor, covered in dust. Spiders making homes in corners and crevices. She knew the back bedroom had a simple bed, bare of any bedding and an empty dresser.

And the lone rocking chair next to the window, the one she currently occupied, was the last piece in the cabin. And no, she didn’t bring the candle with her. It was already in the window, lit, as if beckoning her to sit next to it. That was the first piece to this eerie puzzle. Someone had been expecting a visitor. Expecting…her. The thought made her shudder.

Another scuffling sound from outside. Closer this time. Her heart raced, grip on the gun barrel tightening. She knew how to use the old shotgun her dad had gifted her several years ago. It was loaded, ready to go. What she needed to shoot this time, she wasn't sure. But she knew she wasn't coming out here by herself unarmed.

This cabin was much more than an abandoned building.

Newspaper articles will tell you that in 1979, a small cult used the forest for their meetings and rituals. Some said they followed the spirits of the forest, that the spirits called to them. Some said they sacrificed animals to honor the spirits they worshiped. Word of mouth would tell you that it wasn’t animals they were sacrificing at all. Once the first two people disappeared, townsfolk started to look at the cult a little more closely. When the third and fourth people disappeared, the two hundred or so townsfolk who lived in Jacksonville grew scared, and then they were angry. A mob took to the woods to track down the cult. Only the leader, Jim Wilkerson, was caught, and his fate was worse than any legal system could have brought down on him. The rest of the cult had run away, never to be seen or heard from again.

More quieter rumors claimed that Jim’s ghost never left the woods. But no one liked to talk about that.

And what of the cabin? The very cabin she sat in, now? It belonged to the Wilkerson family. The building had been searched many times, but, according to authorities, nothing unusual was found. It was just a simple, run-down cabin, built in the late 1800’s. Nothing strange, no evidence of anyone having lived there in many, many years. You know, except the ghost sightings. And people, you know, still vanishing.

She knew all the rumors, all the gossip, all the historical evidence that no one else would listen to. She’d been studying these woods for years. Learning all the ins and outs. Callie thought she was wasting her time, her high IQ wasted on "a bunch of bull." All of her free time in the library was spent digging through and piecing together the data. Dates, missing people, timelines, and so on. She even dug through the Wilkerson family timeline. Violence was a common theme through the family, as was mental illness.

The door. The front door. She blinked out of her deep thoughts to watch the old door squeak open just slightly. She raised the shotgun and pointed it toward the door. The squeaking stopped. But from outside a wind suddenly picked up, whistling through the crack under the door and blowing the salt line she had so carefully laid down.

Salt. Salt kept away so many things, so many unwanted things. She had learned that little tidbit as well. But whatever this was, it was trying to undo her simple barrier. She'd placed a line of salt in the window sill, along the front door, along the door to the bedroom. Any place she could think of that something could get in. Whatever it was she was up against, was smart. Panic began to set in as her first line of defense was literally blown away by the wind.

A hand. She felt it. A hand, on her left shoulder. She sat perfectly still in the rocker. Couldn’t react. Couldn’t move. A second hand, on her right shoulder. Her breath quickened as her panic grew. That breath was soon knocked out of her as the hands suddenly grew solid and shoved her from behind, knocking her completely to the cabin floor. She caught herself with an elbow, pain shooting through her arm. The shotgun slid out of her hands and across the floor, settling over near the old stove. As soon as she realized what had happened, she turned around to look behind her.

Nothing. No one there.

Something had shoved her. But the room was empty. The rocking chair slowed.

Something is in here, she thought to herself, panic setting in. She scrambled to her feet, hobbling over to her fallen weapon and snatching it up. Her ankle felt tender as well. She must have landed on it wrong. Before she realized it, strong hands shoved her from behind again, this time forcing her shoulder and side to collide with the old wooden stove. She bounced off, once again on the floor.

Groaning and holding her shoulder, she reached over to grab the shotgun once again, cradling it against her chest as she breathed through the pain bursting through her arm. She tested her shoulder: she could rotate it, so that was a good sign. She must have hit the side of her head too; fresh blood joined what was already there from earlier.

The front door swung open with a loud BANG, hitting the wall and rattling the candle in the window. Her head spun in the direction, eyes searching. She nearly fell over when she realized her salt line was completely gone.

What on earth was I thinking…? I’m just a research assistant…but here I am, acting like a Ghostbuster…or a Winchester.

For the fifteenth time since she arrived and hiked her way through the creepy woods, her thoughts turned from determination of finding Callie to simple fear. She was stupid to come here alone. She was going to end up as just another statistic, another news story for the local media to run for a few weeks and then forget about. Her boyfriend, Max, had begged her not to do this. Encouraged her to let the police handle it.

The police weren’t handling anything.

She had insisted she knew what she was doing.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she muttered to herself.

The front door slammed shut again on its own and this time, it stayed closed. She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t dissipate. The sudden silence in the cabin was thick, the air sticky and suddenly strong of sulfur. Slowly, she turned from the front door, searching around the cabin for the thing that had attacked her. Nothing. The wind picked up outside, howling through the cracks in the lone window. The candle’s flame flickered but remained. She was thankful she had brought a lantern with her. She thought of Max and wondered if he had tried calling her again. The cell phone in her jacket pocket hadn’t vibrated at all. Then again, any sort of signal she might have had died long ago, about half a mile into the woods.

She got to her feet and stumbled towards the closed front door, using the shotgun to steady her. She was done. Getting the heck out of Dodge. She yanked on the door handle.

It wouldn’t open. She pulled harder, over and over she pulled. It wouldn't budge. There were no locks in sight, but it was stuck, as if an imaginary force was keeping it from opening. Slowly, she turned around to face the center of the cabin. Closed her eyes and inhaled.

"Who's there?" she asked, voice quivering into the open air. Maybe she could reason with…whatever it was. A ghost, she supposed.

"Whoever you are, I just want my sister back. That's the only reason I am here. Her name is Callie. I just want her back. Please. Then I will leave."

The wind continued to blow stronger, the howling the only answer given in return. Maybe the ghost didn’t want her to leave. Maybe it wanted her here, and that’s why the candle had been lit.

Something thumped under the floor.

She jumped, heart racing again. What in the...

There was nothing there, just the wooden floorboards. But then she tilted her head and looked closer. One board...out of place. Just slightly more crooked than the others. Surely not. Surely the police had checked...but maybe they didn't.

Another thump. Louder.

She dropped to her knees and laid the gun down beside her. She moved to the crooked board, placing her fingertips underneath and lifted. It moved easily. Too easily.

No way...

The edge of what looked like a metal hinged door. She stood up and backed away from it. She looked around the cabin, as if looking to see if anyone else was seeing this. Excitement and anxiety and fear rumbled through her chest in a rush of emotion, but she had to know.

What is in there...?

She bent down and with shaky hands lifted up another board, and then another and another. Soon she was looking at a 3 foot by 3 foot metal trap door. A strange symbol decorated the top and covered most of the door. In all her research and study, she had no idea what this symbol was.

Another thump, against the metal door. The sudden sound knocked her back onto her rear, eyes staring at the hidden door she’d just uncovered.

Someone is down there…

She didn’t know what to do. What if Callie was trapped down there? What if other people were trapped? What if…something else entirely was down there. Maybe the ghost that had pushed her was trying to show her something.

That was too many maybes. She had to know.

Unsteady hands reached down and felt for the shotgun. She never took her eyes away from that door. She grabbed the metal ring and jerked the door open and stepped back quickly, shotgun pointed at the hole. Dust rose from the sudden movement in the floor and entered her nostrils. So did a stench…a stench unlike anything she’d ever smelled before. Rotten. Dying.

A short ladder leaned against the interior wall of the hole, leading down into the dark. Every fiber of her being screamed THIS IS STUPID DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT but she had to know. Was her baby sister being kept down there? Her shotgun was locked and loaded, the sound echoing in the eerily silent cabin. Her face set to stone, mouth tight, she took a step towards that hole against her better judgment, peering down into the dark.

She cried out as a hand, a dirty, scraped hand grabbed at the edge of the cabin floor. The sudden movement caused her to fall backwards again but she never lost grip of her gun. She shakily pointed it at the hole, at the hand that had appeared out of nowhere. Another hand slapped the edge of the flooring. There were now a pair of scratched, dirty hands reaching out from that hole and gripping the floor. She watched as dark hair rose in between those two hands, and a pair of eyes that looked…familiar. Familiar, but different. These eyes seemed to match her own. Same shape. Same size. But the color was…off. But the face that went with those eyes was unmistakably familiar. The candle in the window flickered, casting more shadows across a face she’d known all her life.

“C-Callie…?” she sputtered.

But Callie, who had now pulled herself completely from the hole in the floor and stood before her, tilted her head in confusion as she stared down. The familiar hiking clothing Callie had worn when she left was torn and covered in dirt. She was missing a shoe.

Those eyes. Those eyes were all wrong. Almost a sickly yellow color had taken over what should have been blue with gold flecks, much like hers.

Is she sick…? What is wrong with her eyes??

Just then, Callie leaned back and let out an ear-splitting, animalistic scream towards the ceiling, hands splayed out behind her. The scream stopped and those sickly yellow eyes focused on her.

That’s not Callie. That’s not Callie, THAT’S NOT CALLIE!!

She scrambled to her feet, clutching her weapon as the thing inhabiting Callie’s body shambled towards her. That’s when a new notion hit her like a ton of bricks.

She’s possessed. No, no, no…

She raised the shotgun and took aim at Callie. She’d been hunting with their dad plenty of times and understood what she had to do. She let out a slow breath, and aimed for Callie’s left shoulder. She pulled the trigger.

Callie’s shoulder exploded in a shower of blood and what could only be described as…black stuff. A dark mist escaped from Callie as her body hit the floor, all life escaping her eyes. Callie looked as if she’d been dead for days.

She turned, gagging, both from the stench and the thought of her own sister being dead, right there in front of her.

The dark mist floated around the ceiling, hovering, as if waiting. Her eyes watched it, and as quickly as the bile had risen in her throat, the anger took over.

“WIlkerson. Jim Wilkerson,” she sneered, realization settling in.

Watching the hovering presence, she had an idea.

No one would ever get hurt in this cabin again.

Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out a box of matches. Max had insisted she bring them, “just in case,” he had said.

The mist, suddenly becoming aware of what might happen, attempted to enter Callie’s body again. But the salt that had been in the shell remained in her sister and that seemed to be enough to keep Wilkerson from taking back over.

She pulled a single match out of the box, lit it, and threw it into the hole. Just as quickly, she suddenly felt something around her throat…hands…squeezing…

She gagged, struggled, somehow falling back into the rocking chair, shotgun long forgotten and lying on the floor. The candle in the window flickered with the sudden motion. She began seeing colorful spots, but also noticed the heat and flames coming from below. Her match had caught something, and the fire was quickly spreading down below. If she didn’t get out of here soon, the floor would be next…

Desperately, she grabbed the candle. As if like magic, the hands left her neck. She gasped, breathing in the air that was filling quickly with smoke. Hobbling over and sweeping up her shotgun

I’ll be darned if I’m leaving THAT behind…

she threw the candle as hard as she could to the old table and chairs.

With one last glance at her sister, she turned and pulled the door open to the cabin. It opened easily. She didn’t look back as the flames engulfed the cabin, smoke piling high into the night sky.