The Stranger

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

I’ll start at the beginning.

There’s something wrong with my husband.

Most days, I can ignore it. Pretend it’s all in my head. Sometimes I even forget, and that is the sweetest relief. But in the end, I always remember.

It’s in the details.

We got married on a Sunday. Our wedding was held on the small hobby farm where I grew up. It was warm, even for the late June evening. All these years later, I can still smell the sweet perfume of the garden hanging in the hazy evening air as we twirled beneath string lights, whispering to each other of our hopes for the future.

He was such a special man. Not handsome, but his eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that hinted at his kindness. He was safe, and warm. When he spoke, it felt like summer.

Our first year after the wedding was the definition of married bliss.

But then my parents announced their desire to move away from our farm, and we decided to take it over.

The farm had once belonged to a wealthy man, some of whose employees lived on the premises. Most evidence had long been cleared, save for a small cabin near the edge of the property, bordering the woods. It had long since been vacated, and though the property was only a half hour’s drive from the city, it was large and we were isolated.

Which is why when, on our second night in our new home, I was so alarmed to see the candle in the window of the little cabin.

It was dusk, and the last of the light was draining from the sky.

Readying myself for bed, I sat at my vanity, positioned next to our bedroom window. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a change in the scenery.

The cabin is just visible from the second-story window, and as I turned my head to get a better view, I saw the faint, flickering light of a candle.

My first reaction was not fear, but confusion.

What purpose could that candle serve?

“John?” I called, “maybe you should remove that candle. Doesn’t seem very safe to leave it overnight.”

“What candle?” came his reply. I felt a vague annoyance at his question.

“Honey. In the old cabin. Why’s it even in there?”

John entered the bedroom. “I didn’t light any candles.”

In answer, I just gestured at the window. John walked over, his glance at me reflecting my annoyance and confusion. In the following months I’d come to regret the shortness with which I spoke to him that night. But at the moment, I couldn’t contain my rare irritability.

He bent his tall, slim frame to peer through the window into the growing darkness and uttered a grunt. “Huh. Well, you’re right. We can’t just leave it.”

I followed him out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the front hall. He pulled my father’s battered old denim jacket from the coat closet. My parents were approaching old age, and left any belongings that weren’t necessary behind in the move. Though it wasn’t our taste, we had found the old farmhouse decor comforting, and found ourselves dragging our feet when it came to clearing out the house.

John pulled the jacket over his pyjamas and reached for the flashlight. Before opening the door, he turned his head to me, “get to bed. I'll be back in a moment. I love you.”

“Love you,” I replied, and shut the front door behind him. I climbed the stairs, the house suddenly feeling a bit too quiet and a bit too empty. Strange. I’d never minded being alone in it before.

I slid beneath the covers, but something held me from turning off the light until John returned. So I opened a book, and I waited.

Five minutes became ten, and then fifteen. A little too long for a quick walk to and from the cabin.

Just as I decided to take a look out the window, I heard the front door open and John climb the stairs. His footsteps were slower than usual, I assumed in an attempt not to wake me.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, just staring for a second, as if he’d forgotten why he was there.

“Was everything okay?” I asked him. The sound of my voice seemed almost to startle him, and he slowly turned his eyes to me.

“Totally fine. Nothing to report,” he replied. He then ambled to the bed and climbed in next to me.

“Honey,” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

“Shoes.”

He’d gotten into bed still wearing his jacket and shoes. He looked down and uttered a soft grunt in surprise. “Oh. Must be distracted by the mystery,” he grinned widely at me. His sudden cheery mood felt out of place, and I was uneasy.

He removed them, kissed my forehead and rolled over. As I drifted to sleep, a question lingered at the back of my mind: If the cabin was empty, and it hadn’t been us, then where had the candle come from?

In the following days, John and I began to clear out the house. I didn’t notice it at first, but slowly I became aware of something amiss.

John was slower to laugh at a joke than usual, his easy smile seeming to slip when he wasn’t paying attention.

On a few occasions, I’d enter a room to discover him standing there silently, again as if he’d forgotten his reason for being there. But as soon as he noticed me he’d smile, a little too wide, and continue on.

Over breakfast one morning, I looked up and noticed the laugh lines I loved so much were missing. His expression was blank, his face smooth. He just sat there, staring at his food, his eyes almost…empty.

“Honey,” I touched his hand. “Eat before the flies get your bacon!”.

His eyes focused, and he turned to me. “Sorry love,” he replied. “I just can’t seem to find my appetite.”

As he emptied his untouched plate into the compost, it struck me.

I hadn’t seen John eat in days.

But as the days passed, it was easy to tell myself I was imagining things.

Until tonight.

I awake in the middle of the night and John isn’t there. I grab my glasses and turn on the light. The warm glow fills the bedroom, but John is nowhere to be found. This isn’t like him; in the years we’d known each other, my husband wasn’t much of a midnight wanderer.

“John…?” I call. No answer. But as the fog of sleep leaves my brain, I notice a faint glow down the hallway. I slip on my robe, and wrap it tight around myself in a halfhearted attempt at comforting myself. Something feels…off.

I tiptoe down the hallway, and down the stairs, until I find the source of the light. John is in the living room, staring out into the night.

“Honey…” But my voice trails off. He is motionless. That blank expression has returned. As I follow his gaze, my eyes settle on the little cabin in the distance, and that’s when I see it.

A faint, flickering glow in the window.

“John, that’s not funny,” I snap.

He looks at me and smiles, the skin of his face stretching around a wide, toothy grin.

He stands up, and walks past me to the front door. Opening it, he steps into the night and down the front steps, seemingly unaware of his lack of footwear.

“John!” I shout after him. No answer comes; he continues his smooth, long strides into the darkness.

Not entirely sure of myself, I follow him.

He has already nearly disappeared in the shadows. Jogging, I keep my distance but follow as he makes his way through the darkness.

The candlelight grows brighter as we close the distance between us and the cabin; the only source of light in the thick, oppressive emptiness surrounding us.

My uneasiness grows as we near our destination, and I slow my pace. John never breaks his stride.

He approaches the little weathered door, and slips inside.

I hang back, unsure of myself. None of this makes sense. But a growing sense of worry mixed with intense irritation pushes me to follow him.

The now empty doorway is a deep, endless black, somehow visible even in the darkness surrounding me. I suddenly feel very, very alone.

I rush forward, desperate for the comfort of my husband. He is standing waiting for me, just inside the hallway. He looks down at me and smiles, but there is no warmth in his expression. He moves forward again.

The cabin is in disrepair. Faded wallpaper is peeling towards floorboards, covered in a thick layer of dust. The stairs are rotting, falling in on themselves.

A damp, earthy scent of decay fills my nostrils as I follow my husband. I slowly become aware of another, more unpleasant scent, but I’m unable to place it.

The floorboards protest in loud groans beneath our feet, the only sound either of us make.

I’m holding my breath, but I don't know why.

John enters a doorway at the end of the hall, faintly illuminated by flickering candlelight. He stops, and turns to look at me.

“John, I don't…” my voice trails off. I realize I’m terrified. My heart has begun to race.

“You have to see this,” he whispers. He reaches for my hand, and pulls me slowly to join him.

With every step, my heart beats faster, louder. I’m certain that I do not want to see whatever it is he wants to show me.

As I enter the decaying room, he motions towards the floor to our right. I shake my head. I’m trembling. He pulls my arm, turning me to the side, and the rest of the room is forced into my view.

My body is frozen in utter terror, and I don’t immediately register the shape on the floor before me.

My eyes focus and a sudden, piercing shriek rips from my lungs as I stare into the motionless, empty, pallid face of my husband.

THE END.