by Tobias Wade
The blast doors opened, and X confidently walked inside.
As soon as the door closed, we lost audio. We repeatedly tried to reach him, only to be met with static. An hour passed, with no response. Panic grew in the facility as we waited, praying that we would not be chosen to go in after him.
Just before we lost hope, a fury of knocks and screams came from the other side.
We opened the door and a ghost-white X came crawling out. The “unbreakable man” was on the floor, screaming hysterically as he held his hands over his ears—as if he was protecting them from an unbearable noise. He repeatedly screamed: “its name, it told me its name!”
Medical staff raced to his side attempting to settle him down. It was no use. He squirmed in agony until one of the doctors injected him with a sedative. It took five men to hold him still.
I never saw X again. But the story of what happened to him spread around like a disease. His ear drums had somehow been completely removed while inside the cave. The feds brought in their top psychiatrist to analyze X. With his loss of hearing, the doctor reverted to writing questions on a small notepad for him to read. During the session, X got up and whispered the name of the creature into her ear.
It is on record that the second X whispered the name, he instantly lost the ability to speak, and the psychiatrist appeared to enter a trance state. Both were found dead the next day, hanging from the rafters of their individual rooms.
From the evidence we have gathered, the creature seems to be stealing human senses: the hiker’s sense of smell, Walsh’s sight, and X’s hearing.
The reason I am telling this story to the world is because I genuinely believe it is too late. Three more caves have been discovered, all with ten-foot openings and a trail of dead animals leading to them. We have no idea how many more there are.
Sister
I was happy to accept my grandmother’s chore—cleaning out the small, tin-roof cabin on her property. Growing up, my sister Annie and I would play there all the time. I have always cherished those memories. This weekend was the anniversary of her death; I couldn’t believe it had already been five years.
I pulled down the long gravel drive of grandmother’s rural home. As I made my way to the door, it swung open. My grandmother and uncle stepped out with luggage in hand. They were headed to the city to visit my parents, as this time of the year was understandably difficult for them. We talked for a moment, avoiding the morbid subject on our minds. My uncle’s fidgeting indicated his desire to hit the road. Eventually, we said our quiet goodbyes.
“Don’t clean too much,” my uncle said as he sat in down in the driver’s seat. “Just needs a little tidying up.”
I smiled softly and closed his door.
As they drove away, I inhaled the fresh country air. A flood of childhood memories consumed my mind as I made my way to the cabin. It was a two-mile hike through woods and pasture to the cabin. After what seemed like an eternity it was in sight. I smiled as I stared at the simple structure, feeling like I had just run into an old friend. As I climbed the hill and made my way to the porch I heard the low rumble of thunder in the distance.
The wooden door creaked open, and I was greeted with the distinct smells of dust and cedar. The cabin is simple: the front door enters into the kitchen, there is a small wood-burning stove, ice box, and a wooden table stands in the middle of the room. The kitchen leads into a small sitting room complete with wicker furniture, red area rug, and fireplace in the corner.
Pale yellow sunlight filled the room through dirt-stained windows.
To my surprise, my uncle left a good lot of supplies. Plenty of food, lanterns, and a hot plate for cooking. My grandmother mentioned that he had been sleeping here a lot. He and my aunt didn’t have the strongest marriage. I got to work, wandering around the cabin cleaning off all of the surfaces. As I made my way back towards the entrance, I noticed something different. A painting—a large painting, placed in front of a window near the door. I studied it for a few moments. It depicted an exact landscape rendition of the pond directly behind the actual window.
I was confused as to why it was blocking the window. The painting was a perfect fit, covering the entire window.
Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
Rain pounded the tin roof.
BOOOOOOMMMMM
A flash of lightning and bolt of thunder made me jump. The lightning illuminated the cabin, revealing something in the painting I hadn’t seen before. I went in for a closer look, and stared at the pond.
There was something there—a small, round, black smudge slightly sticking out of the water in an unnatural way. Different in color and shape from the other rocks depicted in the painting. I placed two fingers on the canvas.
It was still wet.
Confused, I studied at the dark liquid. I felt uneasy. I was curious to know who painted the mysterious picture, and why this particular out-of-place rock was still wet.
BOOOOOOMMMMM
Another strike of lightning made me jump back in fright.
I gathered myself, and looked back.
The black smudge was bigger and more defined. I shined my flashlight on the dark, wet spot. It was then I realized it was not a painting of a rock at all… it was a head—a human head, breaking the surface of the water. Dark wet hair covered its face.
I backed away. Phone in hand, I was tempted to call my grandmother and ask her who painted it, and why they felt the need to include a surfacing human head in the pond. I decided it was too late to bother her. I retreated to the sitting room, built a fire, and poured some bourbon in an attempt to get my mind off of the oddity. The image was disturbing, and the thunderstorm wasn’t making it much better. I covered the painting with a sheet before returning to the fire and booze.
Just as I began to nod off for the night, a violent knocking jolted me awake.
BANG BANG BANG BANG
I froze.
BANG BANG BANG BANG A voice screeched my name from the other side of the front door.
Eddieeeee
Eddieeeee
The voice was unnatural, scratchy, and broken. Like someone who hadn’t spoken in years.
Paralyzed by fear, I pulled out my phone. No service.
BANG BANG BANG
Letttt me innnn Eddddd-iieeeeee
I started to shake.
I grabbed the bottle of bourbon by the neck as a makeshift weapon, praying the old latch-lock would hold off whatever was on the other side.
I waited, unsure of what to do.
Then… it stopped. The voice, the knocking, all of it.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I sat on the floor until the pale morning sunlight crept into the cabin.
Cautiously, I opened the door, and crept outside. To my relief, I was alone.
I ran back to my grandmother’s house, and gave her a call. As we spoke, I contemplated telling her of the previous night’s events. I am not sure why, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was scare the sweet elderly woman. We spoke for a few more minutes.
I sat for an hour and reflected on the previous night. There couldn’t have been anyone there. Not this far out in the middle of nowhere. The storm was noisy. I must have imagined it, scaring myself like a child.
I made my way back to the cabin, after grabbing the old Russian rifle from my grandmother’s closet… just in case.
I spent the majority of the day cleaning the floors, sifting through my uncles useless junk. I kept the painting covered with the white sheet. The sun set and the rain started again. I lit a few lanterns and sat down to dinner. I looked back at the sheet. Near the center was a small, dark, dot. I got up to investigate. Wet paint was beginning to seep through. I concluded that there must be a hole in the window causing a leak and making the paint run. Without hesitation, I took the painting down. It weighed a ton.
Once on the floor, I looked at the window. I jumped back in fright, and nearly collapsed.
&
nbsp; Something was standing at the edge of the pond. With dirty, wet, dark hair covering its face. Torn and filthy clothes hung loosely from its skeletal frame, starting straight at me. I stepped out onto the old wooden porch, rifle in hand.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT!?” I yelled over the heavy rain pounding the tin roof.
It stepped forward.
“I WILL SHOOT, DON’T MOVE”
The creature continued.
“I SWEAR!”
It continued its slow and determined pace towards me.
CRACKKKKKKKKK
The old rifle rang out, and the bullet soared through its torso.
Unaffected, it continued forward, just a few yards in front of me.
Tears streaming down my face, I worked the bolt and loaded my next round.
CRACKKKKKK
The bullet soared right though its head. As if it was made of air. The creature remained unharmed as the bullet splashed in the pond behind it. I sat, defeated, knowing now there was nothing I could do. Pleading with this hideous nightmare to leave me, attempting to cope with my remaining sanity.
It walked straight past me.
The smell of rot and damp moss filled my nose as it passed.
It entered in the living room of the cabin, leaving black, thick, oily foot prints in its wake. The creature and stood on the rug. Dripping black water into the fabric.
Head down, it stared intently at the rug, for what seemed like an eternity. After a few moments, I attempted to speak and it looked right at me.
I gasped as I stared at a grisly, haunting apparition of my deceased older sibling.
My sister's cold white eyes stared straight into mine, with a look of recognition and fear.
Then... she vanished, and I lost consciousness.
I woke up on the floor the following morning. The first light of dawn filled the room. Within an instant, I remembered the terrifying events of the prior evening. I rushed over to the rug. Still damp and dark in the spot where she had stood. The pungent, rotten smell lingered in the room.
I pulled back the rug. Directly below the dark spot were brand new floorboards, crooked and loose. I grabbed a crow bar and uprooted loose flooring, revealing a makeshift storage space dug into the earth. Inside was a small black duffel bag. A bag which contents changed everything. After rummaging through the bag I realized it belonged to my uncle. I ran back to my car and drove to the nearest police station.
A detective and I sat and discussed the contents of his duffel: numerous pictures of my sister, a lock of her hair, his incriminating diary of twisted entries, expressing his love for his own niece; and finally, brake lines and hoses. Lines and hoses that belonged to her car.
Lines and hoses that explain the police report of my sisters accident five years ago. Stating:
“Victim’s vehicle contained excessively corroded brake lines, failure to properly brake likely the cause of the accident.”
The evidence put him in prison for life.
As for the paining, it currently hangs in my home. No wet spots or human heads. A beautiful painting created by my sister, just a few months before her death.
Rain
It was like any other morning. I sat down on my couch while my coffee brewed in kitchen. I turned on the TV and propped my feet up on the table. My phone buzzed. I grabbed it, started at the screen, and froze.
I had a new voicemail from my wife. This didn’t make any sense. She had been presumed dead for over a year.
After ten minutes of trying to comprehend the situation, I played it.
“Hey it’s me! It’s so beautiful up here! I just got settled in. I cannot wait until you see the cabin. Love you!”
I played it again. My head was spinning, and my stomach turned.
Last year, my wife and I planned to spend a romantic weekend in the mountains. I had something come up at work, so I told her to go ahead without me, and I would meet her the next day. She ran into a bad storm on the way. The police told me they found her car in the river the next morning. She never made it to the cabin, and her body was never recovered.
This didn’t make any sense. Why was I receiving the messages now? And her message—it sounded like she had in fact made it to our cabin that day.
My phone chimed again, and another message came through.
“I hope everything is okay. Why aren’t you answering my calls? It’s been storming non-stop here. Oh, by the way, I think the roof is leaking. There was a puddle on the kitchen floor. But… it’s weird—there's no water on the second floor above it. I don’t really understand that. Oh well, that’s your job! I miss you. I’ll talk to you later, answer my calls next time!”
My whole world felt like it was crashing down. I jumped to my feet and began pacing around my living room. The voice was unmistakably hers. Was it possible to receive messages over a year later? I had the phone company deactivate her number after her passing. I tried to call her.
Nothing.
My phone chimed again. Tears welled up in my eyes. I hadn’t heard her voice in so long.
“Seriously why are you not calling me back!? I’m starting to get worried. My phone says it has a good signal. I tried to drive into town today but the bridge is flooded. I don’t think these storms are ever going to stop! Also, I’m starting to get scared… I think it’s just because I’m by myself—but a flash of lighting illuminated the outside, and it looked like a woman was standing at the window. I know there’s no one else out here, but it freaked me out. I think my eyes are playing tricks on me. I just wish you were here. PLEASE, PLEASE call me back.”
I played the message again, then tried her phone. No answer. I felt like I was going crazy. I considered telling a friend what was going on, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
With no particular plan, I loaded my car, and headed towards the cabin. I hadn’t been there since the accident. It was a four-hour drive. I would be able to get there right at sunset.
On my way, my phone chimed again. Another message.
“PLEASE tell me you are coming up! Why aren’t you answering!? I am officially freaking out. The bridge is still flooded, and I can’t get out of here. I tried the sheriff’s department but no one answered. The phone just kept ringing. Remember how I thought I saw a woman at the window last night? I went outside this morning and there were prints of bare feet leading up to the window. I followed them into the woods. They stopped at this huge rectangular hole, right in the middle of the ground. I’m really scared. I’m going back to the cabin and locking myself in.”
My heart and mind were racing. I was getting closer, and the sun was starting to go down. I accelerated my car and tore through the back roads. Dark rainclouds formed overhead. I looked at the clock. I still wasn’t making as good of time as I hoped. I was an hour out, and the sun had set. Large raindrops splashed against my windshield.
My phone chimed again.
I could hear a storm in the background. My wife’s voice was a mixture of sobs and whispers.
My stomach turned.
“She’s… here… in the hallway. The woman from the window. She’s just standing there, soaked in mud and water. I don’t know how did she get in? I’m in the bedroom, I can see her through the gap in the door. Oh my God, what do I do? She’s getting closer. The whole cabin smells like death. Please help me…. Please.”
The message ended there. My heart felt like it was going to explode. Nothing made any sense.
I came to the bridge. Although the rain stopped, the water was still too high—I pulled over and waded through the murky stream. The bridge was just a quarter mile from the cabin. I sprinted the rest of the way.
As the cabin came into view, uneasiness washed over me.
I burst through the front door and yelled my wife’s name, tears streaming down my face. The floor was covered in sporadic splotches of black water. The putrid smell of rotten flesh made me gag. I tried the lights—they weren't working. I clicked on my
flashlight and searched everywhere, screaming my wife’s name.
As I circled back to the front door, I noticed footprints leading out of cabin and onto the porch. I followed them from the front lawn all the way into the dense woods. The tracks were fresh in the soft mud. I continued to scream my wife’s name as I frantically searched.
I stopped. The prints had come to an abrupt end at the edge of a large, rectangular hole in the ground. It was a few feet away from what appeared to be a recently filled grave.
I trekked back to the cabin and fell to my knees, sobbing on the kitchen floor.
I checked my phone. No new messages. Frantically, I scrolled through my phone to play the voicemails I received this morning—they were gone.
I dropped my phone and pounded my fists into the hardwood floors. My world came crashing down. I was losing my mind. And as I looked up, a bolt of lightning flashed.
My grief turned to horror as my stare met the pitch black eyes of the woman at the window.
Tara A. Devlin
Children of the Forest
When you hear the forest talking, you should heed its call. I didn’t, and I paid the price for my ignorance.
I was hiking with my husband Chris when he suggested we go off the beaten track.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Nothing ventured, nothing gained!”
I rolled my eyes. “Only those who have never actually lost anything would say something so stupid.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”
“No, I’m calling what you said stupid. I’m calling you a moron.”
“Well, this moron wants to do a little exploring. What do you say?”
We went hiking often, at least once or twice a month. We went all over the country, but it was our first time at this particular mountain. The forest was deep, and the guide said that parts of it were impenetrable. Signs littered the track informing hikers that help would have trouble reaching them in time if people injure themselves, warning them not to leave the trail under any circumstances. That just made Chris even more determined.
