by Tobias Wade
What stuck out the most was the ghost stories Uncle Howard would tell.
That evening John and I went out for drinks and I asked him what his favorite campfire story Howard told us was.
“Gee, bro... I don't know. He told us a lot of crazy things,” he said with a laugh. I prodded him for a moment longer and finally he gave in and said, “That one about the bear.”
I sat there and drank my own whiskey, remembering the story quite well.
Uncle Howard had had a way of making the monsters extra vivid in his stories and none of them were more frightening than the entity that John recalled.
According to our uncle, the creature was about as large as a seven-foot tall man with massive claws that could tear a person into twelve pieces all at once.
Papa Bear is what he called it.
Apparently despite being so fearsomely large Papa Bear was actually not all that dangerous or so Howard reassured us.
“He's a protector of these woods, keeps the good in and the bad out. That's why you boys are safe here, Papa Bear is watching out for us,” he said.
Apparently Papa Bear decided who was and wasn't welcome in the woods and eliminated any threats to keep the forest secure and magical. Though I knew that somehow John and I were spared, I recalled every detail of what happened to its victims.
Those who trespassed were not simply killed. He made sure to tell us that the victims became slaves to the abomination, tasked to clean the forest that they had defiled. I knew even as a young boy Uncle Howard was trying to make sure we kept nature clean, but still; it scared the shit out of me.
Especially at night when the wind would whistle through the old cabin and it would make everything sound so loud, like a groaning noise or a wailing. I remember vividly hiding under the covers one night when the sounds went on for hours, I didn't even get up to go to the bathroom and instead peed on myself just to stay safe.
“Who do you think will get the cabin?” John asked me. I had to admit I really didn't know, considering that my uncle and aunt had divorced quite some time ago.
“It seems a shame to just let it sit out there,” I said.
Later that same week I spoke with his second ex-wife Denise on the phone. (Our aunt, Rena, died around the time I went to college.)
Denise admitted she didn't really have any idea about the last will and testament or if it even included anything about the cabin, but promised she would look into it.
That Saturday my dad and I went to hear the reading of the will. A few of our other relatives I hadn't seen in a while were there. I even saw Howard's estranged son Walker show up.
“Wasn't he in prison?” my dad whispered to me when he walked in.
“You're the cop, not me,”I said back as Walker sat down a few rows ahead of us.
“You know what, I think I remember now; it was just a misdemeanor on illegal possession but they always thought he might have been involved in the Cooper case,” my dad whispered back.
If you have lived around this area long enough, then you would know what my dad was talking about. For those of you who don't, about six years back a family went missing on the north stretch of the interstate near the Stateline.
The investigation into their disappearance revealed that they had been planning a fishing trip for the family into the woods, husband and wife and two girls.
Shannon, the oldest girl, was the only body they ever found, around a year later.
Apparently she had somehow survived that long out in the woods and was trying desperately to reach civilization but ended up running into a meth lab.
The same meth lab that Walker had been busted for a few months after her body was found there.
I had never read the full report, but it struck me as odd that the timing of the two events was so close together.
A few moments after my dad made this comment the cabin was mentioned in the will, and to my shock and dismay it was Walker that had managed to get the property.
I followed him outside after the reading was finished and found him leaned against the building smoking a joint.
He gave me a lopsided smile. “Brian! It's been awhile,” he said as he offered me a smoke.
“I'm clean now, Walker. Pretty crazy about your dad, huh?” I told him. He nodded, not saying much. I knew that he had always been jealous of John and I.
Uncle Howard had always been much more of a father to us than him, and I was positive that had always rubbed him the wrong way.
“So whatcha need Brian, I know you didn't come out here to just chew cud with me,” he said.
“You going to the funeral tomorrow?” I asked.
“Gotta pay my respects to the old man,” Walker answered.
“I know it's probably an odd request... but I was hoping maybe I could handle the distribution of his remains...” I said.
“His ashes?” he asked with a nervous laugh.
“I was just thinking about his cabin out there and... and how much he loved it,” I explained as I tried not to tear up.
I knew Walker wouldn't understand. But I was surprised when he agreed to let me have the canister.
“You can fling ‘em all up and down the county for all I care,” he said as he tossed his burnt cig down.
I talked with John about my intentions to head to the cabin that next weekend and my brother suggested we make a camping trip out of it, a final way to say a final goodbye to Uncle Howard.
We drove up that Saturday morning in the late June heat. We took John’s pickup truck and I remember having to keep myself cool by using a wet rag and some ice because he didn't have AC.
By the time we had arrived I was sweating so badly I decided to head down to the creek for a swim.
“You ain't getting out of helping me get this shit inside,” my brother told me.
Even though we both felt like we were going to have a heat stroke, I helped him carry our luggage inside and set it down on the couch.
“It still looks like it's still in good condition,” John said.
I had to admit I was impressed with the cleanliness of the cabin and I wondered immediately how long it had been since Howard had been here.
“He really loved this place,” I realized.
We looked around at some of the hunting trophies that he had hanging on the wall, and I remembered Howard teaching me how to skin small birds to prepare them for the stuffing process.
“Remember that all things on this earth are created to serve men, boy. You don't want to hurt God's creation, and you want to respect life,” Howard told me.
I saw one of the geese I helped to preserve and reached up to touch the feathers. It was amazing how after all these years it still seemed in perfect condition.
The woods made everything feel even more inviting, like we were taking a trip back in time and experiencing everything for the first time.
We followed the western trail, listening to the gentle singing of the birds and looking at some of the old snares of Howard that were still set up.
Once the trail came to an end we relied on memory alone to reach the creek. The water looked as clear as it had when we were kids.
I didn't take a moment to hesitate and tossed my shoes off and let my feet relax on the right side of the stream.
John took off his shirt and jumped into the deeper portion of the creek, howling excitedly. It felt so good to be here. We stayed down at the creek for about an hour and then John suggested we do a little bit of hunting.
Back at the cabin, I walked down to the basement to find any of our uncle's guns.
The basement was in a bit more disrepair than upstairs, but I recalled that Howard kind of used it as a spare closet, storing all his junk there.
Near the back of the room I found a small locked cache where he kept all his rifles and then rummaged through the other drawers nearby for the key.
A gentle sound like a whisper seemed to slowly creep into the room and i
t made me pause in what I was doing. Then the noise grew louder.
It sounded like the noises we heard when we were younger.
A gentle muffleding wail.
I took the keys and grabbed a few guns, leaving the basement behind and feeling a little unsettled.
As we walked out toward the woods, I told John about it.
“We're barely here a few hours and you are already hearing things? Man I can't wait for tonight,” he joked.
I laughed it off as nerves or just my imagination.
We followed the other trail behind the cabin up toward the mountains. I had brought our uncle's ashes along, remembering that one of his favorite spots was along this path.
It was a scenic overlook of the forest itself and nearby lake, Uncle Howard usually wouldn't let us come up there as kids cause of the precipitous slopes. There was one time we did though. We were going up to bury a deer there which was unfit for eating, and Howard showed me a pit where other hunters also disposed of animal carcasses.
“This keeps the bears happy,” he explained.
I found the pit again after a little trial and error and decided this would be a perfect spot to release Howard's ashes.
I held a handkerchief over my mouth and opened the canister, watching as the wind carried the ashes away.
Then my attention was drawn toward the pit itself and I noticed something out of the ordinary. It took me a minute to realize what it was.
“Holy shit,” I shouted out as I took a few steps back from the ledge. John was there in a second and I wordlessly pointed down the slope to where the littered remains of a few bones were at, along with a human skull.
“Jesus,” John said.
He decided to climb down and examine the bones. A few minutes later he was back up on the slope with me, looking concerned.
“We should probably call dad. I can't tell for sure if that was an accident... or something much worse,” John explained.
Neither of us said anything as we returned to the cabin. I almost felt like we were being watched. But once we got there I decided I wasn't going to let it ruin the weekend.
I searched through Howard's freezer and found some thawed deer meat at the top to cook.
John was walking around the cabin trying to get reception on his phone and then finally admitted, “This is what I get for switching to T-Mobile.”
I checked mine and noted I had a few bars so I passed it to him, and he walked outside to make the call.
I walked to the back of the cabin where the propane stove was at and turned on the gas to get everything heated, and paused as I listened to the soft whistle of the ignition light coming on.
Beneath that noise I was certain I was hearing the same wails I heard earlier. And a repetitive thudding noise.
It made me feel very uncomfortable as I cooked and tried to ignore the sound.
When John came back in he told me dad would be there first thing in the morning to examine the body. The noises had stopped for the moment but I was becoming more convinced than ever that the cabin was actually haunted.
That evening, as the sun went down, John searched through the second story closets for blankets and we both agreed to sleep in the living room.
“If this place really is haunted, we'll know tonight won't we?” he said.
I stayed awake until almost one in the morning listening for anything. Then at last the noises returned. It sounded like gentle footsteps.
Then there were voices. I couldn't make out what they were saying but I instantly woke up John.
He switched on the lights in the living room and listened as well.
The noises were growing louder.
“What the hell...?” John said as he felt something under him. But neither of us could see anything on the floor. Then I felt it too, like a low vibration.
Nervously we moved to the second floor. The noises became more subdued and somehow we found a way to get back to sleep.
In the morning dad got there and we guided him to the ridge.
“Should we... tell him about the other thing?” I asked John as we trekked up the mountainside.
“Tell me what?” dad asked. He had always had excellent hearing.
“This is probably going to sound crazy... but Uncle Howard's place... it's got ghosts,” John answered.
Dad looked at us both skeptically but we insisted he come back to the cabin and see for himself.
We all headed inside and John and I tried our best to explain what we had heard.
“It felt like something was moving around under our feet,” John added.
Dad was trying to not roll his eyes. Then the noises returned, soft and subdued like before.
He pulled out his firearm and looked about muttering, “What sort of prank is this?”
“It's for real dad,” I said as we walked around the cabin listening to the strange moaning noises.
Dad made his way toward the stairs, walking carefully to the basement.
The thudding got louder as we looked around the basement. and then dad gestured for all of us to be quiet and still. I was too scared to move a muscle.
Then he walked toward Howard's old tool cabinet and started to push it aside.
I watched silently as he revealed a large wooden door hidden behind it with a metal lock. The noises were coming from the other side.
Dad pointed his weapon at the lock and shot it off without hesitation. and all of us stood there in fear as the door creaked open.
A thin, skeletal woman collapsed onto the floor in front of us. Dad rushed over to help her, quickly glancing at the bruises on her legs and arms, like she had been chained.
“Don't just stand there! Call 911!” dad shouted to us. John took out his phone immediately as I took a few steps toward the door.
There was a dark tunnel beyond that curved into the solid earth, and I found myself stepping forward to see what the darkness hid.
As it curved around I found myself standing directly under the living room in a wide open den, where more chains were latched to the ground as though meant for animals.
The place reeked of the smell of urine and feces.
I held my mouth closed as I looked across the room to see the decaying corpses of at least two other women and at last I understood.
John had followed me down there and then found himself running back up and vomiting.
I found a large cabinet on the west side of the dungeon filled with photographs.
I cannot begin to describe the things that Howard made them do while they were trapped down here.
The woman that dad rescued turned out to be the youngest of the Coopers that had gone missing six years ago.
She only lived for another two days due to bladder failure.
It's been almost eight months now since I went to the cabin.
I've tried not to think about the horrors I found there, but lately they've consumed my every thought.
And John... he handled it the worst. Once he realized the true depth of our uncle's depravity, all those times we spent summer there... giggling when we listened to the low wails that whispered their way through his cabin.
The guilt made him take his life.
I've returned to the cabin now, with one singular mission. I doused the entire first floor with gasoline and then activated the stove on a low setting.
I sat outside in the pickup truck and watched as it burned. It sounded like the cabin was screaming as it fell apart into shambles, like it was in pain.
But the pain I felt will always be greater.
The Treehouse
There are some stories that you can't get out of your head, no matter how hard you try. They are like the roots of a tree, working their way deep into your subconscious.
This is one of those stories.
It didn't start out this way of course, because most things never do. Like a young sapling it flourished until finally producing folia
ge. And then it becomes time to pluck the fruit.
The only way it can be harvested and release you from its unyielding vines is if you tell it and purge it from your soul. So that's exactly what I intend to do.
Before my husband Leon and I got married and had our daughter we used to take a lot of romantic weekend getaways in and around the four states area. We both lived in Idabel, Oklahoma back in 2012, so planning a trip to somewhere like Queen Wilhelmina wasn't all that hard.
After saving up our money for about four months though we decided to do something different, and head towards the rustic scenery of the Ozarks.
Leon insisted that the entire thing be planned by him because we hadn't gotten a chance to celebrate our one year of dating anniversary. And even though I felt like I could predict where he would take me, I let him have his fun.
We grew up as childhood sweethearts, and during high school developed a relationship. What really drew us together was our mutual love of camping.
He knew more than anything I dreamed to experience the great outdoors every day if I could.
So when he announced he had found isolated cabin for us to stay at I was ecstatic. And that excitement only increased when I realized the private lodge was designed like a tree house.
Valleyview Treetops got about three-and-a-half stars online; not bad for a place that apparently was only three years old. The pictures showed that it was a secluded park-like area with about eight or nine lodges available, and a few more under construction.
Ours, suite #11, had a majestic view of the expansive forest that covered most of the eastern horizon.
When we arrived I was pleased to learn Leon and I were pretty much the only guests booked for the next four days, so we would have the campsite to ourselves.
It reminded me of one of those tree houses you might see on the DIY channel, with an elaborate staircase rising from the ground for us to reach our private lodge.
While Leon was unpacking our bags I took a minute to walk around the spacious interior and open the blinds.
When I opened the window near the back of the cabin I was a bit surprised to see another treehouse a little deeper in the southeast ravine.
