The floor showed no evidence of any footprints or dirt having been tracked inside. He did see quite a few rodent droppings in the corners—and one live mouse scurried across the wooden bed frame leaning against the wall. Hey, little fellow, it wasn’t you that broke into my place, was it?
Relieved that nothing inside the cabin was amiss, Dean unloaded the car. Settling in, he lit a fire in the pot-bellied stove for warmth and took a seat at the table. Why would someone break-in and not steal anything? What had they hoped to find—a treasure of some sort?
Dean had never associated with any of the locals besides the elderly clerks at the store way down the road. Even then, it had been only small talk. He always paid in cash for the supplies he bought there but was careful to never show bills larger than a twenty. He had no need to draw attention by flashing around a lot of cash. The break-in simply didn’t make sense.
Having used the last of the wood on the fire, Dean headed out to see if what he had cut last visit was still there. Hesitating at the door, he aimed the flashlight where the steel hasp and padlock had been. The wood was splintered, as if the two had been ripped out of the frame. Someone strong must have been desperate to get in. But why?
Reaching the woodpile, the light shining from the lanterns inside showed it still piled high. After a couple of trips with split logs, he grunted as he climbed back on the porch. Father Time and sitting on his butt in the office is having an effect on me. Time to get back to the gym. Dean swayed with the weight, almost losing his balance, and falling back. Steadying himself, he took a couple of steps toward the front door. Ahead of him, leaves were rustling.
Damn, I left my pistol on the table! Rushing inside, Dean dropped the wood by the stove and grabbed his weapon. Holding the cold steel in his hand gave him renewed bravery.
Grabbing his flashlight, Dean inched his way out of the door, shining the light in the direction he had heard movement. Brightness lit up the forest for over fifty yards, but only his old outhouse stood alone in the weeds. Taking his time approaching it, the sound of dried leaves being stirred about broke the silence. Throwing open the door, he jumped back as a raccoon hissed an angry warning and ran out.
“You little bastard,” a smile crossing his face as the tension eased. “You've got the whole woods to crap in. Stay out of my outhouse.” Glancing inside, Dean saw an open roll of tissue being used to soften a bed of leaves on the floor. Shaking his head, he returned to the cabin.
Dean leaned against the heavy door and slid the thick wooden bar into its metal brackets on each side. That should keep visitors out for tonight. He had purchased the open bar lock after being awakened by the sounds of a curious bear one morning. Not wanting to have a houseguest, he'd shopped around and installed the lock on his next visit. It wasn't a guarantee against a bear getting in, but strong enough to provide plenty of warning if one tried.
Though late, Dean spent the next hour cleaning up. A can of soup warmed atop the stove supplied his evening meal. Exhausted, he set up the bed frame, blew up the air mattress, and settled down for the evening. Several times in the night, Dean’s sleep was bothered by strange noises. Too tired to care, he quickly went back to sleep. As long as they’re out there and I’m in here, I don’t care what’s roaming around.
Dean awoke with the sun blinding him. Climbing out of his sleeping bag, he gazed out the window. Before him was the reason he bought the place—pure beauty. This was the wilderness—towering trees and thick brush, all heavy with dew, sparkling with the sun’s rays shining down from the heavens. It was amazing.
Standing still and barely breathing, Dean admired his view. He was lucky to be here at this moment surrounded by nature’s beauty instead of six lanes of metal monsters all vying for positions as they raced upon cement highways, seeing who could cut off the other person first. The drive the night before, the suspense of the open door and ripped off lock, and even the noises in the night had all been worth it -- a small price to pay for paradise.
A chill swept through him. Of course, the fire burned itself out overnight. Time to get it going again.
Using a bottle of water to prime the pump, he filled up an old coffee pot and set it atop the stove. Waiting for the coffee to brew, he relaxed a few minutes. It wasn’t long before Dean was swigging down fresh brewed coffee and attacking a package of cinnamon rolls. Stuffed, he sat back with a smoke and gave the inside a quick inspection. In the light of day, it was obvious that his efforts the previous night had only scratched the surface. There was still much that needed to be done. Too many spider webs in the rafters. I need to get up there and clean them out before I get bit. Wait a minute … what's that?
High above the door, lightly scratched into a rafter, were the words, “Help Me.”
A shiver ran through Dean's body, shaking the ash off the end of his cigarette and onto the table. Pulling his chair under the rafter, he stepped up and stretched to get a better look. The letters had been scratched into the board multiple times. Whoever had done the deed hadn't used a knife, rather something much duller. The thickness of each line was seemingly etched with a dull pencil, yet, there were no telltale lead markings. Could something have clawed the letters into the rafters? If so, what kind of creature could write these dire words? A sharp rapping caught him off guard and nearly sent him tumbling. Who in the world could that be? I've never had a visitor here.
Hopping down, he started to the door, but stopped and holstered his pistol in his jean pocket. There were too many weird things taking place and being prepared for the next would be a good idea. Again, the rapping sounded.
“Okay, okay,” he shouted, lifting the bar from the brackets at the door. “Have some patience.”
Standing there was an old woman. Dirty, toothless, and wrinkled, the decades of struggling to survive were evident. Her eyes, beady black and full of fire, burnt deep into Dean's soul, seeking to char any resistance before it had a chance to prepare for battle. The rags, she had draped loosely over her frail body, would have been tossed out by most and replaced years before. Yet, on her, they seemed fitting.
“You got no business here,” a cracking voice screeched so powerfully it silenced the birds and insects. “This here is private land, has been for years. Don't need no one tryin' to change it.”
Dean, somewhat taken back by the verbal assault, did his best to respond as politely as possible. “Ma'am, I bought this property five years ago. I'm sorry we haven't met before. My name is Dean, Dean McKenna. Who might you be?”
“I be who I am … and that’s none of your business,” the old woman shot back. “Iffin' you know what's good for you, you'll get out. Don't want to end up like that last city fellow, do you? He found out he didn't belong here. You'd be smart to do the same.”
“Ma'am, I only come up here a few weeks a year. I don't kill any animals, and I don't plan on changing a thing. I only want a few weeks to get out of the city and find some peace and quiet in the deep woods. Now, since you don't seem to want to be friends, I suggest you leave. You're on private property.”
Dean had to give it to the old woman, she was not afraid to let her thoughts be known. He wondered if she had been involved in the break-in. She didn’t have the strength to pull off the hasp and lock, but she might have known someone who could. There was something about her that wasn’t normal … almost evil in nature.
“I'm tellin' you, get out of here. Others thought me the fool and now they wished they'd listened. Ain't safe here. Leave while you’re able.” Turning away, she inched off the porch and down the steps. Walking by his sports car, she spit tobacco juice on the hood and cackled the rest of the way to the dirt road.
The nerve of that bitch! Hurrying to pump some water into his soup pan at the sink, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and rushed to the car. I can't believe her nerve, spitting on a hundred-thousand-dollar car.
Having washed the hood clean, Dean returned to the cabin and poured himself another cup of coffee. Staring at the rafter, he sat perplexed o
ver its message, as well as the one from the old woman.
Where does she come off threatening me? I tried to be nice, but she would have none of it. And, why does this place matter to her, anyway? Besides, what can she do to me? One thing for sure, I can't leave the door open when I do my nature walks. I've got to find that hasp and padlock and put them back up.
After a few minutes of searching, the glint of metal in the weeds off the porch’s side provided the hasp. Both sides—still held together with the padlock—had been bent into a “V” from the strength of the force that had removed it. The only screw remaining in the hasp was also bent into a ninety-degree angle. With no scratches on the metal, confirmation of two things took place. One was that no tool had been used. The second eliminated any chance of the culprit being the old woman.
He attached the hasp with some extra screws and began cleaning the spider webs from the rafters inside. Before long, the place wasn’t spotless, but was livable for the week ahead. Dean hoped it would at least it reduce his chance of running into a surprise visit of two-legged or eight-legged creatures.
Time to stop with this stuff and clear my head. I’ve got to get out of here and do what I came to do. Can’t keep Mother Nature waiting.
Stuffing some canned meat, crackers, and bottled water into his backpack, he holstered his pistol and headed out the door. After padlocking the door, he grabbed an old walking stick and took to an old path he had traveled several times.
Entering the woods, the endless beauty of his surroundings demanded his full attention. Nature had done her job well. Walking among the majestic trees that seemed to stretch up into the clouds, the sights of the forest became abundant. Stopping to watch gray squirrels running along the branches and chattering as they played their meaningless games, Dean couldn’t hold back his laughter. His eyes feasted on the multi-colored wildflowers that added contrast to the various shades of green leaves and played host to an array of insects. Birds burst out from bushes and soared to the branches above, providing him with a plethora of sounds and colors.
Cresting a hill, Dean stopped, taking in the picturesque scene ahead. Truly, it was one of the most heavenly sights he'd ever set his eyes upon. A lush, green meadow, several acres wide, rippled in the wind as various wildflowers danced in their own magical rhythm. A sparkling, freshwater brook, its clear waters rushing through the large blocks of stone along its banks, sparkled in the rays of the noonday sun. A small herd of deer, maybe eight or nine, roamed the far side of the meadow by the forest’s edge.
The one time I don't bring my camera and I run across this. I'm just gonna soak it in and then head down to that stream. I bet it's ice cold. That would sure help my aching feet.
Sitting on a huge rock, Dean shed his boots and immersed his feet in the rushing water—yanking them back out with a yelp. Damn, water's cold as ice! I wasn't prepared for that at all. Let's do this a little slower.
Easing them back in, his days of playing football and the ice baths in the whirlpool after practice came to mind. They were torture, but his body always felt better afterward. Hoping for the same results, he fought to keep them submerged. Leaning back, he tried to soak up some sun and snacked on a few crackers. Summer was a couple of months away and the wind had a dampness to it. Could be rain. Not the weather I wanted.
The mountain water was too cold. With his feet almost numb, he pulled them out and let the sun dry them. A wave of drowsiness hit him—time for a nap. If the rains came later, this might be his only chance to get a short sleep out in the open. Settling back in the tall weeds, he drifted off.
He awoke hours later, to the echoing of chants in the night. He had overslept. The trip back to the cabin was going to be difficult in the dark. The voice in the distance was that of a female--one that sounded familiar.
Stretching his head above the weeds, Dean spotted a fire at the end of the meadow. Circling the flames was the old woman, who had confronted him earlier. She seemed to be in a trance, chanting unfamiliar words with her arms raised to the sky.
Dean reached for where he had set his boots, but they were missing. So was his backpack. Doing his best to stay out of sight, he searched all the way to the brook. Nothing! Could that old woman have taken them? Naw, she wouldn't dare. Wait a minute, my hat's gone, too.
In the weeds to his right, a loud growling broke the rhythm of the old woman's voice. Weaponless, Dean jerked his head in the direction from where it had come, trying to make out some form in the moonlight. There was some movement back along the tree line, but it was too vague to distinguish. He needed his backpack and gun.
Okay, this isn't good. No shoes, no weapon, and an animal of some type to deal with. God, I don't want to, but I need confront that old woman and get my stuff back. I don't have many options right now.
His stocking feet provided little protection from the briers. Dean tried to silence his ‘ouches’, but a few slid out before he could stop them. Less than twenty feet separated the two. Five or six more good steps and he'd be right behind her. His eyes searched for any sign of his things but found nothing.
“So, you awaken,” she screeched out, turning to face him. “I was growing tired of waiting for you.”
“Where are my things? You have them somewhere. Where?”
“You have no need for them any longer,” she cackled through a toothless grin. “I warned you—leave—but you stayed. And, you not only stayed, you trespassed upon my land. You are stupid like the others. They learned this is not the place for your kind. But, if you want to stay, then you will stay--my way.”
“Look, you're not making any sense. Just give me my things and I'll be gone.”
“They are gone, gone to the fire. The spell has been cast. You have no need for things. Soon, you will be as the others in the forest--those who have their stories told to children but bring fear to the adults who dare to say their name.”
“Look, enough is enough,” he raised his voice as he advanced toward the woman. She threw back her head and laughed at him. Dean reached out, not knowing what he would do once he had her in his grip.
Stepping away, the old woman tripped backward over a log. Into the fire she fell, her laughter echoing from the flames engulfing her rags. “You will see. You will be like all the others.”
Damn it, I didn't want this to happen. All you had to do was to give me my things. Why'd you do it? Why?
Stumbling up the hill, he felt shock and guilt making each step heavier. A chorus of howls filled the night from the meadow he was leaving behind. It was as if a mourning was taking place by wild beasts.
He recognized nothing as he entered the forest. Each step grew more difficult. His muscles stiffened, and darting pains shot up from his feet. Pushing forward, the noise of rustling leaves surrounded him. Whatever stalked him made no attempt to quiet their presence. I’ve got to get to the cabin. It’s my only chance. Maybe the lock bar will keep them out.
Every move thrust more pain through his body. His clothes tightened and hindered his breathing until the seams burst, leaving the remains behind. Footsteps became thuds upon the forest floor and clattered upon pieces of rock. His head, catching in the low-lying limbs, jerked back nearly snapping his neck.
Arriving at the cabin, Dean yanked away the hasp and slammed open the door that had shrunk since he’d last passed through. Ducking, he managed to enter, amazed that he no longer needed a lantern to see. He scanned the inside, shocked that it no longer offered anything that interested him.
His fear departed as others entered behind him. Turning to face them, he saw a group, none less than eight feet tall--each with clawed paws for hands, the head of a bear, and the antlers of an elk rising from the top of their skull. Their barks and growls were now understandable.
“Welcome to our brotherhood,” the closest one spoke. “Welcome to the world of Wendigo. You angered the witch. This is your curse as it is ours. We are eternally damned to roam the wilderness. Welcome to your new home.”
Dean's hope of
escape faded. This was what she had spoken of, it was her revenge—his penalty for ignoring her warning. Glancing up, he took two steps forward and raised his hand to the rafter, now within easy reach. He traced the letters of the words “Help Me” with his claw. The size of the grooves was a perfect match. It was all clear to him, now, but too late to matter.
** * * *
“So, are you going to church this morning?” Blurry eyed from writing all night, I wasn’t in the mood for the typical Gabriela sarcasm. “After all, you do proclaim yourself to be a Christian.”
“I need to finish this chapter. I think God will excuse me for missing services this week.”
“What’s God going to do, write a note to your preacher to keep you from being sent to detention?”
“No, God’s not going to write me a note,” I replied, attempting to mimic her sarcastic tone. “I’m an adult. I can make choices. I’ll just be held accountable later.”
“Yeah, Saint Peter gets on his computer, checks out if you’ve been naughty or nice, and before you know it, a corporate decision has been made—forever—no appeal.”
“There are many that don’t even believe in God anymore. What if God doesn’t exist?”
“Yeah, the same folks that don’t believe in God believe in vampires, demons, and werewolves, and are spending their Sunday nights watching zombies stroll across their television screens,” she spouted out. “Humans believe in what they choose to believe and cast off the rest. Let me tell you, God’s pissed off. Church attendance is down and everyone’s killing everyone. There’s gonna be an overpopulation in Hell, soon.”
“Gabriela, is this leading up to another story?”
“Get ready to type …”
Heaven or Hell … Your Choice
In Christianity, God is the good guy and the Devil is the bad. Like any book, the Bible needs a hero and a villain, so those two play the roles. And, like most stories, the bad guy is usually is seeking vengeance for something the good guy did to him. In this case, the Devil was an angel that pissed God off and was sent to Hell as punishment.
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