Growing up, my life in Brennan county was pretty unremarkable. The sun would rise over the jagged forests of pine trees, its sunlight glistening against the flowing water of the creek that ran along the edge. Then its light would travel along the open countryside and illuminate the small but humble town I grew up in. During the days when I was off from school, I would spend these beautiful sunny days learning woodcraft from my father. At night, the sun would dip below the horizon; bright rays of sun peeking through the sharp edges of Brennan’s forest.
Beautiful and peaceful…at least most of the time. The town I grew up in was only two thousand people at most and everyone looked out for each other. You know that saying, “it takes a village to raise a child”? Brennan was like that. I grew up amongst children I rarely had fights with, teachers that cared about my learning, and townsfolk that showed only the utmost kindness to myself and my father. At first I thought this was because of my father’s profession, but gradually I realized that everyone was just nice.
You see, my father was the town’s woodsmith. He made a business sourcing wood from Brennan’s vast forest of pine trees and then carved this wood into bed frames, cabinets, pitchfork poles, desks, and chairs. Really my father carved just about everything and anything that anyone in the town needed. We were highly respected because of this; everyone revered my father. When walking into town to purchase groceries, the town baker would yell out a garbled “‘Morning Al!” out of his kitchen window, the saliva dribbling from his mouth and down his chin. My father would smile and say “Good Morning!” and I would smile and wave back. Mothers clutching their children close would smile at my father while crossing the street, and my father would call out an “‘Evening ma’am” as he passed them. The local shoesmith with only one foot knew me by name and would ask me about school, homework, my whittling projects, anything. Everyone knew us, and we knew them.
My own interests reflected that of my father’s. I was a self-proclaimed woodcarver at the age of 17, though really just a whittler at that point. I would carve animals like bears or deer out of blocks of wood for fun. My father introduced me to this beautiful craft when I was very young and I loved it from the beginning. Growing up, I was taught how to prepare wood and carve it to my desires. I was shown how to chop a tree a certain way so that it fell in the direction I wanted it to. Then, I was shown how to strip the bark from the wood. After that, I worked with my father using a whole manner of different machines in his work shed to create all kinds of utensils and furniture. My passion for wood carving grew and grew, and I was certain that at the young age of 17 I would become a woodcarver like my beloved father.
Until the day he died.
Brennan had seen some of its worst weather in ages. It had almost seemed like God knew my father was missing, and shed his tears in a torrential downpour that destroyed trees and flooded businesses. My poor father had gone out into town one day to hear about a commission from Dr. McCormick. Something about an add-on to his office desk. When it got late into the evening, I fell asleep curious at what woodwork we would be getting done for the doctor the next day. I woke up the next morning however, panicked as I realized my father had never returned. Everything was exactly as it was before he had left, like he had never returned that night. The rain poured down in sheets as I scavenged the town looking for him. When I got a hold of Dr. McCormick at his office that day, he said that my father had gone into the forest that night to examine if the trees he wanted to use would hold up during the storm. Hearing this and fearing the worst, I hurriedly drove to the forest’s edge and decided to look for him on foot. He wasn’t there.
It was later that night after I had given a statement to the sheriff’s office that I went down into the basement to grab some fries from our deep freezer. I had no one to call, as my father was my only family that I knew of. Outside of him, I could only rely on the townspeople that had raised me to find him. During my descent however, I felt a pause in the air…if that makes sense. It’s hard to describe, but it felt like everything just went still. I reached up to pull the cord connected to the singular lightbulb in the basement, and dim light flooded the basement.
There, crumpled on the cold concrete floor was the distorted body of my father.
Everything that happened after feels almost like a dream. I think the shock of the situation had set in at that moment and even days after the discovery I still felt numb. I remember flashes of what happened though, like running up the basement stairs, the sounds of panting and my breath fogging up the air, seeing the rain pouring outside as I headed to the door, and the puddles of pooled water thrumming along the edges of the sidewalk. I remember speaking to the sheriff, and I remember the closeness and softness of a blanket, and I think I remember some tears.
I’m sorry, all of this is really difficult for me to talk about.
In the end, the sheriff and his team ruled it as a ‘suicide’. Bullshit. I saw the way his limbs were dislocated and folded into themselves, no way was that a suicide. For the first time in my life I thought this sheriff, our friend, was a complete fucking idiot. Yeah sure there was no bruising or blood, but there is no freaking way someone could do that to their own body. And my father? Seriously? He was one of the happiest men I knew. He loved everyone and everyone loved him…which now begs the question, if it wasn’t a suicide, who could have done this?
The days leading up to my poor father’s funeral were strange. I had received very few phone calls from people expressing their condolences, and going out into the town, no one really tried speaking to me. As I walked down the street to grab some milk and eggs from our farmer’s market, people would look at me but with apprehension. I had inferred at the time that perhaps everyone wasn’t sure how to approach me in my grief. Some people offered me a kind smile, but most would catch my gaze and look away. Interestingly enough however, there were maybe one or two hundred people in attendance at my father’s funeral. Gloomy faces lurking around the edges of the hall, some daring to sit at a pew with their heads down. No one really made contact with me, and I figured that everyone had felt the grief too strongly from the loss of my father. I remember looking at his beautiful mahogany casket, and his body was “re-arranged” beautifully…like he had never had his limbs broken and bent the way they were in that basement. I said my goodbye to him, knelt down and kissed his forehead, and then went to leave.
Before I left however, a tall man in a dark gray suit walked into the funeral hall. He spotted me immediately, and apparently knew me by name. This man turned out to be a lawyer in charge of my father’s estate, which I had no idea he had. A very strange encounter to be sure, but the man was totally harmless. He said that he would be sending me a copy of my father’s will, but essentially my father had left everything to me. I wasn’t surprised, but a small part of me in the back of my head was saddened to realize that my father was right; we really had only each other. No other family to speak of. Before I could think about this any further, the lawyer handed me a crisp white envelope with “URGENT” and “Alexander Caldwell” written messily on the front. I thanked the lawyer, who gave me his contact information and condolences, then headed home for some privacy.
It wasn’t until later that evening that I decided to open the envelope and see what was inside. Its fragile paper split open easily with my letter opener, and I reached inside to pull out a letter written on notebook paper. I let out a puff of air and tried to strengthen any mental fortitude I had before reading my father’s final words,
“Dear Alex,
I hope beyond belief that you are doing well. I just want to begin by saying how much I love you. You are my only family left, and you are the greatest gift your mother could have given me. Alex, you are the most courageous, intelligent, and passionate boy I know, and I love you so dearly.
And I am also sorry. I have left you with the skills but not the knowledge you need to carry on our family tradition. Alex, you may not believe me, but the woodcarving I taught you growing up can be used for other purposes. I don’t think I have long left, so I need you to accept what I am about to tell you. Listen to my instructions, and then LEAVE TOWN IMMEDIATELY.
Our family is centuries old. Most are, but ours is special. We come from a long line of woodcarvers. But the figures, totems, furniture, whatever we carve isn’t normal. Alex I need you to read this carefully and do as I say.
The things we carve can take different shapes. You know this - it’s the underlying principle of woodcarving. With our family though, the image we create in the wood creates a strong unbreakable bond with the likeness it was shaped after. What is done to the wood will also be done to the model. It’s hard to explain, so I will show you.
Now go into my work shed, I have laid everything out for you to see. You will probably have a hard time accepting what you’re seeing, but I really want you to believe me Alex. I understand if you would hate me for all that I’ve done, but now I just want you to be safe. Head into the work shed, and then pack your stuff and leave town. If you are reading this letter, I am already gone - hopefully not from what I think will happen. In any case, you need to leave.
Please remember that I love you with all of my heart. I know you’ll grow into a capable young man. Take care of yourself buddy.
-Dad
Alden Caldwell”
Looking down at the hastily scribbled letters I felt my eyes widen towards the end. Realizing I was breathing heavier and heavier towards the end, I closed my mouth. I then gently placed the letter on the kitchen table and stared out the window and at the workshed just outside, the sun sitting low on the horizon and threatening to plunge me into its darkness within the half hour. Slowly, I stood up and pushed in my chair, and headed outside towards the workshed.
Too many thoughts were swimming in my head; questions of what exactly is going on and how my father knew he would die soon. I was certain he was murdered, and now I was more positive of that fact than ever. I became hyper aware of the cold steel of the padlock constricting the workshed doors, the chipped red paint along the edges of the doorframe, and the slow creak of the door as it opened. I froze stiffly as I peered inside.
Behold, my father’s life’s work. Dark and dingy now without my father’s presence. The floors are dirty, dusty, mucky, a disgusting wood floor barely illuminated by the setting sun. The dark walnut walls made the shed look cavernous and hungry. The Heavy saws and other machinery atop counters now looked intimidating, and the tools strung up on the wall looked primitive and unusable.
But there, in the center of it all, was my father’s horrific masterpiece.
Dolls, or mannequins rather, were placed sitting and standing near the back wall. They looked almost alive, like they were inviting me into this profane workshed. Men and women, young and old, some I recognized, some I had a hard time placing. Some missing limbs like a hand or a foot, some with disfigured mouths or eyes or a throat. Lifelike, life-sized, and placed in such a way as to say, “look at what I have done. Aren’t they so pretty?”
I stood there in the dark workshed, not even bothering to turn on the light. The sun had already begun to set, but even in the dark I could see their tortured faces and distorted bodies. My knees shook and I gazed in awe at my father’s creations. Saliva pooled in my mouth. I could hear the faint wailing of a cicada. My eyes began to dry out from not blinking.
And then, I heard the faint sounds of my friends. The smallest whiff of smoke. I loved my father so…so much. I turned around and glared at the once happy home of my upbringing, and felt myself swallow the buildup of saliva in my mouth. My father gave me such a beautiful gift.
They could try, but I’ll take them with me.