I live in a rural logging community. I was born here and Heaven willing, I’ll die here one day. Hopefully, not too soon. Every town or community has its industry. Ours is lumber and paper products. With a renewable resource management program, the replanted trees and forest comes back again and again. The town founders employ a sustainable business model which is both ecologically sound, and beneficial for the environment.
I explain all this historical information because it’s pertinent to the cautionary tale I’m about to reveal. There are logging trails all over the county and through the woods. Many go back to the era of horse-drawn carriages. Because the same sections of the mountains are harvested each new cycle, those same rugged paths are reused unto perpetuity. Of course the town has modern highway systems with paved roads and an interstate nearby, but those logging trails connect one side of the mountain to the other. Most people simply drive around the forest on the main highway, but occasionally it’s tempting to use a shortcut to save time. That is, if you have a 4WD which can handle it.
As a teenager, I made that journey with friends through the woods several times. Other than getting stuck in the deep ruts the timber trucks made, the isolation and ‘danger’ was fun. It was an adventure a number of kids experienced, back in the day. The trip over the mountain takes at least an hour, and if your vehicle broke down or got stuck, you were just screwed. Cell phones didn’t exist back then so you had to choose a direction and walk until you reached a phone. It would’ve been even worse if you were mid-way across. Luckily, that never happened to me.
One of the peculiar things about the logging road was a rustic building erected near the summit. There was no electricity, nor any reason anyone could think for why it would be built in such a desolate place. Legends swirled around the old, abandoned dwelling, but kids being kids, most of their creative theories were madeup nonsense offered to scare people. It was fun to invent creepy reasons for its existence and who might’ve lived in it, but no one seemed to have any concrete answers.
The half dozen times I drove past the spooky wooden shack as a teenage hellion, it appeared to be unused and empty. Frankly, it’s amazing none of us ever stopped to check it out. We always talked about doing that but never did. Usually we’d make plans to explore it on our return trip, and then decided to drive around the mountain instead, to get back home. Once was enough traversing over the rough, impassable terrain and frankly, none of us wanted to be stranded on top of the mountain. Certainly not after dark with that creepy wooden structure along the way.
Years later I’d grown up, started a family, and had mostly forgotten about the old lodge on the mountain. My kids longed for adventure on the weekends but I wasn’t about to traipse through the wilderness in the family SUV. All that went right out the window after I sweet-talked my wife into allowing me to buy a lifted pickup truck. It was clearly an overindulgent, midlife crisis, but she was relieved it wasn’t worse. I could’ve lobbied for a red Italian sports car instead. The ‘big rig’ was cheaper on insurance.
One gloomy Sunday afternoon I gathered the whole family and we drove toward the entrance of the old logging road. The kids were excited and almost bounced in the back seat. My wife rolled her eyes in bemused annoyance. She already regretted green-lighting the behemoth in which we rode. A bumpy journey across a rutty mountain trail, hewn by logging trucks wasn’t even on her imaginary radar. She would’ve driven around the forest a thousand times before even considering going over it, but here we were. As an individual, it was a total waste of time to her, but I think she saw it as a beneficial family excursion which held merit for that reason. The sum was greater than the individual parts.
Early on, I was surprised to see how many things hadn’t changed in the past twenty years. In some cases, sections of the logging trail were in better shape than in my youth. The kids seemed disappointed we weren’t bounding over creek beds and deep ravines. I myself was secretly relieved. Even though the new truck had all the mountaineering bells and whistles, it was still limited by the relative inexperience of the off-roading rookie behind the wheel. I didn’t want to strand my family up there in the dark. I’d never hear the end of it by ‘you know who’.
Even though it was mid-afternoon, the gloom and heavy cloud cover made it appear much later in the evening. When we did encounter rough areas, the kids actually cheered. It was like a roller coaster ride for them. My wife looked at me nervously as the truck jostled back and forth violently. Luckily we made it over each hurdle and logging rut with varying levels of success.
It was about this point when the lost memories of the old wooden dwelling came flooding back. I wondered if it still stood there in the forest. An old timer had once told me it was ‘some old church’, or unknown ‘house of worship’; but the very idea was preposterous. No one lived there, nor would anyone make the difficult trek to meet others on a weekly basis. It did look like an abandoned temple or lodge, but no religious iconography or signage was present. Apparently, if you knew what it was there for, you didn’t need to advertise or explain to others.
As we rounded the next corner, I saw the familiar form of the mysterious ‘church’ come into view. To my utter shock, the distinctive glow of candles shown through multiple unshuttered window openings! My mouth flopped open. My wife and kids were equally perplexed, but in their case it was because of the random placement of this unknown shack. They didn’t have the benefit of knowing I’d seen it a dozen times and never witnessed it occupied by anything but darkness. They were focused on the bizarreness of its forest isolation. I was disturbed it wasn’t empty.
Dozens of hooded souls sat facing what I could only assume, was an occult altar of some kind. Their dark robes completely hid their identities from our vantage point while we sped past it. From their secluded location, the partitioners of this hidden congregation were just as startled by our presence as we were of them. Several heads turned our direction at the distinctive sound of a revving 4WD blowing by. I floored the gas to put distance between us, but that just raised more concern and questions.
My wife picked up on my growing alarm and it permeated her whole demeanor. Even our kids noticed my erratic behavior but I was too busy trying to navigate the perilous ruts, too reassure them. We hadn’t done anything wrong. The mountain road was a public thoroughfare and we weren’t trespassing; but that hardly mattered if we broke down twenty miles from nowhere. There was no cell service and we were unprepared to defend ourselves from an unknown cult of secret forest dwellers. Unfair pre-judgement be damned, it didn’t appear they were a traditional sect of benevolent ‘believers’, and I was terrified they would follow us, to our very doom.
About a mile further down the trail, the real trouble started. My hopes of a safe escape from whatever secret shit we’d stumbled upon, immediately faded. Early darkness started to fall and my headlights revealed a dozen insurmountable logs lying across the roadway. The truck screeched to a halt just in time. We were completely blocked from moving forward, and away from them. I looked in vain for another way around the deliberate obstruction but even with my off-road capabilities, I couldn’t find anything. With that knowledge, I was forced to face an unpleasant truth. We had no choice but to go back the way we had come.
As much as we prayed they were still occupied in the middle of their arcane ceremonies, it was not to be. Our little unintended intrusion had ruffled some feathers. They were outside and holding candles, waiting on us. I would’ve blown past the accursed place in a cloud of dust, but what I assumed was the high priest and a half dozen highly-placed clerics stood directly in our path. I wasn’t prepared to run over anyone; for what could’ve only been a misunderstanding.
Instead, I warning my terrified crew to be prepared for ‘trouble’, and to lock their doors. The crimson-robbed leader walked around to my side window and intimated for me to roll it down. Obviously I was hesitant to do so. We were beyond vulnerable and their aggressive posture was that of ‘damage control’. They wouldn’t block our path if they intended to allow us to leave. I was fully aware of the grave danger we were in. My ordinarily meek wife urged me to floor the gas pedal and flatten them, road-warrior style. Much to her chagrin, I was still a little bit uncomfortable with running over human beings, robed or otherwise. Not the least of which, because doing so could cause the truck wheels and undercarriage to bog down on their mangled bodies. I’m no fool.
Against my better judgment, I cracked the glass a few inches to hear what their hooded priest had to say. I could only see the shadow of his forehead and nose beyond the robe. By that time the cult had surrounded our vehicle. I had the distinct feeling, he wanted to intimidate us for violating the sanctity of their secret meeting place. I only wanted to explain we had no idea the old wooden structure was even in use. As a matter of fact, I’d completely forgotten it’s existence until my family approached the immediate vicinity earlier. We absolutely didn’t want any trouble from them and hoped to convey that.
“Good evening to you, Sir. Our holy sect values our PRIVACY, as you might imagine. This sacred forest temple has been in service for many, many years. We don’t have any passers by, ordinarily. We aim to be left alone to worship our misunderstood Lord, as we see fit. We blocked the old logging passage across the mountain several years ago, to discourage interruptions or prying eyes.”
His words both confirmed my greatest fear and strangely reassured me. I felt like a peaceful resolution was going to be possible after all. His voice was deep and hypnotically charismatic. So much so, I almost lost my train of thought. I stammered something about wanting to show my family the old mountain trail in my new pickup, and how we were unaware their ‘congregation’ was in session. Then I added that we also didn’t realize the road ahead was impassable.
I reassured him with as much conviction as I could muster, that we meant no disrespect, and intended to leave them to their business. Afterward, a secretive discussion transpired between the robed ‘Pope’ and a few of his trusted ‘cardinals’. I couldn’t follow what was being said but I got the feeling our fates were being weighed by the cabal. My wife was as white as a ghost and the kids were deathly quiet, for the very first time in their young lives.
“A lovely family you have there.”; He remarked while glaring menacingly at them through the glass. May they forever remain in the warm arms of Satan’s loving embrace. Good evening to you all. I assume we won’t be seeing you again.”
I swallowed hard and nodded an enthusiastic affirmative to him. Simultaneously a shutter escaped our breathless lips. I rolled up my window in deep relief. He and the others stepped out of our way and we crept slowly by the robbed clan. My hands shook uncontrollably for at least ten minutes afterward, and I kept one eye peeled on the rear view mirror. I’m not sure what nightmarish scenario I expected to witness occur behind us, but I knew what glowering drama was building up across from me, in the passenger seat. I was careful not to glance over at her. I could imagine the furious scowl of my wife, and the ‘I told you so!’ expression it would convey.
Fortunately, we were both so relieved we had escaped our brush with evil, that she didn’t give me any more grief over buying the damn truck, or the perilous 4WD adventure. Take my hastily-learned advice, if there’s a safe way around any obstacle in your path, don’t try the risky route over it. That dilapidated, abandoned shack you encounter in the mountains might just be an active satanic cult valuing its privacy at all costs.