Visiting the cabin on the lake was a bad idea. But I did it anyway.
To my surprise, my job granted me two months paid leave. Honestly, I think they wanted to rid themselves of me. The feeling was mutual. I was a disaster. My life was in shambles. Some solitude was in order.
Recently divorced, I moved into a cheap basement apartment and found solace there. My buddy Bob owned the place. He was able to sublet the unit for the duration of my trip, leaving me scot-free.
Which leads me to why I did what I did. Why I fled to the cabin by the lake, all alone, in the middle of nowhere. You see, sometime last year, around the time my ex told me to hit the road Jack (and don’t you come back no more), a story appeared in my mind’s eye: A thriller about a cheating wife who shacks up with a serial killer. The story came equipped with plot, characters, and a twisted finale (turns out, the wife was the killer).
I’ve had similar experiences in the past, but never so vivid. Writing a novel was my life’s ambition. My ex thought this was stupid. “Writing novels takes time,” she’d say. “And bills don’t pay themselves.”
Recently, I reached out to my estranged sister, who’d been keeping the cabin up-to-date, and asked if I could reside there for the summer. She was thrilled. “Expect visitors,” she texted, followed by a banquet of smiley faces.
The drive was daunting. I hadn’t been that far north in years. My ex hated the cabin, and refused to go. I didn’t blame her. It was a humble cabin, with no indoor plumbing or electricity. (It’s now equipped with a marine battery hooked up to an inverter, so I can charge my laptop and phone.)
The narrow roads twisted and forked, causing havoc on my crappy little Chevy. In fact, I blew a tire, and was forced to travel on a shotty spare most of the trip. Out here, you’d have better luck finding a serial killer than a service vehicle. But I digress.
I arrived at sundown.
The cabin seemed smaller, a mere seed in the backwash of the north. Next to it, dangling from a mighty oak, a tire swing dawdled. Suddenly, I was six-years-old again, with Daddy swinging me to the stars. He loved the cabin. He would fish off the dock, pulling in smallmouth bass, sun fish and the occasional walleye, and grill them up for dinner.
The cabin creaked as I crept about, the kerosene lamp providing its modest light. Once my phone and laptop were fully charged, I tried my best to unwind.
The lonesome call of coyotes crackled across the sky. Darkness blanketed the fingernail moon. I shrank into the couch. Arriving at nightfall was a bad idea. Especially this far north. I was getting spooked. The cabin felt peculiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Must be jitters. That said, the cabin rests on a small peninsula, surrounded by lake and trees. If anything bad were to happen, there was nowhere to hide.
Grandpa’s old shotgun was hanging proudly on the wall, next to a dusty bottle of booze. I took a swig, welcoming the warmth of the whiskey as it warmed my insides. I locked the front door (like this would help) and settled onto the old Chesterfield, bottle in hand. A chill crept in like a crook. I added kindling to the fireplace, and soon the cabin was toasty-warm.
The family portrait hanging next to the fireplace brought tears to my eyes. It was taken in this very spot. My parents were so young. My big sis was entering her gothic phase, I was a dorky kid with glasses and bad acne.
The whiskey went down like water. Soon, I was curled up on the couch, drifting to sleep, world at my fingertips.
Something jarred me awake. A noise. I leapt from the couch and combed the cabin. Nothing. I stumbled outside and looked around, using my phone as a flashlight. My eyes needed a moment to adjust. I used that time to relieve my bowels. The outhouse, built by my grandfather many moons ago, was a terrifying sight. But nature was calling, as they say.
As the rickety door swung open, a bat flew into my hair. Frantically, I spun in circles, and almost tumbled down the toilet. I gagged. Falling into a derelict dung-dungeon was deeply disturbing. Who would imagine such a thing? After a struggle, the bat flew away, but not before digging its claws deep into my scalp.
“You’ve got rabies,” a voice behind me stated, matter-of-factly.
I froze. My heart was a jackrabbit. Someone was here. But who? The nearest cottage was six miles away. Fists clenched, I turned around, ready to pounce.
The face in the tree snarled. Its eyes were circled knots; its licorice lips formed a furious frown. “I’d get that checked out if I was you.”
I screamed like a scared child. Then, after soiling myself, I charged into the cabin and changed my clothes, cursing the entire time. Coming here was a mistake. This was all-too-obvious. The time to leave was now.
I grabbed the gun and pointed it at the tree, daring it to speak. My trigger finger twitching eagerly, ready to blow the tree into oblivion. It winked. I dropped the gun, and rifled towards the car screaming bloody murder.
The car groaned. The spare tire was as flat as my love life. I wasn’t going anywhere. The face in the tree snickered as I sulked. Had it really spoken to me? I assured myself it did not. Trees don’t talk.
My mind was racing, my palms an ocean of sweat. Paranoia had long settled in. I needed to calm down, so I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then I texted my sis, asking her to deliver me a new tire. Pronto. I transferred her some cash.
Since I wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to make the best of this. Novels don’t write themselves, you know.
The tangerine sun spilled across the tops of trees; the morning fresh with dew. A brisk breeze belched across the cold lake. Somewhere above me a blue jay squawked. I tip-toed behind the cabin towards the deck, muttering nonsensically. Grandpa’s shotgun led the charge.
A squeaky voice startled me:
“Take a jump in the lake.”
I turned, gun extended, trembling profusely.
“Who’s there?” I called out, despising the fear in my voice.
The forest fluctuated. Trees rattled their leaves in unison.
“Stupid hooman,” the skinny birch scolded. Its deadpan eyes fixated on mine.
“I must be losing it,” I told myself, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I scurried back to the cabin, stubbing my toe on a jagged rock. The pain was egregious. This was not how I wanted to spend my summer.
I brewed some coffee, then fired up the laptop. My mind needed rest from the talking trees. A healthy distraction was in order. Time to work.
It was slow-going at first. The words came cautiously, like riding a bicycle with square tires. The coffee kept me perked. At some point, after reaching 1500 words, I paused for a stretch. It was high noon. Not bad. I was actually doing it. I was writing my very first novel.
Menacing clouds appeared through the one-and-only window. I sighed. Then, while taking tentative sips from my favorite mug, I reread my work. The story was compelling. Soon I would introduce the antagonist (the protagonist’s best friend), and the wife’s nefarious affairs would be exposed.
Four coffees later, nature called. With my head in a haze, I sauntered outside and found a bush.
The face in the tree greeted me.
“Your story sucks,” the tree barked.
The surrounding trees tittered, rattling their leaves in apparent approval. Each tree wore a treacherous face. I shuddered. Fear gripped me by the balls.
Had I entered an alternate dimension? Or had I simply lost my mind. Maybe both. Only time would tell.
“No one will ever read it,” a neighboring tree chimed. Its sardonic voice sent icy chills down my spine.
My bowels protested. This cabin sure could use indoor plumbing. No wonder my ex refused to come here. Reluctantly, and with every ounce of courage I could muster, I stepped inside the outhouse and did my business.
The trees teased me the entire time:
“Don’t fall in!”
“Or get any on ya!”
“Look out for them bats!”
I ignored their mocking as best as I could, which wasn’t easy. It’s not every day you get ridiculed by sinister-looking trees whilst defecating in a tumble-down outhouse. I checked my phone. No word from sis. My stomach groused it’s five-minute-warning: If I didn’t soon make lunch, there would be hell to pay.
I washed up, then fetched the barbecue from the shed. I cringed. Unlike the cabin, the shed bore no resemblance to its former self. Typically, it would store canoes, paddle boats and life jackets, plus a plethora of power tools. Not anymore. Lining the walls were hefty boxes stuffed with peculiar items that one would expect at a séance, or an outlandish Halloween party. The box of baby corpses was vomit-inducing; the jet-black Ouija board leaning loftily against a witch’s cauldron made my skin crawl. I shook my head in disbelief. What the hell has my sis been up to?
I couldn’t leave the shed soon enough. The door slammed behind me on my way out. Wearily, I set about chopping vegetables, then tossed them along with some hot dogs onto the grill. Just then, something touched my foot, scaring me stupid: A chipmunk. After nearly having a heart attack, I tossed it some bread, to which it devoured.
‘Don’t feed the wildlife,” a medium-sized maple scorned.
The surrounding trees concurred.
“Stupid hooman.”
“They’re all the same.”
My mind was imploding, when a booming voice belted across the lake:
“STOP TEASING!”
The forest switched off.
High as an ivory tower, the mighty oak brooded. Its knotted eyes burning into mine.
“Don’t mind them,” it bellowed. “When you reach two-hundred-years-old, you’ll be as cranky as a crab apple tree. Worse, perhaps.”
I coughed. “Um, they’re real?”
The oak chuckled. “Of course. Everything here is alive. Thanks to your sister. We owe this all to her.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. A million responses swirled inside my mind, each more devastating than the last. There was no way any of this was real. Before I could catch my thoughts, the smell of burning meat stole my attention. My food was aflame.
Frantically, I dropped the charred remains of my lunch onto a plate, and sulked. My wiener rolled away. The squirrel wasted no time stealing it from under me. Nothing but snickers from the surrounding trees. This was insane. Trees don’t talk, I reminded myself. This isn’t real.
Thunder crashed in the distance. The sky turned a menacing gray.
“Looks like rain,” the oak warned.
“Well duh,” its neighbors heckled.
I escaped to the deck, tripping over my own two feet in the process, and fell face-first in a puddle of mud, spilling the food. I sighed. This was an all-time low. I was coming unhinged. Maybe I should check myself into a hospital. Surely, there’s medication for this. I picked myself up and searched for my phone. Oh, how I wished my sister would respond. Whenever I called her, it went directly to her inbox, which was full.
The view from the deck was stunning. The lake loomed large under the thick of the forest. I retrieved my laptop and went to work, doing my darnedest to ignore the madness that surrounded me (there are no talking trees; there are no talking trees…). After a shaky start, the words danced from my fingertips, filling the screen with story. I was four thousand words deep when I stopped suddenly. Raindrops fell like bombs. I scuttled inside, found the whiskey, and continued writing until my fingers could no longer perform their function.
Finally, as the storm let up, I scooted outside to pee.
“You should never have come here,” the face in the tree told me. “Hoomans don’t belong here.”
My world went red. Something inside me snapped. With fiery rage, I charged the tree, and was immediately scooped up by the seat of my pants.
“What the…”
My feet flew to the top of the tree.
“Put me down!”
Blood rushed to my brain. Vertigo unfriended me. My body dangled dangerously, flapping like a fish. I tried to free myself, but it was no use. I was snagged, trapped within its arm-like branches.
“Hey Pete,” the lowly tree laughed. “I caught me a biggun’!”
“I don’t like hoomans,” Pete replied. “They’re not to be trusted.”
“Should I keep ‘im, or toss him aside?”
“KEEP ‘IM!” the forest consented in unison.
“Let me down!” I shouted in vain, swaying like a marionette.
The trees rattled their leaves.
“Hang ‘im up for the night. He’ll be dead by morning.”
“Or he’ll wish he was!”
Their chatter was cantankerous.
“PUT HIM DOWN,” the mighty oak roared.
“Or what?”
The forest gasped.
“Or you’ll be sorry.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” my captor replied.
Proving this, it pummeled me, thrashing my bruised body with blunt branches, until I was beaten to a pulp.
My cries for mercy were in vain. I said a prayer, then started drifting in and out of consciousness.
The warm blood trickling down my face snapped me awake. Adrenalin to the rescue. I started my retaliation. Using the pointed end of a branch as a spear, I stabbed the tree repeatedly, my voice filling the forest with seething rage.
“Hey, watch it pal.” The tree lifted me as high as the sky, and started shaking me. My phone fell from my pocket, smashing into a million pieces.
I grimaced. This was not how I imagined my death would be.
“RELEASE THE HOOMAN!”
The forest fell silent.
Tears streamed down my face. I prepared for death.
Without warning, the tree let me go. I hit every branch on the way down. Then I passed out cold. My pretzel-like body lay in ruins, shivering on the cold, wet grass.
Something was poking me.
“Jack,” a woman’s voice whispered. “Jack. Wake up.”
My sister.
“Jack,” my sister repeated, more firmly.
My eyes snapped open. The sunlight was blinding.
I reach out an arm, regretting it immediately. The pain was instantaneous. She helped me up as best she could. I barely recognized her. Her face was gaunt. Her cardigan hung loosely over her brittle bones, like loose skin.
“Tammy!” I cried. “The tree tried to kill me.”
I regretted saying this, knowing how crazy it sounded, but couldn’t help it. I was disheveled and confused. Tammy ignored me. Instead, she helped me to the lake and washed away the blood. The trees kept to themselves, leaving me wondering if they ever spoke at all.
Did a tree really try to kill me? Was this all a bad dream? My eyes went searching for faces, but found none. Just trees.
After an hour of listening to my outrageous claims, Tammy indulged me with secrets. Apparently, her group of Wiccans stumbled upon a life-bringing spell. One that could forever change the landscape of our world. They used this cabin to test it out. It worked. The forest came alive. They reveled at the possibilities.
She decided not to tell me this ahead of time. Why am I not surprised?
Fortunately, she brought a spare tire, and soon my car was packed and ready to roll. Before we left, I lit a fire. As far as I’m concerned, the cabin – and all that surrounds it – can burn in hell.
I spent the summer residing in her basement, working tirelessly on my novel. It’s nearly finished. The writing is coming along swimmingly. In fact, just this morning, another story arrived, fully-formed, name and all: The Cabin Trip That Nearly Killed Me.