I’ve always loved birds. Going on hikes, pointing them out to my family, they’ve always been such fun creatures. Every winter break, my family sends me to my Uncle Jack’s little cabin with my notebook so I can take a break from high school. They never let me keep my phone, and anytime anything comes up, I notify him immediately. Sounds like a terrible idea, right? I’ve been doing this for a few years now, and luckily, nothing bad has happened. Well, until this one.
For reference, my uncle is the strongest and smartest man you’ll ever meet. Retired soldier, at least three medals won for his courage, you know the type. If he was dropped in a rainforest for a week he’d survive by drinking python venom and spearing for piranhas. If you whipped out a phone in front of him, he would point out every little thing and ask about it. I love him to bits. We’re both a little estranged with our families, so he became like a second father to me.
He lives in a quaint little cabin in some Washington rainforest. There’s a single dirt road that you exit onto when you leave the highway, and after maybe an hour, you’ll arrive at his little wooden home. My aunt passed away a few years ago, which I think is why my mom always sends me to his house. And so she did.
As I played games on my phone in the backseat, my mom looked a little distressed as she drove through the dirt path. Apparently, my uncle had been “acting a little odd”, which she chalked up to old age. But she knew her brother well, and it was the first sign that things wouldn’t go how I’d hoped.
He was normal when we first arrived, and for a good few days things were just as they should’ve been. My uncle would enforce a curfew strictly at nine before pulling me out of my bed at six in the morning. I would watch birds on hikes and draw them in my notebook while my uncle told jokes about the marines. I’d heard them a thousand times before, of course, but just the sound of my uncle’s voice was pleasant.
It wasn’t until the fourth day of my weeklong trip that I noticed what my mom was talking about. He would mutter under his breath, stare at the sky at night when he thought I wasn’t looking. And for my uncle, silence was rare. His hearty laughter and confident demeanor were noticeably missing throughout the day. By the time the sun was setting, my uncle changed the curfew to six. There would be no leaving the house after the sun had set. Even though he was usually strict, he had never missed out on cooking s’mores while playing his banjo by the campfire. Not once.
That night, as I read my book under my flashlight, I glanced out the window only to see a pair of bright eyes staring right back at me. I knew it was wildlife, but my uncle’s behavior had made me a little edgy. The next day when I asked about it, he told me that it was a fox and that their eyes would shine an ominous red at night. It wasn’t for a few days until I remembered that foxes didn’t live in this area of Washington.
The next day, my uncle looked visibly nervous. He told me that he would be going hunting, and he wouldn’t be back until evening. There were cheese crackers in the pantry if I got hungry, he would be back soon, don’t go out too far until he gets back, the usual. At this point, I was extremely nervous, alone to watch over his cabin. After he left, I looked around a little. This feeling, this horrible unease that I was somehow being watched creeped into my soul.
This wasn’t a prank. The only pranks my uncle had ever done were filling my shoes with dirt and letting a spider loose in my bed sheets. I knew I was alone. But the feeling wouldn’t go away. After looking around for a bit, in the same spot where I had seen the eyes last night were tracks. Human tracks. Two bare footprints in the dirt.
My uncle didn’t come back that night.
I’ve only pulled three all nighters without sleep, and that was one of them. I stayed awake my whole night with my curtains drawn, too afraid to see what might be watching on the other side. I hid underneath my covers, the wind howling outside. I was comforted by the fact that if something was outside, it would be suffering in the twenty degree windy weather. I spent the whole day reading, too afraid to go out, my stomach slightly woozy from the diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with crackers. By nighttime, my uncle still hadn’t come back.
The next day, my mom would come to pick me up. But sadly, that isn’t all that happened. I remember exactly how the night went. At maybe ten at night, I heard a knock on the door. My uncle kept a key underneath the frayed welcome mat. He never knocked. His boisterous self wouldn’t let him knock on the door of his own house. Silently, I made my way to my bathroom, locking the door behind me, making sure that there weren’t any windows in it. I was clutching an aluminum bat that my uncle never used, for the vague hope that if someone, or something, got into the house, I could defend myself.
The knocking got more violent. Something was slamming on the door. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped. Then, I heard it again. This time, it was on the other side of the house. Glass shattering. A loud thud. My heart was pumping. I turned off the light in the bathroom as footsteps creaked on the floorboards outside. It walked right by my door, a shadow blocking the light from filtering in the bottom of the doorframe. I knew better than to make noise.
They hung around for a good few hours. My adrenaline wore out after a while, with just pure fear remaining. If only my uncle was there. Luckily, I had turned off the light in my room. There was nothing that signified I was in the house. But I still held my breath until they scampered back out the window. At least, that was what it sounded like. I didn’t take the risk of leaving. I slept in the bathtub that night.
The next morning, I woke up to my mom yelling and knocking on the door. Opening the bathroom door, the floor was covered in blood. A trail of sticky crimson, still damp on the wooden floor. I nearly threw up, running to the door. My mom stood in front of me, enraged at how I hadn’t responded. Where was Uncle Jack? Why did I sleep in so late? I just hugged her, sobbing. I didn’t know what happened. Or why. She pretty quickly realized that things weren’t normal. After taking a look inside the cabin, she called the local police.
I still remember the cold interrogation room. Where was I that night? What happened to my uncle? Whose blood was on the floor. I answered everything honestly, my eyes blurred with tears and my nose clumped with snot. It was horrible. I was dismissed as a suspect. I think they felt bad for me, crying my eyes out in front of them.
It’s been a year. After multiple searches, none of the local authorities could find my uncle. He was well and truly gone. His house got shut down. I spent this winter break at home, remembering what happened. I don’t think I’ll ever forget my Uncle Jack and his cabin in the woods. And I don’t think I’ll ever truly know what happened in that forest. Maybe it’s better that way. I don’t think I want to know what happened that night.