My Name is Susan

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window."

“Any story that begins with that is bound to be the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Marcel huffs, as he springs from his seat near the fire and stomps away toward the cottage.

“It’s okay, Melissa. Continue with your story,” Mr. Adams says. “I’ll check on him.”

Mr. Adams is our school guidance counsellor and supervisor on this trip. Four of us students had agreed, or I guess I should say our parents agreed, to have us partake in this weekend excursion with Mr. Adams in lieu of suspension from school. None of us were happy about it, though. It was bad enough that we all had to attend summer school, now we had to spend an entire weekend away with the guidance counsellor.

We are all what they call “troubled youth” and are each apparently in need of discipline and behaviour modification. For some reason, the adults seemed to think it was a good idea to send us out in the middle of nowhere with the school counsellor, and without our electronic devices, for three days to teach us how to respect others and learn to follow rules.

We have all been assigned tasks for which we are responsible such as cooking, cleaning dishes, sweeping and mopping, scrubbing the bathroom, collecting firewood, etc. The chores alternate daily so that by the end of the weekend, we will each have participated in everything.

Our days are spent hiking, swimming, kayaking and attending one-on-one counselling sessions with Mr. Adams. Our evenings are spent completing the day’s chores, playing board games, sitting around the fire telling stories and participating in group counselling. We are all encouraged to share our feelings with the group. It is believed, by Mr. Adams, that sharing will make us feel better about ourselves, and hopefully start us on the road to correcting our behaviour.

I, Melissa, am the least “troubled” of the bunch, my only crimes being occasional truancy and speaking out in class, so I have been assigned as Mr. Adams's assistant for the weekend. As such, I am the only one allowed to carry a cell phone, but am permitted to use it only in case of emergency.

Marcel is the most troubled; his issues being fighting, bullying, and stealing from other students. Personally, I think he’s a lost cause, but who am I to judge?

Jennifer and Ravi fall somewhere in between. I don’t even understand why Ravi is here, honestly. I know it’s because he got in a fight with Marcel, but that fight never would have happened if Marcel wasn’t constantly picking on him because of his accent. He’s such an ass!

Today is our third day here. We’ll be going home tomorrow. Although I wasn’t happy at first about having to take this trip, I have to admit that now I’m kind of enjoying it. It was tough in the beginning, being away from home and my friends, but now I wish we could stay longer.

The water in the lake is perfect swimming temperature, not like the too-warm, grungy community pool I usually swim in. It’s so clear, you can see the fish. It kind of freaked me out at first, but once I got used to it, it was fun. My friends back home will get a kick out of it when I tell them I was swimming with the fishes.

I’ve also never been in a kayak before this weekend. It’s so peaceful, just gently rowing along while listening to the birds sing. I think even Marcel enjoys kayaking. It seems the only time he isn’t completely miserable is when we’re on the lake.

Mr. Adams knows a lot about birds. He can tell them all apart just by the sound they make. It seems he knows a lot about everything, actually. I’ve gained a higher level of respect for him on this trip. While he encourages us to share pieces of our inner selves with him and each other, he also shows a willingness to share with us.

I was sad to learn that his wife died in a fire. We all noticed the scars on his hands and back the first time we went swimming, but wouldn’t dare ask what happened. He told us he tried to save his wife, but got burned pretty bad in the process. He also said he had multiple plastic surgeries to try to cover it up.

“Are you going to finish?” My thoughts are interrupted by Jennifer as I watch Mr. Adams follow Marcel to the cottage. Why does she always have to be so damn snarky?

“Yes, sorry,” I respond before continuing.

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The local police, having searched inside the old cabin and surrounding vicinity just two days prior, had moved on to another location. Thankfully, the state police had become involved.

“James Whitesmith, along with his wife, Angie, and daughter, Susan had been missing for a week when state police entered that cabin. What they found was a sight so horrific it would cause even the most seasoned officer to purge their stomach contents.

“The cabin was a mess. Smashed chairs lay at the base of the broken wood paneled walls, leaving a jumble of chips and sawdust amongst the years’ old layers of dust. Freshly painted blood splatter stained those same walls in all directions. Bloody clothing was strewn over the sparse furnishings and floors, and half-eaten food was splashed on the counters.

“In the centre of the room, partially covered by the upturned broken table, lay the body of Angela Whitesmith. Her throat had been cut so fiercely, the official cause of death was listed as decapitation. The two-year-old child, Susan, was found near the decrepit outhouse behind the cabin, covered in blankets and completely unharmed.

“James Whitesmith was nowhere to be seen. A trail of blood, determined to be his, led from the cabin to the edge of woods where it was lost. Police and local volunteers searched the area for an additional ten days to no avail. The lake was dragged for a body, but none was found. James had completely vanished. Or so they thought.

“Six months later, a body matching Mr. Whitesmith’s build was discovered by hikers in a forest approximately five miles north of the cabin. Though it was evident that the corpse had been set on fire, causing DNA degradation, there were sufficient markers for the coroner to reasonably identify the remains as those of James Whitesmith. His wedding ring was also found at the scene.

“Little Susan was orphaned. Her father had been an only child. Her mother had family out in California, but no one was willing to step up to take on the responsibility. She was named a ward of the state, went into the foster system for a while, and was adopted by her foster family a couple of years later."

“This is where it gets interesting,” I continue, before being interrupted by a phone call.

It’s Mr. Adams. He’s out on the deck behind the cottage with Marcel, and has instructed me to send Ravi out. Mr. Adams has had a talk with Marcel, who now wants to apologize to Ravi for bullying him and generally being an asshole. Ravi doesn’t want to go, since I just said the part about the story getting interesting. I assure him that he can hear the rest later and send him off to meet Mr. Adams and Marcel.

Jennifer and I are the only two left at the fire. She really gets on my nerves. She is one of those dumb pretty blonds who the boys flock to. Jennifer thinks she’s better than everyone else and loves to make other girls feel like they are beneath her. I’m not even sure she wants me to continue my story since she’s looked pretty bored so far. However, Mr. Adams told me to continue, so I will.

“As I was saying, this is where it gets interesting. Even though Susan was only two years old when the attack occurred, doctors wondered if she had some repressed memories that affected her behaviour growing up. Her adopted family moved her out of state and changed her name to try to distance her from the past trauma, but she was always a troubled child. She was defiant, disrespectful, didn’t want to go to school, and threw tantrums every night at bedtime.

“It’s said that she got a little better as she aged, but then something happened that brought it all right back to the surface. Something so unbelievable happened, that one would think that young girl’s life was scripted from a horror movie.

“When she was close to entering her teen years, her adoptive parents took her on a short vacation. They rented a beautiful refurbished cabin near an isolated lake, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. The parents thought it would be a great place for a family trip away from the city. When they didn’t return home as scheduled, the mother’s sister called police to report that the family was missing.

“When police arrived, the cabin was a mess. Smashed chairs lay at the base of the broken wood paneled walls, leaving a jumble of chips and sawdust. Freshly painted blood splatter stained those same walls in all directions. Bloody clothing was strewn over the furnishings and floors, and half-eaten food on broken dishes was shattered on the counters.

“In the dining area, near the upturned broken table, lay the bodies of the adoptive parents. Their throats had been cut so fiercely, that the official cause of death was listed as decapitation. The now twelve-year-old girl was sitting in the far corner, wrapped in blankets. Mindlessly rocking back and forth while hugging her knees, she repeated the same words over and over.

‘My name is Susan. I am my father’s daughter. My name is Susan. I am my father’s daughter.’

I notice that for the first time since I started telling my story, I finally have Jennifer’s attention. She’s leaning forward in my direction with widened eyes and her mouth hanging open. It almost makes me giggle.

“Do you want to know what’s even more amazing?” I continue. “That second incident happened exactly ten years to the day after the attack with her birth parents, and in the exact same location.

“Believe it or not, it’s true. When her adoptive parents rented that cabin, they had no idea that it was the same place. It only came to light after their deaths. The mother’s sister told the cops that there was no way they would have brought her back there had they realized.”

“So what happened to Susan after that?” Jennifer squeals.

“She was sent to a psychiatric hospital for children. She was obviously suffering from post traumatic stress. They say she went weeks on end saying nothing but those same words she said at the cabin, and nobody could figure out why. She hadn’t been known by that name for eight years, but yet, she kept repeating

‘My name is Susan. I am my father’s daughter.’

“Some people believed that in the shock of witnessing her adoptive parents being slaughtered, she saw her father’s ghost and remembered the original attack. Others wondered if her father wasn’t really dead after all, and if he may have been the killer all along. I mean, even though the coroner was reasonably sure that the body found six months later was his, it wasn’t a definitive match.

“As for Susan, no public information on her was made available since, so I can’t say what happened. She may be still at the hospital or she may have been released. Nobody knows."

I am once again interrupted by a phone call from Mr. Adams. Since it’s getting late, he tells us it’s time to put the chairs away, douse the fire and come into the cottage. Jennifer wants to hear more of my story first, but Mr. Adams is insistent. He says we can finish it inside so everyone can know the ending. We complete the chores as instructed and head back to the cottage.

Jennifer is unusually chatty on the short walk back. I think she must have really enjoyed my story, and I am starting to feel kind of sorry for her, kind of but not really.

As we climb the front steps and reach the open door she notices the blood splatters on the wall.

She attempts to turn back but crashes into me, causing her to fall forward and trip over the upturned broken table. As she lands on the floor next to the decapitated bodies of Marcel and Ravi, Jennifer lets out a blood curdling scream; a scream that will be heard only by the night owls and various critters who call this isolated piece of nowhere home.

Jennifer, covered in the blood of her school mates, struggles to her feet and makes a run for the door. I block her path and smilingly ask “Don’t you want to hear the ending?”

“Melissa” she pleads, upon realizing I have no intention of letting her pass. Hearing that name from her snarky mouth reminds of the day she chastised me for calling her Jen. “Don’t call me that,” she barked. “Only my friends get to call me Jen.”

“Melissa!” she screams the second time, begging me to let her pass.

“Don’t call me Melissa!” I scream back at her.

“My name is Susan. I am my father’s daughter.”

Those would be the last words Jennifer would ever hear as I slide the knife across her throat, cutting her from ear to ear.

I drop the knife, smile at Mr. Adams, and move in for a hug. I don’t mind getting my clothes messy, as I know that sticky red liquid soaked through his shirt isn’t the only blood we share.

The cottage in the woods is abandoned by my father and me; but this night, a candle burns in the window, a candle strategically placed to set the whole place ablaze with the slightest summer breeze.