Nickname

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Not for the first time, the town’s teenagers had left a tiny flame to show their friends that they weren’t afraid of no ghosts. Margaret was not impressed. To her, each one was a beacon of stupidity. Will they ever learn? Of course not.

Margaret headed toward the cabin to put out the candle. The last thing anyone needed was a forest fire because of some idiot teenager abandoning an open flame. No one ever stuck around to blow it out. They just needed a story to tell so they could show up to school the next Monday, proud as a damn peacock, feathers on display. That isn’t how the story really goes though, is it?

As she made her way toward the cabin over damp leaves and fallen tree trunks, Margaret tittered to herself. That is not how the story goes.

If any of these kids knew the whole story, they would mind their own business. The story they’ve all heard, that gets passed around at campfires, is much more tame. Long ago on a dark and stormy night, or something like that, there was an old man alone in his cabin. He placed a candle in his window every night to guide his wife home. He waited and waited, years passed, yada yada, but his wife never came, and now he haunts the cabin. If someone goes and lights the candle precisely at midnight, or on Halloween, or something, Margaret couldn’t recall the most recent adaptation, they would see the ghost of the man who thought his wife had finally made it home.

Margaret didn’t understand how they could fall for it. Where was his wife? How would a candle in a window guide her home? It didn’t even make sense! And yet, and yet.

The real story was much more interesting as far as Margaret was concerned.

Centuries ago there was a man, but he wasn’t so old. The cabin wasn’t his home, it was his prison. He had not been a good man. In fact, he would have hanged for the death of his wife if his family hadn’t had the money to pay his way free. Well, he never was locked up, but he certainly wasn’t free. He was no longer welcome at his family’s home, in the town shops or churches. Bad men had bad ends.

He managed just fine for a while. Without shops, he learned to live off the forest. Without churches, well, he had never had much use for churches anyway, had he? When he needed something he couldn’t manage on his own, he would place a candle in his window. After a few days, he would wake in the morning to a bundle left for him with the very basics. It was all his father was willing to spare him.

Margaret heard voices in the cabin. That was surprising. By the time she got there, the kids were almost always long gone. It had been years since anyone had stuck around long enough for her to come across them. Maybe decades. It had been so long, and time passes so strangely. Margaret couldn’t remember. She kept moving.

The man’s family hated him. They had always hated him. The man had always been a burden. Always causing trouble at school until they expelled him, abusing his tutors after that. He played pranks on the staff and broke every rule his father set, despite the consequences. And the consequences were harsh.

Once he discovered the pleasures of the village girls, he could not be satiated. Inevitably, one of his companions fell pregnant, and they wed. He was twice the burden after that. Then the daughter, whom they called Daisy for short, was born. The man’s family had hoped that the new baby would soften him and warm his wife. They were disappointed on both counts.

Parenthood did not suit the pair. Nor did marriage. The family held out little hope for Daisy’s future.

Margaret closed in on the cabin. She could hear the nervous giggling, the tapping of beer cans on wine cooler bottles. She could just barely see a figure inside, past the candle she had come to snuff.

The little girl seemed happy enough, which was a surprise and a blessing. Her grandparents were well aware that her father was neither gentle nor peaceful, and that there was no comfort to come from her mother. Daisy was only six when her mother was murdered. Her father was well and truly done with married life, and the town considered it a blessing that he hadn’t had the opportunity to turn the kitchen knife on his poor daughter, though Daisy knew he never would have.

With her mother dead and father sent away, Daisy was relegated to her grandparents’ home. The situation suited her fine, at least for the time being. After all, her grandparent’s had always been far more kind and affectionate than her own parents. She could even see her father’s window through the trees, although she was forbidden to venture in that direction of course. There were strict rules in this house, and unlike her father, Daisy was wise enough to heed them. The girl made no trouble. She had her plans to get back to her father. He was her father, after all.

Tap-tap-tap, Margaret knocked lightly on the door. Startled, one of them screamed. Margaret could imagine their pimply little faces turning a ghostly shade of white. She grinned. They wanted a spooky story? She had one of those.

The teenagers didn’t come to open the door, too busy pissing themselves, Margaret assumed. She opened it herself. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” she told them, taking a step in and closing the door behind her. Margaret let loose a little chuckle, almost no sound at all, and asked, “You like ghost stories, right? That’s why you’re here? Let me tell you a ghost story.”

Margaret told them about the man, his wife, and Daisy. They listened to her in complete, frozen silence. None of them moved an inch, but from fear or fascination Margaret could not determine. They must have been breathing, but you couldn’t tell by looking at them. Just as it should be. Margaret loved this story, and she told it well.

Daisy played the obedient granddaughter well. She did as she was told, stayed out of the way, and was always in bed on time. Who would think twice about a little girl that never stepped out of line? No one, and Daisy knew it. Finally, the night had come. She went to bed right on time. Hugs and kisses all around, soft steps up the stairs to her room. Once the door latched behind her, she was free until well after dawn the next morning.

Daisy peeked out her window to make sure it was still lit. Sure enough, the candle in the window of the cabin was burning bright. All she had to do was follow it through the dark. She knew her father would be waiting for her.

When the house was finally quiet, Daisy made her way down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the servants’ door. She crept across the grounds, careful not to wake anyone, but sped up once she was away from the house. It wasn’t far to her father.

Daisy burst through the cabin door at last, and her father stood tall and solid in front of her, no surprise in his expression at all. He’d known she would come. She ran to him, arms outstretched. The knife she had grabbed as she escaped through the kitchen was held out before her, and mere moments later she had dealt with her cruel and violent coward of a father the same as she had dealt with her cold, unloving mother.

Margaret paused and waited until the teenagers started to squirm before she finally continued, “That is why there was a candle left in that window. It was a call for aid turned beacon of fate. Just so you have your story straight.”

The want-to-be-ghost-hunters waited, but Margaret kept silent for a few moments more before her favorite part. What’s a ghost story without a little drama? She took a step closer to them and calmly said, “One thing I’ve always been curious about, though, is why ‘Daisy’ is a nickname for Margaret.”