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The Treasured Past.

A Vocal Media Short Story.

By Hannah Marie. Published 2 years ago 6 min read
1

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window and—”

“Wait a minute—“ Terri interrupts. “You're not going to set this thing on fire, are you? I have a thing about fires.”

“Would you shut up?” Loren lobs her pillow, then quickly retrieves it and stuffs the fluff under her elbows. She waves an arm towards their leader, at the same time waving away the Texas-sized mosquito. “It’s fine, Cate. Keep going. She’s trying to think too much and this retreat is to re-laaax. We’re ready for this now.” She gives Terri a pointed look, just as the campfire pops, lending significance to the term ghost story.

“Right. Give us your worst.” Terri bites her lip and turns to Cate, who oblivious, squats closer to the fire and blows out a charcoaled marshmallow.

As she chews I can imagine the ash in her mouth. “Mmmm, delicious!” Cate smacks, and plops back on the log, dubbed the seat of tales. “Now where were we?” She shuffles her boots in the New England leaves.

“The candle,” I pipe up. Despite my skepticism in ghost stories, Cate is widely known in the area for her tall tales and she can spin with the best of them, even those who have inhabited these woods for fifty years. It's a long weekend away, and nothing in the real world matters to us here. Plus, what is a fire for, if not to tell ghost stories and eat pounds of junk food? I grab a handful of cheddar chips and toss one in the air, straight into Terri's waiting mouth. She grins and we both munch, happily acting like kids, waiting for Cate to continue.

“It was amazing that night. Fog rolled in…” she begins. Like tonight, I think, noticing the low fog creeping in from the woods. "The porch of the cabin was angled just enough to catch a breeze, but nothing stirred until--"

A clatter of pans or something from the far side of the campground surprises me. "What was that?" I muse out loud. Loren shoots the same look that she had used on Terri earlier and I crane my head around, ignoring the silent scolding.

The view is blocked by some bushes, and Cate continues speaking like she didn't even hear it. She sure gets into the storytelling mode; not distracted by anything. I creep around the twenty yards or so separating me from our lunch area. Maybe we left something out and a critter got into them. Nothing. The table is empty and there isn't any telltale litter or animal scurring away. Music comes from somewhere over the brush. It must have been left on in our bunks. Terri can't go without her music, but she'll want to save the batteries for the long drive back to the "real world" tomorrow.

Well, no use interrupting the story. I won’t be missing anything, I consider. I slide open the cabin door, but stop short. This is wrong. The layout is completely different. Am I in the right cabin? Music wanders in through a horn-like object in the corner of the room. A large table promonades in the middle of the room. A bright glow illuminates paper hangings, obviously made by children, waving flag-like in the breeze from the open door. Hunched the middle is a woman with a long orange skirt, her bare feet showing. She grasps a long pole with a large paddle at one end, like that used for wood-burned pizza, and plops a steaming loaf in the center of the table, next to the giant bowl of fruit and some slices of what I assume is ham. Who cooks anymore?

“Um, sorry,” I stutter. I hook a thumb towards my back, trying to forage an explanation. “I...I must have gotten turned around. Thought this place was mine.”

The lady shakes her head. “Happens a lot. One hill looks pretty much like the next. There are some of my neighbors just about a half mile down the road if you’re looking for accommodations. They’re always taking in strays. And it looks like you’ve come a mighty long way.”

“I—" my brain tries to process what she's saying. "You live here? Do you help with the camp?"

"What camp? Oh, so sorry! Where are my manners? Come have a seat. I'm almost done with dinner and I'll let you eat before the young 'uns come and gobble everything!"

I sit down, curious to know more about her, living here in the midst of so much hustle and bustle. She places a plate in front of me and piles it with bread, meat, and some greens that I don't recognize. It must be something grown locally. Wow, they really go all out here! "So, tell me about your family." I expect to hear whether she is a widow or divorced, but can't think of a roundabout way to ask.

"Well, my youngest is out playing now. Look over there and you might be able to see him." I follow her finger that holds open the curtain of the front window and note with surprise that there is no screen. In the distance a little figure runs in wild circles, just beyond the tree line. Funny, the fog seems to have cleared and it has turned out to be a sunny day. Only it had just turned dusk when I left the campfire...before I can process this, the woman says, "It makes it difficult out here for him to find any friends. Or really any of us. But with my oldest out working, we manage. My husband...well, let's say that man is no longer with us. We just need to make it to winter and I'm looking into moving closer to town. Finding something to help my kids, especially." She signals toward the closed curtain.

"Excuse me, Mrs..." and I wait in expectation.

"Wilson. Annabelle. And it's just Miss."

"I'm Pran." Annabelle nods. "Well, I've got to get back to my group, but thank you for the wonderful food."

When I open the door, I expect to find the impending storm cleared up, but it hasn't. The fog is still there, as thick as it had been when I arrived. I glance behind me to see if Annabelle noticed, but she is not there. Neither is anything else.

Nothing at all is in the cabin except the empty table, a cold hearth, and a lone candle burning in the window. I shiver and slam the door, tripping over my own feet to get back to the warmth of our fire. After a few steps I hear Cate's voice, dramatically rising as she continues her ghost story.

Not even attempting stealth, I crunch into the firelight and slump on an empty log. Everyone stops talking and stares. "Cate!" I gasp. I am not even sure how to gather my thoughts. "Something's going on in these woods. I just...I saw..." I gulp. Better to get it over with. "What do you know about an Annabelle Wilson?" My clothes still smell like her baking bread. But the empty cabin haunts my mind.

"She started this camp." She turns to the rest of our group, using her storytelling voice over the embers of firelight. "It was said that she invited a few friends at first to join a camp, but her expertise was homemaking. Despite being one of the only females in the business, she, with the help of her two sons, got this place up and running in just a few years."

I gulp. "When?"

"It was back in 1921, I think," Cate squints at me. "Pran, you're looking a little sick. Is it the altitude? I told you to drink more water."

"What about that little cabin over there? Behind our bunks."

Cate's blank face says it all.

Loren pipes up. "What are you talking about? That's just an old graveyard. It's been there for years. Have you seen it?"

No. And yes.

Mystery
1

About the Creator

Hannah Marie.

Storytelling Through Art.

My goal is to show experiences in a meaningful way through short stories and hand-drawn sketches.

Find me on IG too! @Hannah_Marie._Artwork

—Hannah Marie.

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

Top insight

  1. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

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