An Element of Truth

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

Emily scowled. These were her woods. She lived here to be away from people. Relied on seclusion to keep her sane. Craved total isolation as much as she craved breath. She needed it.

This wouldn’t do.

The little shack was known by many names to the locals—Haunted Hut, Creepy Cabin, and Emily’s personal favorite, Killer Cottage. She preferred that moniker because of the quaintness of the second word and the chilling impact of the first. Foolhardy teens often dared one another to spend the night in such legendary places, goading friends into the woods by taunting their cowardice. Over the years, false bravado had provoked some into accepting, and those who did were far more likely to cross the threshold of places deemed “haunted” or “creepy” than they were to visit a “killer” cabin. Only the bravest—or the stupidest—rose to the challenge when the legend referred to it in that way.

Emily didn’t appreciate bravery or stupidity. Didn’t appreciate people at all.

She appreciated solitude. Silence. Her self-imposed exile was the only way she found peace. The local legend had taken on a life of its own, causing even the brashest believers to stay away. And that’s how she preferred it.

If they knew what she knew, they’d prefer it that way, too. She was safe in the forest. No one else would be. She’d appointed herself protector of the innocent and ignorant who ventured in, as only she could guarantee their safety.

Unless they tempted fate, taunted the monster. Then she couldn’t.

August in Arkansas always brought oppressive heat and sickening humidity. A breeze seldom penetrated the thick brush and full leaf canopy of the forest, and when it did, it was void of the typical summer scents of smoky barbecue and freshly mowed grass. The gentlest draft carried a concentrated odor of fermenting fruit and rotting carcasses. Even when the wind was still, the fetor of death—plant and animal—permeated the woods. It hung in the close, heavy air so that every breath coated the tongue with the taste of it.

Yet that hadn’t deterred people from breaching her verdant sanctuary. Worse still, it hadn’t stopped someone from entering the dilapidated shack and burning a candle in the window, the light a beacon to the evil who haunted these woods.

Call it legend, call it superstition, call it folly… Emily knew better. Something unnatural, something unholy, lived among the wildlife. The cabin was the epicenter of the malevolence. And whoever was inside beckoned it.

•<•>•

Enter Killer Cabin, light a torch

See the Woodland Butcher on the porch

The floor will creak, then he will knock

A key will turn inside the lock

You’re trapped inside, you cannot hide

And that’s how all his victims died

Malia tried to stop the mantra playing on loop in her head, but it was pointless. Her friends—teammates she’d bonded with freshman year—had chanted it around the campfire, shrieking their versions of bloodcurdling death throes until she took the bait.

She could kick herself for it now, but she never backed away from a challenge. And they knew it. Which was how they’d convinced her to spend an hour in Killer Cabin, a half-hour hike from their campsite.

“You can’t last a minute,” Amy said.

“A minute?” Kim snorted. “She’ll never step inside.”

Lynn elbowed her. “Won’t even get to the porch.”

Heidi turned toward her. “I bet she screams louder than the Butcher’s victims.”

That brought more shrieks from her friends.

Heidi put another marshmallow on her stick then held it over the fire. “You know they say the woods are full of their ghosts, and their tortured howls can be heard every witching hour.”

Malie shrugged. “Sure. Can’t wait to hear one.”

“You scoff, but do you have any idea how many people have gone missing in these woods over the last fifty years?”

The fire cracked as a log shifted. The girls jumped before breaking into nervous giggles. Then the challenges started again. Each comment was more exaggerated than the last, and they didn’t stop. Not until Malia agreed to light a candle in the window of the shack and wait to see if the Butcher came.

Between the rumors and the chanting, she was actually looking forward to a quiet hour alone in a cabin.

The girls had made the hike with her. They said it was to keep her company, but she suspected it was more that they didn’t expect her to go through with it. She might not have, had she made the journey alone. The cabin stood at the edge of a cliff. Weathered and abused as it was, she feared the slightest breeze would send it plummeting over the bluff to dash into splinters at the craggy base of the ravine. And if the little shack couldn’t survive the fall, certainly no one inside would.

The girls had accompanied her the whole way, so she’d had no choice but to enter.

They’d promised to stay nearby, but the rustle of brush and cracking of twigs behind her as she’d stepped onto the porch of the ramshackle cottage told her they’d probably bailed the second she’d turned away from them.

Chickens.

Yet she was the one battling fear now, irrational as it was. There was no such thing as a haunted house, and if a killer was on the loose, the police would have issued warnings. She was perfectly safe. The legend of the Woodland Butcher and his Killer Cabin was just that—a legend. A scary story created around a campfire that took on a life of its own.

Still, knowing that didn’t stop a niggling feeling from tickling the flight-or-fight area of her brain. And she was leaning toward flight.

Enter Killer Cabin, light a torch…

Malia cringed at the undulating shadows cast on the wall by the candle she’d lit. To distract herself, she checked her phone. Again. Still no bars, so the pics she’d tried to text her friends hadn’t sent. Couldn’t upload to social media. Couldn’t live stream her experience.

Couldn’t even log on to a music app.

How was she going to spend another fifty-five minutes in this place with nothing to do and no one to talk to?

Her knee ached. Malia wasn’t sure if it was because of the long hike or the impending rain, but she wouldn’t mind some ibuprofen. Or something stronger. She patted her pockets. Of course she’d left her meds at the camp.

“Stupid ACL surgery. Stupid woodland weekend. I know it’s going to rain. Who goes camping without checking the forecast? My moronic friends, that’s who.” Her, too, though she hated to admit her mistake. She went with them without checking the weather. And why had she agreed to go traipsing through the woods when she was barely back on her feet? Some team-building exercise. The five of them were already inseparable. Could have gone to Vegas or a spa somewhere before school started. Instead, she was alone in a death trap.

She glanced at the candle. “I hope those morons can see the light in the window.”

Not that it really mattered. She had the photos she took as proof she’d been inside. But if her friends couldn’t see the light—and consequently her inside the cabin—they could accuse her of going in, getting the pics and video, then leaving again until the clock had run out.

An option that was growing exceedingly more appealing as the seconds slowly ticked away.

Years of dirt caked the window glass so that Malia wondered if the candle was even visible outside. A few panes had been cracked, and the grime had settled into the fissures, transforming them into black scratches by demonic claws.

A shiver crept up her spine. She rolled her eyes at herself and turned from the front of the cottage.

In the center of the room was a long, makeshift table. How someone had managed to get such a large, flat boulder inside invoked ancient mysteries similar to the erection of Stonehenge. No, it seemed the cabin had been built around it. Where the rough-hewn floor planks abutted the stone, stalks of dead weeds rose, standing sentinel like an army of undead soldiers protecting… what, exactly?

An altar?

That thought did nothing to quell her growing sense of unease. Nor did the suspiciously dark stain on the top of the slab, rivulets of crimson trailing down the sides of the rock like bloody tears.

The candle flickered from a gust of wind wafting through the cracked glass, the anemic orange glow on the walls casting dark shapes into the darker corners. Malia whirled to check the flame.

A shadow passed in front of the window.

See the Woodland Butcher on the porch…

She sucked in a sharp breath. Surely she’d imagined it. The scant crescent moon couldn't break through the gloom of the impending storm and had offered no illumination for her to find this rundown shack. Between the dark thunderclouds rolling in from the west and the glut of leaves in the trees overhead, she’d required her phone’s flashlight to navigate the forest in the stygian night.

Of course she’d imagined the figure outside. There was no way the firelight of a single candle flame could penetrate the filth on the glass to reveal something sinister—or not—beyond. Malia laughed at herself.

The haunting moan of a floorboard outside instantly sobered her.

The floor will creak…

She tried to concentrate on listening for an intruder, but her racing heartbeat drowned out all other noises but her rapid, shallow breaths.

A flash of lightning turned the window glass white, then a rumble of thunder shook the thin cabin walls. The first droplets of rain banged mercilessly on the roof.

Three bold knocks rose above the din.

Then he will knock…

Malia whirled in a full circle, a pirouette of desperation. There was no back door. No window she could crawl through. The ones in the rear of the cabin overlooked a steep, craggy drop-off. The ones in the front took her right to the intruder.

Not even a closet to hide in.

Sweat slicked her palms as her mouth dried. Swallowing was impossible, and she choked on the scream trying to bubble to the surface.

The doorknob rattled.

A key will turn inside the lock…

Her feet rooted, and she couldn’t scoot an inch from where she stood.

Another bolt of lightning brightened the sky as the door flew open, banging against the wall. A silhouette filled the doorway.

The Woodland Butcher.

A shriek made it past the blockage in Malia’s throat, only to be swallowed by the roar of thunder. Her legs gave out.

When the sky darkened, the figure on the porch came clearly into view.

Heidi stepped into the room, laughing. She snapped a series of photos with her phone. “Oh, man!” She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “You should see your face.”

“That wasn’t funny.” Malia rolled onto her backside and rubbed her knee, pain lancing through it where it had bashed the wooden floor.

“Yeah, it really was.”

“I thought you guys went back to camp.”

“The rest of them did. I didn’t want to leave you out here alone.”

Heidi was her closest friend of all her besties. It was nice of her to keep an eye on the cabin while Malia was inside, likely afraid. But trying to scare her wasn’t cool.

She probably didn’t think Malia would stay the whole time, anyway.

“You mean you didn’t believe I’d stay the full hour.”

Heidi shrugged.

“You only came in to get out of the rain.”

“And you only came in so we didn’t call you a chicken.”

“Whatever.” Malia reached up for assistance. After Heidi helped her stand, she gingerly put her foot down. Her knee buckled, and she almost fell again. “Great. I can’t walk. Happy?”

“I was. But you’re sucking all the fun out of this.”

“It’s my bad knee, idiot. The physical therapist only cleared me to play a week ago.”

“Sorry. Geez.”

“Can you go get me something to fashion into a brace. And a walking stick to take the weight off the joint?”

“What do I look like? Bear Grylls?”

“Well, I wouldn’t sign you up for his show, but you’re the best I’ve got.”

“One torn ACL, and you become a diva.”

“I’m hardly asking for a motorized wheelchair. I’m worried I messed it up again. It really hurts.”

“Can’t you just lean on me while we walk back?”

“You want to drag me the whole way to camp? It was a thirty-minute hike before I was injured. And now it’s pouring.”

“You’re high maintenance, Mal.”

“This was your fault.”

Heidi wavered in the doorway for a moment, scanning the room, then she flung her hands in the air. “Fine. I’ll be back as soon as I find you a cast and crutches.”

“Hilarious.” But her words fell on a closed door.

Malia looked around for a chair or stool. There was nothing but the stone slab, and she wasn’t about to touch that, so she lowered herself back to the floor. A few minutes later, the wind picked up, howling through the gaps in the cabin. Tree branches whipped in the storm, lashing the walls. With every clap of thunder, the glass rattled in the window frames.

She’d pitied herself for being stuck in the Killer Cabin, but now she felt like the lucky one among her friends. Even if Heidi had gone back to camp, all she’d have for protection was a flimsy tent.

Seconds rolled into minutes, which became an hour. Malia’s knee continued to swell and throb, and she closed her eyes against the pain. Her tennis scholarship was as good as gone if she’d done more than bruise the joint. Her earlier irrational fear of a rumor was replaced by a tangible fear for her future.

The constant drumming of rain on the roof beat a mesmerizing rhythm, and her eyelids grew heavy.

Somewhere in the haze between slumber and lucidity, a crash jolted her upright.

The Butcher.

Her scream sliced through the night before she realized it was just her friend returning, bursting through the door like the legendary madman.

But it wasn’t.

A slight, pale woman crossed the threshold, shoulder-length auburn hair dripping onto the floor. She darted across the room, then dropped to her knees. “Are you all right?”

Relief sluiced through her veins, warm and welcome, causing a maniacal laugh to burst from the pit of her queasy stomach. “I am, thank you. My overactive imagination…”

The woman helped her to her feet. “What’s your name?”

She leaned against the wall to take her weight off her leg. “Malia.” Hmm. Maybe she shouldn’t have given her real name, given she was trespassing.

“Do you have permission to be here?”

The best defense was to play dumb. “You mean, like, from my parents? I’m over eighteen. I’m a student at the university.”

“No, I mean permission from the owner.”

“Oh. Uh… no. I mean, I didn’t even know anyone owned this place. I thought it was abandoned.”

The woman’s concerned expression was hardening into a more severe one. “Abandoned places can still be someone’s property.”

“I suppose you’re right. But any shelter in a storm, right?”

Her eyes darkened. “We’re deep in the woods. I’m certain you didn’t stop in here because you got stranded on the road.”

“Well, no. But my friends—”

“Dared you to come.”

They had. And she’d fallen for it. Where were they, anyway? Heidi knew she was in pain and needed help.

“Let me guess. They told you to light a candle. Spend some time to see if the Woodland Butcher stopped by. And you had to prove to them that it’s just a legend. That you weren’t scared.”

Malia didn’t appreciate the woman’s tone, but she’d probably earned the attitude. Still, it grated on her nerves, and she just wanted to get back to her friends, sore knee or not. Offering an olive branch seemed the best way to make that happen quickly. “I suppose this happens to you all the time.”

The woman shook her head. “Not as often as you’d think. I keep an eye on this place, and no one’s come by in quite a while. Then I saw the light tonight. Untended candles can start forest fires, especially in the dry summer months.”

Malia lifted her chin. She was tempted to point out the monsoon raging outside but opted against it. “I’m not stupid. I would have blown out the candle before leaving.”

“I didn’t say you’re stupid. But careless people—especially frightened ones—can make mistakes. Deadly ones.”

The heat of annoyance coursing through her veins cooled as a trickle of fear washed through her. Malia shuffled backward a step. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“Mind telling me now?”

The woman continued to frown at her.

She inched toward the door. “You know… so I can thank you properly for checking on me in this storm.”

“Emily.” Her expression stayed stony, but her tone softened. “My name’s Emily.”

Malia started to relax. It had been a tense night, and she’d cycled through a myriad of emotions thanks to her useless friends, violent weather, reinjured knee, and overactive imagination. The only real threat she faced tonight was losing her scholarship, and she'd do well to remember that. “Well, thank you for checking on the candle, Emily. And for helping me up. I should get going. My friends will be wondering where I am.”

“I thought they knew where you are. Bullied you into coming.”

“I’m sure they’re hiding under a tree, hoping to stay dry.”

“That’s not very safe during a lightning storm.”

“What can I say? You know student athletes… not the brightest bulbs. That’s probably why they chose to go camping when the forecast predicted rain.” She gave a nervous laugh as she glanced at the door.

“And your leg? You can barely stand.”

“I’m sure I’ll walk it off on my way back.”

“I don’t feel comfortable sending you out in this weather.”

“You aren’t sending me away. I’m choosing to go.” Desperate might be a more appropriate word. “Besides, it’s just water.” Pelting rain, actually. Gale-force winds. Lightning. And an impossibly dark and labyrinthian forest. Malia limped toward the candle, each step excruciating. “Shall I blow it out, or should I assume you’ll be staying a while?”

Emily strode to the door. She leaned against it, hands splayed against the wood like she was holding Malia in. Or holding something—or someone—back. “You do know the woods aren’t safe, right?”

She forced a chuckle, but it came out more like a squeak. “You mean the Killer Cabin legend? The Woodland Butcher? It’s a campfire story someone concocted to scare drunk co-eds.”

“I’ve found some stories are based in truth.”

“Do you believe the legend?” Now Malia had to try not to laugh at the woman.

“The sing-songy rhyme about a sadistic madman?" Her lips lifted in a wry smile. "No. But I’ve lived here a long time. There’s an evil presence that can’t be denied.”

“How long, exactly?” Malia studied the woman closely for wrinkles or a crepe-like texture to her skin. It was impossible to tell how old she was. Emily’s complexion was flawless, taut and supple, though she was extraordinarily pale. Purple shadows saddened her eyes and the hollows under her sharp cheekbones. Shockingly dark irises reflected the orange candle flame, making the milky white of her scleras glow like unholy fire burned inside.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Malia took a deep breath. “I’m worried about my friends. I’m in here, safe and dry, and they know where I am. If they haven’t come seeking shelter, I need to see what’s wrong.”

“And you think you, alone and injured, will be able to rescue four helpless girls from the perils of the woods on a stormy night?”

“If there’s really something dangerous out there, like you said, I’m all they’ve got.”

“Let me come with you. You’re hurt, and you don’t know what might be waiting for you.”

“No. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Malia lumbered past her, burst onto the porch, then stumbled into the storm. Raindrops pelted her, head to toe, stinging her exposed flesh. The light of her phone barely illuminated her path, and she fell twice before reaching the tree line. Her toes squelched in the mud that had seeped into her shoes, and her knee screamed each time she put weight on it.

She tripped—again—over what she thought was a giant exposed root, but it rolled when her foot caught on it. A quick examination with her flashlight revealed it to be suitable for a walking stick. Malia snatched it from the ground. The rough bark bit into her fingers, but the pain paled in comparison to the agony in her leg. Twenty yards later, she found her rhythm and managed to increase her pace.

No animals were foolish enough to venture from their dens, yet she was certain she heard the occasional twig crack or bush rustle. Rain still fell under the dense leaf umbrella, but tree trunks blocked most of the wind. The noises behind her sounded larger than a bold fox or raccoon.

It was her fear playing tricks on her. No creature would venture out in this storm, so surely no person would.

No one except her. And her moronic friends.

And Emily.

And whatever was in the forest that Emily feared.

A chill tingled her scalp as cool raindrops trickled down her face.

She needed to get out of these woods.

As Malia hobbled down the dark path, she reviewed her conversation with Emily. Something bothered her about it, but she couldn’t pinpoint what. If someone was out here, and it wasn’t a madman, who—or what—was it? The woman had implied she’d been in the wilderness for quite a while, so she must know what lurked in the darkness. If she was really concerned for Malia’s safety, she should have told her what she was facing.

She paused, spun around, and sought the cabin through the trees. Even if the candle still burned, it was too far away to see. Best to continue on and find her friends rather than double back.

Snap.

Malia wheeled in a circle. Her feeble phone light barely illuminated five feet in front of her. If she was being stalked…

No. She couldn’t think that way.

She turned and nearly fell in her haste. Then she hobbled as fast as she could manage toward camp. Or where she thought it should be. It was possible she was lost, and that realization sent an icy ripple of fear up her spine. Did she call out for help? Or was she safer remaining quiet? Maybe she should douse her flashlight, make herself less of a target. But it was already so difficult to see…

There was no sign of a campfire nearby. Then again, in the rain, how could there be? She had no stars to guide her, no GPS. Not even a compass, though she wouldn’t know what to do with one if she had it.

The path dog-legged right, and Malia breathed out a sigh. She remembered that hard turn when they’d left camp. It wasn’t far now.

Convinced she was headed in the right direction, she turned her attention back to what Emily had said. Something itched in her brain, niggling her to figure out what was wrong.

There’s an evil presence that can’t be denied…

And you think you, alone and injured, will be able to rescue four helpless girls…

You don’t know what might be waiting for you…

She was close now. Even in the dark, Malia recognized the area. The clearing where they’d pitched their tents was just ahead. Soon, she’d be with her friends, and they could—

Her friends. Her four friends.

Malia hadn’t told Emily how many people were in her group.

She dashed to the campgrounds, ignoring her knee’s angry protests. When she broke through the trees, her legs froze. Her feet slipped in the mud, flew out from under her, and sent her crashing to the ground on her back. Her breath whooshed out of her, and she couldn’t suck in another.

Carnage. The only word for it was carnage. Amy, Kim, Lynn, Heidi—bloody, broken. Faces frozen in silent shrieks of agony and terror.

She tried to scream, but her lungs still wouldn’t work. Deprived of air, they burned. Yet the pain barely registered.

Lightning flashed. Brush rustled. A twig snapped.

Malia looked up to find someone looming above her. Someone wielding a hunting knife in one hand and a machete in the other. Someone who had warned her about the perils of the woods.

The Woodland Butcher, not a madman after all.

“I told you something evil was out here.” Emily grinned as she raised both blades.

Malia never managed another breath. She knew nothing but thunderous pain until succumbing to the relief of eternal silence.