Don't Go Into The Woods

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

Dad always told the same story on our first campout of the year. It was about the old cabin sitting on the west end of the property line, tucked away in the middle of the woods. It was just an old hunting cabin. Something mom assured me of when I went to bed. Dad loved to tell his stories, trying to scare us when we were young.

He was still sitting in the backyard at night, puffing his old faithful stogies. I hadn’t been home for years, but he wouldn’t give up the habit of sitting out there on the first night of summer. I guess that’s why they found him out there, in the backyard, and alone.

I pulled off of the interstate and into the nearest gas station. The area hadn’t changed much in the years I’d been away. I filled up at the pump and drove into town, looking for the LeClaire Police Department. It was time to see an old friend. I needed answers about my father’s death.

“Jackson Crow,” I heard a voice yell when I walked into what used to be the LeClaire Police Headquarters.

It might have been fifteen years, but the man approaching from the rear of the station was none other than Johnny Tyler.

“What in the hell?” I asked rhetorically.

“I know. I even got a gun out of the deal,” said Johnny. “Can you believe that shit?”

I couldn’t believe that he was a cop. Johnny Tyler was a notorious playboy in high school. Getting into fights, chasing girls, and pulling ridiculous stunts were his calling cards when we were young. He must have pulled the wool over someone’s eyes for them to put him on the streets with a license to drive fast and a gun on his hip.

“Come on back, Jackson. I knew you were coming in, so I pulled the file on your dad. I’ve got it in my office,” he explained.

“Office,” I wondered.

“Oh, yeah, it’s been a few years. City council appointed me chief two years ago.”

The world was upside down. Hell must have frozen over. I knew it was one or the other. If Johnny Tyler was the chief of my hometown’s police, I couldn’t wait to see how the town was holding up.

Johnny had the file for me to review. When they found my father’s body, it was lying along the tree line on the back side of the property line. There was a note in the file. The dogs barking and howling alerted a passerby something was wrong. If not for the dogs, he might have been there a while. Everything looked cut and dry.

“That’s it?” I asked, knowing the answer.

Johnny looked at me with a solemn face. I could tell he didn’t have anything more to share with me.

“Well, thanks for letting me look at the file,” I told him. “I’m going to be around for a few days. If you think of anything else…?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

After meeting with Johnny, I sat in the car pondering what to do next. What was dad doing out there? After my mom died and his stroke, dad didn’t spend much time in the woods. There was a treadmill for him to get exercise. He went to rehab three times a week and had lunch with a couple of the old-timers from town twice a week.

Dad being in the woods that late didn’t make sense.

The engine in my Challenger roared to life as I pulled away from the station. Before I knew it, I was going to the last place I wanted to be, home.

The house was older than I remembered it looking. As I pulled up the drive, I flashed to the summers when mom and I would be out in the yard playing. At times he’d get out of his truck with a scowl. It was a look that screamed, ‘leave me alone.’ Other times, he’d step out, hug mom, and then pick up the ball and tell me to go long.

I was surprised my key still worked.

Walking around the house, a flood of memories came to me. I gradually found my way out to the kitchen, where memories of mom’s cooking flooded my senses. Had I not known better, I could have sworn I smelled my mother’s fried chicken in the air.

I made a cup of coffee and went outside to sit as the sun went down. After driving for twenty-four hours, I needed a little pick-me-up.

The sun dipped in the west, and the day turned into night. The cool breeze coming into the area was refreshing. As I started back indoors, something caught my attention.

I turned at watched the area my father died, and the light shimmered like heat moving off concrete on the hottest summer day. As exhausted as I was, I wiped my eyes. It had to be either a hallucination, my exhaustion, or a combination of both. Things that I fear the worst include losing my mind. I promised myself it was a hallucination or my lack of sleep.

Finding my way back to the rec room, I laid my head on a pillow. Laying there, I couldn’t believe that both of them were gone. That big old house was so empty with just me in it.

I woke up hearing noise from the back side of the house. As I worked toward the kitchen, I didn’t find anything out of order. It was just before midnight, according to the clock on the microwave. I sat in the kitchen, picturing dad in front of me. If he were there, dad would have complained about my life and what he deemed were poor choices.

Sitting there, picturing him, I noticed the fluttering lights going through the yard. Strange flaming lights buzzed around from the east to the west. I grabbed my pistol and went out to look for the cause.

A dozen cloaked figures paraded through the yard and into the woods. All of them wearing black cloaks, their hands held in front of them, as they disappeared into the timber, one after another.

It was like being in a trance as I felt myself involuntarily following them. Why I went after the group, I didn’t know. I had no control over my movements. Something drew me toward the treeline and into the woods.

As I got closer to the last of the mysterious figures parading into the woods, an overwhelming stench of death and despair washed around me, filling my nostrils and causing me to wretch. The cloaks on the mysterious figures wreaked from an indescribable odor worse than baby shit-filled diapers. They smelled like they’d climbed out of the bowels of a sewage system.

As the line continued moving in front of me, I tried to keep a safe and comfortable distance. When the mysterious trespassers reached an opening in the woods, they split from their line, circling a stone in the center of the clearing. I knew where we were. As they encircled the large boulder in the center of the clearing, I saw it for the first time in years.

The cabin in the woods my father spoke of every summer. I had only seen it once, even though it sat on our land during my entire childhood.

While I stayed there, hidden behind a line of the bush, I saw what my father described as a candle in the window. Someone was inside the cabin while the ominous group began to sway side to side around that boulder, chanting in a guttural language. Their chants weren’t something I could understand. Some old language, I guessed.

The door to the old cabin opened, a long and creaking sound breaking the figure’s concentration. What stood in the doorway was dark and shadowy. It wore no cloak, and I could make out the figure’s silhouette as it ducked beneath the door frame. When its face came into the light, I felt a rush like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was intense and unyielding. My heart pounded inside my chest. My pulse beat so rapidly that it was near one constant sound in my ears.

My strange visitors in the woods heard it too. They all looked my way. How could they see me? I had hidden behind the bushes. I started to move, realizing the plant life around me had wilted, falling to the ground from its branches. As the creature from the cabin pointed in my direction, the foliage I used for cover died off in front of me.

I crawled away from my hiding spot, climbing back to my feet as I ran into the woods and toward home. I could hear them following me, their heavy and quick footsteps pounding against the trail. Around me, the wooded land I escaped through burned as smoke filled the path. The moonlight bounced off the smoke, leaving it all eerie and blue.

‘Keep going,’ I thought to myself while my heart nearly exploded from my chest as I ran harder than I had since childhood. ‘Don’t stop.’

I could see home and I was near the treeline at the back of my parents’ property. Just a little bit further, and I’d be safe. As I neared the crossing between the woods and the back end of my childhood backyard, I felt the safety of home within my reach. Looking over my shoulder, they were still there.

With the edge of the trees in sight, I sped up. The heat behind me was tremendous, and I could smell the stench of burning, burning everything. Just as I reached the edge, a hand grabbed my shoulder, pulling me back so hard that my feet came out from under me. I was going so fast that when I landed, I was past the line of trees and on the damp, cool grass I used to play in as a child.

I looked up, seeing the stars in the skies, as one of the cloaked figures bent over me.

My screams filled the house. Rosa, the maid, shook me in my sleep, yelling for my name.

When I opened my eyes, I pushed her off me, seeing the face of the monster in the cabin.

“Jesus,” I yelled as Rosa fell to the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

I stood and offered her my hand, helping her to her feet. Rosa had been with the family for many years and was like a nanny when I was young. Whenever mom had one of her charities or had to attend a board meeting and dad was away, Rosa took care of me like I was her own. How could I?

“Rosa,” I sighed, “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“Yes, Mr. Crow. I’m alright,” she said, brushing herself off. “Are you? You were screaming so loud. It was like you were in some immense pain. What was it, Jax? Nightmares?”

“A weird one, at that,” I answered.

“Well, why don’t you go freshen yourself up. I’ll make you breakfast. If you want, I’m still a good listener.”

Rosa left me there to go and prepare breakfast. I stood there, still panting slightly, a cold sweat leaving me sticky.

“What the hell was that?” I asked myself.

I went to the downstairs bathroom to change clothes and splash some water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I told myself I was crazy. It was just a bad dream. Dad’s old ghost stories were back to haunt me now that he was gone.

Washing my face and brushing my teeth, I calmed down as I thought about poor Rosa. I was surprised she was still here. It didn’t make any sense for her to be here. With dad gone, there was nobody to care for any longer. I hoped that she hadn’t come because I was there.

Peeling off my damp tee-shirt and flinging it aside, I noticed a strange mark stretching from my right shoulder to my neck.

“What the hell?” I wondered.

My shoulder had a burn mark, a mark shaped like a hand wrapped around my shoulder. I poked at it, realizing it was real. The weirdest part was it had nearly healed.

I put on a cotton button-down and went out to the kitchen. Rosa had coffee made and poured me a cup as I walked through the doorway. She remembered how I took it, not that I was surprised. The woman had an iron trap for a memory.

I stood at the kitchen window, looking into the woods. I thought it was just a nightmare, but the mark on my arm said differently. How it could have healed so quickly, I didn’t understand. But it had. I heard Rosa coming up behind me as I stared into the opening where the path began. Things looked like they should. There was no burning or smoldering woods, the trees were full of lush green leaves, and the grounds were as pristine as ever.

“Sit, Mr. Crow. You need to eat something,” she insisted.

“Rosa, please. Jax will do just fine. You’re practically the only family I have left.”

“Oh, thank you, sir…Jax.”

Rosa’s pancakes and eggs were legendary. When I was on the high school football team, it was common for the guys on the team to come over for breakfast. I never understood what someone with her skills in the kitchen was doing working for my parents. She should have opened a restaurant.

“So, how are you, Jax?”

“Alright, I think. It’s still sinking in that dad’s gone.”

We didn’t say anything else for a while. Rosa hovered over me like she had when I was young. It was something that I took for granted. I’d lived alone for so long that while it felt weird for someone to care for me, it was a nice feeling.

“Rosa,” I looked at her, “Can I ask, how was dad before it happened?”

“What do you mean?”

I didn’t know what I expected her to say. I guess I hoped she could tell me about my father during his last days. She was the closest to my father in his final years.

“Was there anything new or different going on in his life?”

Rosa looked at me, a hesitant look across her face. She appeared almost shocked that I’d asked. I stood up, inviting her to sit down with me. I’d touched a nerve.

“Rosa is there something wrong,” I asked.

What came next was less surprising than it was a relief. Rosa wasn’t back today because of me. She was back today because this was home. Rosa and my father found each other a couple of years after my mother passed away. I hadn’t spoken to my dad in some time. Something that I started regretting just a couple of days ago. I always thought we’d have more time to mend that fence. Now, I was just glad to know that he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, Rosa. I didn’t know,” I told her.

“It’s alright, Jax. I kept telling your pappa to reach out to you, to let you know about us. But, you Crow men are very stubborn,” she admitted.

She wasn’t wrong. As I put my arm around her, hugging her, my shirt pulled to the side, and she could see the wound on my shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” she said softly, looking concerned.

“No, it’s nothing. I’m not even sure what it is.”

“Let me see,” she suggested.

I pulled the collar aside and showed her the oddly shaped scar on my shoulder. She stood up and put her hand over it, barely reacting to the strange appearance of the wound.

“Jackson, wait here,” she said. “There’s something I have to show you.”

Rosa left me there with my coffee as she went upstairs. I could hear her coming back a few minutes later. She had something in her hand.

“This is from last month. I asked your father about it, and he said he didn’t know where it came from.”

Rosa handed me a photo of her and dad on his boat. He looked happy. Dad had a big smile, something I remember seeing rarely. He was wearing a white tank top with a palm tree on the front of it and had his arm around Rosa. As I stood there, confused, Rosa put her finger on my dad in the picture.

“Look.”

His shoulder. He had a reddish handprint on his shoulder. It looked raised as if a scar had formed. I put my finger on the mark, tracing it as I stood there, shocked.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Your father was haunted by something. He wouldn’t tell me what, but it gave him nightmares, and he would scream out in his sleep. He called them night terrors, but they only started the week I first noticed the mark,” she explained.

“Rosa,” I said, “I need to go into town. Please, feel free to stay here as long as you want.”

I kept the picture. The mark was the same. The date on the photo was a year ago. What had dad been going through for the past year?

I left the house and headed into town. Had what happened to my father happened to me? With that scar on his shoulder matching mine, I wondered if it had a connection with his death. There was one place I could find information. I needed to find out about the cabin, the land, and where I’d grown up at.

The basement of the city’s Hall of Records was dark and damp. Most of the old basements up and down the river cities were probably the same. Years of flooding and the remnants of damaged records left an odor in the LeClaire archive room. I knew there was probably enough mold down here to give a person respiratory problems. This would explain why the clerk told me to help myself.

It took me twenty minutes to find the records on my parents’ property. I found all of the owners’, going back to the 1700s. That was the hard part. Once I had the names and pleasantly thanked the clerk for exposing me to the toxicity in their basement, I went across to the library. I could breathe freely now. This was an updated building with air condition, and ventilation, and had yet to have the flood waters of the Mississippi ravage its contents.

I found a cubicle and started diving into the records on the property we called home. Rubbing my shoulder, my voice kept repeating over and over in my head, “what did you get yourself into?”

I followed every story, every report on the names of the owners until I nearly gave up. Then, I happened on one story that caught my interest.

“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed as the headline popped out at me.

I was living through a cheesy 90s horror movie. I was a teenager finding out the history of something horrible. Yet, it wasn’t a movie. This was real.

I sat, reading the story about the original owners, the Buckshires. Colonel Buckshire was a colonist, along with his wife Mathilda. During the 18th century, the Buckshire estate was known for three things. They hosted parties for the rich and powerful. They raised thoroughbred horses. And, according to a recounting of local history, they were the head of a group claiming to be ‘The Hand Of God.’

The Buckshires and their friends formed a group that continued the practice of identifying, finding, and burning witches. Colonel Buckshire hired members of the militia as mercenaries. They scoured the midwest to the west, hunting down the women suspected of witchcraft. When they found one, they would bring their prey back to the Colonel’s estate and there would be a mock trial, and then they would…

“The boulder,” I muttered. “They burned them at the stake, raised them upon that rock, strapped them, and burned them to death.”

Shock set in as I continued reading about the history of my home. Words couldn’t describe my feeling of dread. It was then that I realized something unexplainable was happening to me, like my father before me. As I scrolled through the stories, hoping it wasn’t real, I began to understand that my father hadn’t been as lucky as I. Where they found him lying told me, he had gone into the woods, to the cabin.

“Wait a second…” I said to myself, finding a photograph in the files of microfilm.

I dropped the image on the table and ran out of the building. Back in my car, I raced home. All these years, how could it be? I knew what I was seeing was impossible, and yet, it was there in front of me. The picture of the last witch to be tried…Rosa.

Running into the house, yelling her name, she was gone. I don’t know how I knew, but I went toward the cabin. Running as hard as I had to escape it, I had to find her. As I pushed through branches, my feet kicking the dirt up from under me, the skies above turned dark and gray. I yelled her name, but no answer. The closer I got to the end of the trail, the darker it got as day turned to night.

My heart raced again, beating against my chest. I ran into the woods until I saw the clearing. It was there that it was the darkest. A candle burned in the window. The door to the cabin opened, and Rosa stepped out.

I heard the screaming of a banshee as her face distorted into something ghastly. She rushed from a hundred feet away in the blink of an eye, her outstretched, ghoulish hands grabbing my shoulders as I was pushed to the ground. I screamed as the others appeared around her as she attacked.

I opened my eyes, still fuzzy from the assault. The cloaked ones were all around me. Where was I? My eyes struggled to focus. Why were they...?

The group had me lashed to a post, a post planted in the center of the clearing. My feet were on the boulder. My arms were tied to a wooden plank.

I looked down, screaming out for help. The only one that came was the tall man. The tall man from the cabin stepped out, his acolytes bowing before him.

This was when I realized, somehow, Rosa was...Mathilda Buckshire. The tall man unveiled his face and I recognized him. It was Colonel Buckshire. The heat that came next was more than I could take. The pain was so intense I begged for it to end. The smell was so repugnant, I knew that soon I would be gone. As I died, my last memory of Earth, the circling crows in the sky. As my head slumped, that candle in the window as the flame went out.

I'd watched them go into the woods. I should have heeded my father's advice, and not followed...