His Gentle Symphony

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

Sven, the caretaker for the Barkson’s estate, had just walked up to the stairs and noticed the glimmer to his left; twilight made it difficult to ascertain until he was upon it.

Pulling out his keys, Sven wondered how this could be. When he’d checked a week ago, there weren’t even any candles in the house. Whomever might’ve broken in had done so recently, but why be so brazen as to light a candle in the window?

Entering, Sven found the large room to be just as he’d left it the week before, save for the lit candle in the window. Directly opposite the door which he’d entered were the sliding glass doors which led to the deck that looked over the lake below. The setting sun pierced the pines casting deep shadows across the ceiling, of the chimes that Sven hung from above the deck.

Void of anything fabric, since the place hadn’t been used in so long, Sven had taken to polishing all the wooden surfaces. Until his father’s death, Sven had merely enjoyed making wooden furniture for people in town. The Barksons had left the place in his father’s care with nothing in it, so Sven used it to house a couple of his larger pieces, such as the couch and the armoire in the room. Without need to be used, the cushions, blankets, pillows and such that would otherwise adorn the couch, remained in storage in Sven’s humble cabin a mile down the hill.

Sven decided to investigate the loft, accessed by the wooden spiral staircase to the right of the door. He was sure no one was currently in here. The door had been locked and the deck wasn’t accessible from the ground, as it was trussed against the cliff the cabin sat atop and no windows were shattered.

Before his head broke the horizon of the loft floor, Sven’s nose crinkled at the introduction of an odd smell. Odd smell being perfectly objective as any smell beside the wood polish in this place would be odd since nothing else should be happening here. But this odd smell was of something rotten. However, as his eyes adjusted to the darkened loft, he found no source for such an odor. Therefore, he turned and made his way back to the main level.

This latitude of the planet called for early sunsets. Sven had barely had his lunch when coming to check on the place, as was his weekly routine. He ought to be there daily, but after so long of nothing happening, he had slowly lapsed into a seven-day schedule of checking. He still surveyed the grounds and the perimeter of the cabin, but since the death of his father, he found his desire to go into the cabin had diminished. The armoire and couch inside being the last pieces he’d made before his father’s untimely death.

On the main level, Sven paused at the bottom of the stairs and found the rotting smell had followed. Perhaps he just hadn’t noticed it when he first entered, the candle had been quite enough to keep his attention at first. The candle. Sven went to step toward the window with the candle, but a flicker of light to his left caught him. There was now a candle in the window beside the spiral staircase.

Vexed, Sven stared at this candle. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Then, as he did draw in more breath, he realized the odor was stronger. Making his way to the candle he’d first seen, Sven locked the front door, not only via the key entry, but the dead bolt and chain as well.

How could he have missed someone coming in behind him?

Standing before the first candle Sven felt uncomfortable. He stood there, hands on his hips, his silhouette from the setting sun against the upper edge of the window, his reflection in the glass simultaneously illuminated by the candle and blurred. Peering through the window, there were no signs of someone out front. The woods were sparse enough to notice anyone moving around.

He turned around in time to observe the dying of the sun’s light. Waiting for it to fully sink beneath the horizon, Sven breathed slowly. The shadows of the chimes steadily became one with the encompassing darkness. The air was getting thicker with the smell, that had become a stench. He was not an easily frightened man, not after the life he’d had so far. Not after having to witness the murder of his father, not being able to stop the man that did it, and being left with the task of interring his father’s body. But standing here, in the faded light, he felt his father’s presence with him. His father had enjoyed making candles, as Sven enjoyed woodworking.

The candles were his father’s, he suddenly realized, that’s why they made him uncomfortable. Did someone steal them from his home and break into the cabin just to torment him? Only a few months after his father’s death, this surge of causes to remember him flooded his eyes. While tears were shed, Sven wouldn’t call this crying. He did not sob; he didn’t make a sound at all. The saline merely emptied from his eyes, curved toward his nostrils, then crested his lips before he smeared them with the back of his hand.

A quick sniffle and he finally made his way to check the glass doors. The reflection of the candle by the stairs dappled, Sven’s broken shadows shrinking as he was further from the candle behind him. The doors were locked, secured, no glass broken. The smell persisted however, and he turned toward the kitchen along the wall under the loft.

Opening the fridge, the small light revealed the empty contents, the freezer the same. Closing the door, he turned around and found candles lit in the fireplace, across the mantle, and along the floor against the walls. He stepped forward, around the kitchen island, to view the whole cabin. Each step of the staircase was filled with candles, the edge of the loft as well. His mouth fell open in wonder. Each candle seemed to be brighter than possible. He suddenly realized he didn’t feel heat from them, if anything, the air felt cooler. However, the smell had grown stronger.

He turned to per out the glass doors, the reflection of the candles on the glass was beautifully shadowed by the illumination of even more of them that lined the deck and its railing. Sven was in awe. It was beautiful. The shimmering lights only being upstaged by the pervasive stench. It was suddenly of his mind to find the source of the foul smell that disturbed the perturbing yet exquisite display of candles.

He whipped around and, in a frenzy, he pulled open each cabinet. As he jerked open the final one, a candle exactly like the others appeared on each of the four shelves. Then candles appeared in all the other open cabinets.

He stepped back, stunned. The more candles there were, the greater the wreaking rotting smell became. He covered his mouth and nose with his arm. The knit sweater not masking the smell like he’d hoped. In fact, it seemed his clothing had absorbed the smell this whole time. Breathing in the stink directly, his was compelled to remove the sweater.

Finishing with his struggle to do so as he began gagging on the smell, Sven looked around now to see every available surface in the cabin to be covered in candles. Every space except for a path marked out from where he stood to the armoire. Briefly he considered a dash through the wax and flames for the door. But he’d placed his keys on the kitchen counter, a candle now nestled atop them. His eyes darted around the room. No heat, no smoke, but the light that was beautiful at first had become blinding and the stench unbearable. He continued to gag and ripped off his T-shirt to shove pieces into his mouth and nose as a last-ditch effort to impede the smell.

Sweat poured down his body, not from heat, but from the fear he now felt. He took the guided steps toward the armoire. He didn’t bother to look, but if he had, he’d see that his steps, once taken, became filled with the candles. Once he stood before the last piece of woodwork he’d made before his father’s death, he found a sense of sadness came over him. Tears once again pooled and poured down his cheeks, but now they dripped passed his lips and soaked into the fringe of scrap of shirt in his mouth.

He placed his hands on the wood panels. Squatting and reaching down, his fingers found the recesses of the wood which served as handles for the three drawers below the large cabinet where clothes would be hung. He opened each one finding nothing, then a burst of cold fire as candles appeared. Back to standing, Sven studied the whorls and knots in the wood. They suddenly seemed to shift before him, the wood began turning a sickly red. The candles dimmed.

Removing the cloth plugs he’d created; Sven quickly tied the knobs of the armoire’s cabinet shut and stood there. When nothing happened to stop his fleeing, he ran for the door. He undid the chain. The deadbolt recessed with a hollow clack. The knob twisted, the locking mechanism clicking in place.

Opening the door, he found the porch covered in candles. The flames were not the same tempered lull of those inside the cabin, these were enraged and though the candles were a mere few inches tall, the flames licked the roof of the porch. Yet, the flames remained cold. No smoke. No damage was being made to the porch roof.

Sven stood in awe. His fear waning as he observed the odd effects of these candles. It then occurred to him that he hadn’t felt candles against his feet as he’d ran to the door. He hadn’t knocked any over as the door swung open.

Sven stepped forward confidently, right into the flames. Nothing happened.

He took in a sharp breath and whipped around, heading for the armoire. All the candles were now shooting their bright cold flames into the air. Sven could barely see but he didn’t need to. He reached out for the knobs of the armoire and yanked on the doors. The sturdy furniture shook from the force, but the measly cloth did not budge. He continued to shake the doors until he decided to grab the whole piece and heave it onto its front. The bright cold flames engulfed the armoire except for a circle of darker wood. Sven jumped onto it and began stomping at this dead space. The armoire would not give. He turned his attention to the spectral candles.

The flames refused to extinguish, though he knew they could not burn him, he began to fear them merely for their existence. Even as he kicked at them, stooped down to slap at and blow on them, they stayed. He couldn’t understand it. Were they there or not? He didn’t feel them. They were there but they weren’t there. They gave light. Too much light. They chilled the air rather than warmed it.

Surrounded by the lifeless flames, Sven screamed out in frustration. He continued to scream until it became a roar of fury. He then had an idea and ran out of the cabin for his home a mile away.

Grabbing an axe, he made his way back up the hill. As he returned however, all was dark. Not a single light shone from the cabin. Sven forged his way ahead with intent on opening the armoire one way or another. Whatever was causing this seemed to equally want him to open it yet make it difficult to do so.

He’d left the door open as he had dashed away, but now it was closed and locked. He didn’t have his keys on him. He peered in through the window where the first candle had appeared. A sudden calm had come across him.

What was happening? Was he crazy? Was he dreaming?

He dropped the axe beside him and stood there, staring into the window. A wave of defeat pushed him backwards and he crumbled against the porch railing. Hanging his head, gritting his teeth, he focused on what he’d just gone through. This wasn’t possible.

As he stared at the well maintained, thanks to him, porch flooring; a glow appeared on the planks. He looked up slowly, exhausted, expecting to see a candle in the window. But there was nothing there.

He stayed in that spot until the cold seeped into his half naked body. He left the axe where it lay as he let it slip from his grasp and returned to his smaller cabin.

***

He confided that evening’s events to his tape recorder. He preferred it over writing things down, didn’t need light to talk. The owners of the land might one day want to know all that had happened to their property while in his and his father’s care.

Any time something horrible happened, he recorded it. Nothing like this had happened though. This was new. Convinced he’d eaten bad meat; Sven spent the next week barely eating anything.

When the day came to check on the cabin once more, Sven made his way up the hill sooner than his previous visit to allow for more daylight while inspecting the cabin. He’d forgotten he’d been locked out the previous week. Without a spare key, he’d have to find another way in. He could break through the front window and easily replace it himself. Alternatively, it would be difficult and dangerous but scaling the cliff in the back would be possible. Though, he’d still come across the situation of having to get into the cabin itself.

Deciding on breaking through the front window, Sven entered and eyed the armoire. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or perturbed to see the strips of cloth binding the knobs shut. The whole thing wasn’t hallucinated, he’d done that in the very least.

He went and grabbed his keys from the counter where he’d remembered leaving them. This too proved he had been there. Everything else though, that could be explained by sickness. Some sort of headache that made everything bright, maybe even messed with his sense of smell, because everything seemed fine now. It would make sense, as he’d felt nothing but cold from the flame of those candles, easily explained as a fever.

But why would he be drawn to the armoire, then tie it shut, and be drawn back to it?

Sven took a few calming breaths by the counter before grabbing the broom and dustpan to clean up the broken glass. He went out the front door to grab the axe and then placed it by the fireplace that lined up with the edge of the cliff on from which the cabin protruded. The window to its right twenty feet from the ground. Sven looked out and down, feeling extremely aware of how half the cabin was on the ground, and half was supported by trusses. He paused before turning around and sighed in relief as no candles mysteriously appeared.

In the shed below the cabin would be glass panes he could use as well as other building materials.

He walked around the cabin and made his way down the stone path that zigzagged down the hill towards the lake and curved back in towards the cabin. The view was spectacular. He knew the Barksons would be back someday to continue enjoying the view. His father, however, would not.

Sven turned his back on the setting sun. Though, it had barely risen over the skyline to begin with, it was sinking deeper into the horizon. The winter solstice near, each day getting even shorter, a mere few hours of daylight.

Sven turned his back to the light and made his way to the shed under the cabin. Above him were the wind chimes that were hung above the deck, a near inaudible symphony with the twilight breeze.

Sven enjoyed the music. He didn’t spend much time back here. He didn’t have much company to share the experience with. No one stayed around long.

He opened the shed and grabbed what he needed to repair the front window, including a length of rope. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do so but he went with it, sometimes those urges were just intuition. He made his way back up the stone steps to the cabin hoping to get the work done quickly enough.

As he approached the porch, he saw the candle burning in the window. Sven felt more frustrated than afraid. He sighed and gritted his teeth as he walked in. More candles appeared.

He placed his tools by the window frame, empty of glass but not of a candle, and turned to stand before the armoire. Curiously, as he grabbed the knobs, the frayed impromptu tether fell away. Pulling open the doors, the horrible smell hit him.

His father’s mangled body lay heaped in the armoire.

Sven didn’t seem shocked. He simply sighed and shook his head. Nothing much to do about it now. Clearly his father didn’t enjoy the armoire as much as Sven thought he did. He realized that’s why he’d grabbed the rope.

He tied it around his father’s rotten dilapidated neck, hoping it wouldn’t separate now, and carried the mess out onto the deck. He threw the rope over the rafter above and hoisted the body up to hang beside the other chimes. It was a beautiful collection. When the Barksons returned, they would just love what he’d done to liven up the place.