Rattles

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It was not the first time this cabin had been occupied. Those passing through the area, vagrants, cowboys, or traveler would see this cabin, unoccupied and structurally sound, and occupy it for a night out of the elements. No one would blame them, but no one stopped them either, which was a shame from time to time.

The story went that if someone, anyone, spent the night in the cabin, they would wake up dead.

“Always been that way, Paul,” the townsfolk would tell me when I first arrived, 3 years prior. My coming to this little town in South Texas was big news that day, this county now had three veterinarians thanks to me.

“Listen here Paul,” they would say to me on that day, “We’ll get you set up in one dem cabins up on the hill West of town, just don’t you ever go to the cabin to the Southwest.”

I, the polite and educated man I am, did not argue.

I also did not intervene when I would see a candle in the window of that cabin.

It was a month after I had arrived when I first saw a light in the cabin. It was a long day pulling calves for the local ranchers, starting in the early morning, and only just finishing near midnight. I almost missed the candle in the window when I finished with my horse, hanging up the saddle and making sure her pen had plenty of hay.

I was walking back into my own home when I looked over my shoulder to the cabin in the woods to the Southwest. There, I saw a single horse outside lashed to a fence post and a candle in the window. Too weary from the day, I paid little heed to this image and went to sleep quickly. I woke the nest morning to see three additional horses outside, and three men pulling the body of the unfortunate soul who had slept there the previous night.

I asked around the town, the customers who came to visit my practice, anyone who would lend time for an inquiry. Most people would cross themselves and tell me, “Paul Regan, don’t go to that there cabin.” And that would be that.

As I had mentioned, this first occurrence I observed was nearly three years ago in comparison to the events of the coming pages. In that time there have been 17 nights that there has been a candle in the window, and 17 mornings where bodies were brought out of the home.

As I am a veterinarian by practice, and not a mortician, I did not examine the corpses. The mortician rarely did as I had found out. “The spirits are not clean when they come from that cabin,” he told me in his thick Spanish accent. “To prod on their body will only bring the evil from the cabin,” now crossing himself and whispering a prayer.

I fell into step with the town quickly, more out of self-preservation than community presser, though they are one in the same.

Then the day came where we received a new Sheriff. The previous man, Jackson Holworth, had been a bit of a drunkard and one night drank himself into a sleep in which he did not wake from. He was a good man, though in his cups he would be easily enraged.

The new Sheriff, Jeremiah Wilcox, was appointed by the County Judge as the need was urgent. The town itself was peaceful enough to my eye, so the urgency was lost on me.

Sheriff Jeremiah Wilcox shared a similar welcome I received when I arrived three years prior, to include the warnings of the cabin in the woods to the Southwest. Like me, Sheriff Jeremiah Wilcox was an educated man, making him naturally inquisitive. Unlike me however, he had the air of office behind his questions that seemed to produce only little more information than what I received.

The day came when Sheriff Jeremiah Wilcox came to me at my practice to not only make a proper introduction, but to also inquire about the town and what he may need to be wary of.

“No sir,” I replied to his question, “I haven’t visited the cabin myself. I had been warned too often about it. I do know the previous Sheriff did assist the mortician with removing those who had passed while in there.”

“That’s about all I’ve gotten out of the rest of the townsfolk,” he stated flatly while looking out of the window of my practice. He was chewing his mustache, a nervous tick I assumed, or habit picked up while thinking over whatever current puzzle may be plaguing him.

He turned to look at me directly. “You also are an educated man, by standards of university I mean.”

Nodding, I respond, “absolutely, though I imagine some of the townsfolk may be more learned than I in the ways of life out here.”

“To that we are sailors of the same ship,” he smiled, then nodded like he decided something. “Well thank you for your time, I ought to keep making my rounds.”

A few months passed as such, everyone in the sleepy South Texas town going about their daily business and tending to their individual needs. With the fortune of hindsight now, this was the longest period without a visitor to the cabin; this more than likely corresponding to the relative peace of the town.

One morning I woke, an unusually chilly morning for that time of year, to find the Sheriff knocking on my door.

“Sorry to bother you Paul, but I would like your help with something.

“Sure thing Sheriff, what can I do?”

“Well first,” I watched as he eyed me up and down, only then realizing I was still in my skivvies from the night before, “put on some clothes, we need to go to the cabin on yonder hill.”

He had been indicating the cabin to the Southwest. The abandoned cabin in the woods, though I didn’t see a candle the night before.

Wordlessly, out of both embarrassment and curiosity of the request, I dressed and gathered my horse from the shed to ride over.

“The Luke’s girl and Beau’s oldest boy turned up missing last night,” Sheriff Jeremiah told me after a minute of riding slowly. “I got a inkling as to what they were up to, but already looked up and down the creek where I imagined they would have gone.”

“You don’t think they came up this way do you?” I asked, potentially more agitated at my own lack of observation than the situation itself. “Those two grew up here, they’ve heard all they stories.”

Nodding and cutting a plug of tobacco, Sheriff Jeremiah cocked his head to me. “I reckon they thought they could figure out the mystery and get a little lucky while they were at it.”

I felt my face grow warm, remembering both of those in question as much younger individuals than they were in reality.

We hitched our horses to the post out front and walked up to the steps to the porch. The planks of the deck were old and dried to the point of fossilization, shrunk and leaving wide gaps to see the ground below. The cabin itself, a piece of the land as natural as the mesquite and live oak trees, was sturdy as both of its living contemporaries.

Sheriff Jeremiah knocked once, as that was what the door would allow before it swung inside, old leather for hinges providing a dry rasp for the occasion.

Inside, the pair of young lovers were found on the bed. They were holding one another in an embrace that looked warm.

They had indeed fallen prey to the cabin, as they were cold to the touch.

I was instructed to ride back to town to retrieve the mortician, and to “avoid the families no matter what until I have a chance to talk to them.”

To my credit, what little that may be, I saw neither family while in town. As it turned out, the fathers of the youths had seen Sheriff Jeremiah’s horse at the cabin and preceded there while I was off doing my duty. That blame does not lie on me.

The grizzly and morose task of removing the lovers gone too soon had been nearly completed by the time I arrived back with the mortician. I had feared of a retaliation between the fathers of the two, but they were both too caught up in their own grief to lay blame to anyone but themselves.

The task was soon completed, leaving Sheriff Jeremiah and myself on the porch watching the others leave. He spat a stream of tobacco juice more in disgust of the situation than the need to expel the poison.

“There’s no damn reason this should keep happening,” he said, a veteran of one dreadful morning.

“I agree Sheriff, but so far as I can tell the only thing we can do is burn this cabin to the ground.”

“Can’t right now, too dry. We’ll burn a thousand acers if we try such a plot.”

“Any other insight then?” I asked, realizing quickly that my fellow educated intellectual may have an insight I haven’t thought of.

“I spread the word to them, now I will to you. We’re going to have a town meeting. Come on.”

We first stopped and acquired sustenance as we both deemed the task more important than breaking our fast this morning. In town we had steak and eggs from the saloon, on the house for the deeds done this morning as the news had already traveled. We washed down the meal with black coffee with plenty of coffee grounds in case we mistook it for water, and more than one helping of Whiskey.

Walking to the church, which served as town hall every day but Sunday or when school was not in session, I forced my constitution to keep my direction as straight as possible. Sheriff Jeremiah, who looked to be doing about as well as I, stated, “So that’s why the old coot drank himself to death.”

Unceremoniously, we had a laugh at this.

The town had gathered so that only sanding room was left in the church. I was in the back, eavesdropping on the conversations around me and learning how frightened everyone was regarding the family’s reactions more so than the event. That was only a small part of the conversation, from my recollection most around me lamented the loss of life. Appropriate given the setting.

Sheriff Jeremiah Wilcox, only stopped by the priest on his way up to the front, commanded everyone’s attention when he arrived at the podium.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. First, Pastor Fredrick would like to open with a prayer.”

The old German man, tall and fit as an ox, stood, and raised his hands.

“Father, we call for you help in this hour of anguish. Lay your loving hand on these families and this town, as we all need your caring embrace. Most importantly, we ask you to rid this town of the shadow of evil which lays over us so darkly.”

A chorus of Amens came, and the pastor took his place amongst the crowd.

Sheriff Jeremiah Wilcox looked around the congregation now, observing the sadness and anger.

“I understand what everyone is feeling. After talking with a number of you, it seems this is the first time this town has lost one of its members to the cabin, at least the first in a long time.” His hands were gripping the podium, either in nervous energy escaping or ensuring the congregation remained in focus as the whiskey continued to do its work.

“It being two of our youths makes these feelings all the more close to home. As your sheriff, I see it as my duty to protect this community. To keep this meeting short, I plan on staying in the cabin this evening to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

There was not a collective gasp from the crowd, but a unified signing of the cross occurred. Nearly to the person, Santa Marias were said in hushed tones mixing with the synchronized rustle of clothing created a sound akin to the grim reaper calling your name.

Clearing his throat, and looking significantly more sober than moments before, the sheriff continued. “I would like to ask for volunteers. I understand this may be dangerous, but it is my belief that this is what needs to be done.”

The whisper of the grim reaper had taken the life out of the community gathered there in the church, and like a mass grave they seemed to be breathless in this moment.

“I’ll go,” I said raising my hand, thanking, and damning the whiskey that gave me strength.

The rest of the towns people slowly began moving out of the church, leaving myself and the sheriff to discuss how to go about the investigation. I had a distinct feeling that the community around us believed our education may only provide an additional line on our gravestones by tomorrow morning. Here lies Paul Regan, Veterinarian 1874-1899

That night, Sheriff Jeremiah and myself arrive independently to the cabin as he had to bid farewell to his wife, and I only had to gather a few things. The sun was setting and casting shadows from the mesquite trees similar to ravens’ claws, grasping what was left of the day to fly away into the night.

“I didn’t plan on sleeping, so I brought coffee and plenty of sugar,” I said to break the silence this place seemed to invoke.

“I just brought chew,” Sheriff Jeremiah said getting off his horse and hitching it to the post.

Inside, we lit the single candle on the window seal that I have seen on those deadly nights. In the light, I wondered if I would see what came to take me. Would the single candle burn bright enough to light the darkness this cabin seemed to perpetually hide itself in?

Sheriff Jeremiah opened the furnace, finding coals from a fire lit the night before by the young couple. He stoked it with some cuttings left in the corner and began brewing coffee I provided him.

“Well,” Sheriff Jeremiah said,” Paul, looks like the fire from those two last night may help us out tonight.”

“I hope that is a good omen,” I said, more so a prayer than a conversation piece.

We busied ourselves by collecting our things in respective areas, in case one of us felt the need for sleep. The task seemed more out of habit and the need for activity than anything else.

The cabin was made up of two rooms, the front being the kitchen and cot on the other side, and the back room had another bed and what looked to be an office type space, complete with a desk. The stove shared the single wall in the cabin, so when lit, it could provide heat to the entirety of the structure. Sheriff Jeremiah and I mused over who the original occupant must have been, and how long ago it was.

Much like the porch outside, the floorboards had fossilized and shrank allowing gapes in the wood. The walls must of shrank due to the weight of the roof as the ceiling was low to our stature, forcing us to duck our heads while navigating through the two rooms.

We had coffee with a dinner of jerked venison and biscuits provided by Sheriff Jeremiah’s wife. We talked, discussing books we had read and why we decided upon our choice of electives while studying at our respective universities. The night was becoming quite delightful with good conversation so long as we skirted certain topics of the morbid variety.

The topics in question being the potential and past death in the air as evident as the brewed coffee on the stove.

I brought an additional candle from my own home, not knowing the condition of the candle whose light the towns folk must see. I acquired it mid conversation and replaced the old one burning in the window. In this task, I made my way past the stove and noticed a distinct hiss coming from the fire.

“Is the wood green?” I asked, indicating the pile of cuttings left next to the stove for ease of replenishment.

“Didn’t look it to me, why do you inquire?” responded Sheriff Jeremiah while cutting tobacco to replenish what he just expelled.

“I hear a hiss akin to sap escaping green wood is all,” says I while lighting the new candle from the remains of the old.

Wordlessly, the sheriff rises and inspects the stove while working the new plug of tobacco.

“I do not believe that sound to be from the stove Paul,” he says standing to look at me.

It occurred to us that during our hours of conversation, as it was near the witching hour at this point of the night, that the hiss had grown in pitch and not suddenly assaulting our senses. This hiss, as it is easily described in the lazy manor, reminded me of a knife being sharpened on a leather strap continuously and without pause.

Our conversation must have increased in volume naturally to cover this sound, and my leaving the proximity of my friend broke the spell of an engaged mind.

Sheriff Jeremiah brought his index finger to his lips and began gingerly creeping through the cabin, trying to obtain the source of this sound. I too began the slow process of searching. He made his way back to where we had been sitting in the first room, I to the back room where the couple had passed the night before.

He finished his search quickly and joined me focusing on the office space on the other side of the bed as I was slow in my efforts as my nerves were being tested.

I was making my way back after checking the far side of the bed, when the sheriff turned to face me, probably in perplexment, but knocked over a dried ink well from the desk. This ink well fell to the floor, causing not a soft clamor but a thunderclap to our senses.

Immediately the floorboards below the dropped ink well began thudding, like the devil was trying to come up through the crack of the floorboards. Only a moment after, the bed I was standing next to, began to rattle like an infant’s toy.

The sheriff and I, brave men in our own right, ran to the front room and away from the clamor coming from the back. Our foot falls hurried, loud like the ink well in our haste, brought more thudding from under the floorboards.

The thudding following our pathway through the cabin, Sheriff Jeremiah and I came to the realization that the floor may no longer be a safe place to stand and stood on the cot in the front room. Our hope was, without our fearful clamoring about the cabin, we might be saved through elevation, though the ceiling be too short for our proper height. I was hunched over, keeping my self as far from the floor as possible, while the sheriff sat on his haunches watching below him.

The floorboards, fossilized they may be, were not prepared for pressure from below and flapped independently like piano keys on a Steinway.

We watch, horrified and certain the devil and his minions were soon to come up through what flimsy barrier the cabin provided so that we may meet the same fait as so many before us.

One board, perpendicular to our perch and feet away, popped up completely and landed with a clatter leaving a dark void the candle’s light could not penetrate.

The floorboards continued their attempt at melody and thrashed about, but the null space directly to hell was quiet.

I could hear, as my senses were heightened greater than I thought possible, Sheriff Jeremiah adjust the plug of tobacco in his mouth as we both staired into this portal to the nether.

Out, slowly and smoothly, came a dinnerplate sized head of a rattle snake. It’s tongue, long and sharp enough to be used as a quill, flicked the air as its eyes focused on the two interlopers into it’s hide.

“Sweet Jesus,” murmured Sheriff Jeremiah.

Time seemed to stop; three pairs of eyes were all focused on one another wondering who would provide the first move. In that moment, I believed I would surely die this night to a villain that had taken so many lives before.

Sheriff Jeremiah, the quick-witted man a sheriff ought to be, did a peculiar thing in that moment.

He spat a stream of fresh tobacco juice straight at the king of all rattlesnakes, landing the blow precisely between the beast’s eyes and splashing all over its face.

The snake, truly more of a demon, receded back into its home of darkness.

“Quick,” instructs Sheriff Jeremiah with his savior’s tongue, “open the furnace and knock the coals out all over the floorboards. We’re burning this son of a bitch to the ground.”

I, still tongue tied and hypnotized by that of which I cannot explain, did not openly object to the order. The floorboards were still waving with thuds like a choppy day on a lake, and I prayed as I hurried that they would hold just a little longer, then their duty would finally be complete.

Using some of the cuttings left to the side of the stove, I knocked out the coals and kicked them with my boot across the cabin, the sheriff actively finding what he can in regard to fuel for this fire. Running into the back room, he found books and paper in the desk which he quickly and unceremoniously spread across the room. I, the quick thinker I am, threw coals across all the paperwork until the stove had been emptied.

Sheriff Jeremiah grabbed his single saddle bag, I left my belongings, and we made for the door.

Opening, and lit by the fire we had just set behind us, we found the porch to be covered with the offspring of the demon we encountered earlier. Mere feet away, the rattle snakes all began coiling and preparing to strike at the two newest victims of the cabin.

I closed the door quickly, feeling the thuds of fangs reverberating through the wood and into my had testifying my just decision.

“You don’t happen to have any more tobacco, do you?” I asked Sheriff Jeremiah.

“Not nearly enough.”

Turning, we found the cabin was quickly being ingulfed by flames around us. From under the bed in the back room, dark ropes of snakes slithered out in search of salvation while on fire. They quickly gave up, and attacked the source of their anguish, striking at themselves and one another, the walls, and anything they could reach to try and save themselves.

The ceiling was ablaze by now, quickly succumbing to the fire as the years of abandonment and exposure to the dry elements gave the wood no defense to the inferno.

A joist from the ceiling fell, spraying sparks and coals all around, killing some of the burning snakes as a mercy.

“Open the door!” yelled Sheriff Jeremiah through coughing from the smoke. He moved to the joist, and bare handed grabbed onto the burning wood, so focused that the pain seemed to be merely an inconvenience.

I did as instructed in time for the sheriff to toss this flaming beam onto the snakes blocking our escape.

He ran, jumped hoping to avoid the snakes but knowing he would not be able to make the distance, and bounded with one foot off the flaming runway and into the dirt beyond.

I, not as athletic, attempted the same, but ended up running over the flames in my boots like an amateur fire walker.

I acquired our horses quickly as the sheriff’s hands were badly blistered from the lifesaving action he committed himself to taking, and we stood back to watch the fire, glad to be alive.

We road back to town at sunup, the first in years able to do so after spending a night in the abandoned cabin to the Southwest. I took Sheriff Jeremiah to my practice and used my tools there to patch up his hands. I would take another two months before he would be able to utilize his hands again, and weeks of me changing his bandages for him.

He saved my life, so I never charged him for my work, stating my primary practice was for four legged animals, not two, so I would not be able to balance out my ledger if he paid me.

We explained what had occurred to the towns people that morning as a rain squall came in to put out the fires caused by the structure burning to the ground. I remember the rain being cold that day, as Sheriff Jeremiah and myself recounted the actions taken, omitting the giant of a snake from the story to try and convince the people gathered that there was not a spirit to fear any longer.

Most of the community believed and agreed we did the correct thing in the heat of the moment. At the end of the meeting, Sheriff Jeremiah and I were discussing the much-needed rest we felt we deserved when the mortician came to see us.

“Thank you,” he started in his Spanish accent, “I believe you may have saved this town from the evil. I must warn you though, the serpiente demon may one day come back to one of you. I would come to church more often, the both of you. Just be safe amigos.”

Sheriff Jeremiah heeded the warning, and for years has been a faithful member of the local church. I, a learned man, know better than to believe in this kind of superstition, and as the years had passed time has proven my theory.

I married, we built on an additional room onto my small home and started a family. The town no longer spoke about the occurrences of the old, abandoned cabin to the Southwest, even after going through the wreckage and counting out how many skeletons could be found, the final tally being past the two hundred mark. None of the curious surveyors mentioned an unusually large snake skeleton, and neither the sheriff or I informed them of the snake that looked us in the face and judged our worthiness. To that end, my wife never learned of this story as it was no longer a topic worth exploring.

Much older and wiser now, I look back at that event with humor at the absurdity of the superstition the townsfolk held to that cabin.

My wife, a midwife by trade, took the children with her across town to help with a delivery, and so the children could play with their friends during the event.

I, being left alone this night, remembered that story and decided to record it in the account you have just read. I hope this exertion may allow me a restful sleep, and one day I may share it with my family.

Edit: I have sense fallen asleep but now awoken by a sound. I jot this down in fear of what may come next, as there is a hiss coming from below my cabin.