The Axeman’s Cabin

For years, the cabin in the woods stood abandoned. One night, however, a candle burned in the window. A group of alumni rented the site to celebrate their success. They chose this remote spot for its isolation, hoping to find a peaceful retreat from the bustling city life.

At Mysterious Mansions, known for odd real estate, Mathilde found no one had rented the cabin since the 1960s. The group picked a Swinging Sixties theme, inspired by former guests. They packed all the props in the trunk of a vintage Chevy they had rented. The battered brown car held essentials: alcohol, soft drinks, cigarettes, marijuana, lighters, candles, matches, provisions, and clothes.

'There’s no grocery store within five kilometres. And there’s no electricity, gas or running water, either,' the real estate lady warned Mathilde.

The six friends drove for hours through the woods to reach their home for the week. The morning was misty and empty. Trees gave cover as they went deeper into the forest, branches bending toward them, protective or threatening. In the fog, only rough shapes of trees and shrubs appeared within a dozen meters, as a cobwebbed signpost pointed the way.

At the end of the road, they parked and, carrying backpacks, set off toward the cabin like camels crossing a desert. They moved at a snail’s pace, weighed down by backpacks. Soon, a simple two-story cabin appeared, featuring a porch and jackdaws scratching earth or pecking shingles.

‘Do we have to stay the entire week?’ Dylan voiced his concerns aloud, but as soon as the group approached the building, all the birds flew away to the neighbouring trees.

For the next few days, Mathilde, Roxie, Katie, Bradley, Patrick, and Dylan tried to make the cabin feel like home. They chiefly hauled water from the well and fended off worms. They split chores. Mathilde and Bradley managed meals and dishes in the messiest kitchen they'd ever seen. The kitchenware showed neither cleanliness nor novelty; the pantry and cellar reeked. Roxie and Dylan took care of the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet and tiles. Katie and Patrick, the only couple, looked after the bedrooms, hoping to keep them insect-free.

‘Are there any knives in this house?’ Patrick asked during dinner, trying to cut a steak.

‘Nope!’ Mathilde felt confident enough to answer that. ‘I checked. I searched the kitchen cupboards, finding none. It’s like someone was trying to tell us something!’

‘Yeah! That we are in a madhouse!’

Roxie burst into the kitchen, slamming the door. Her blonde curls bounced as she thrust a newspaper at the group, face flushed and eyes wide.

‘Have you checked out today's paper?’

Everyone crowded around the table as Roxie cleared her throat, adopting a poised, theatrical tone. Acting came naturally after her recent graduation.

Hello Hellish,

I am your destiny. I live in a forest, and nobody knows about me. They only hear about me when I feel fit to strike. The forest is my home. I mean, MINE. Whoever crosses the line is going to be punished. And I mean it. I have lived long enough to judge bluntly. My axe is not just a blunt instrument. This is my flesh and blood. This is my way of living and working, and your dying. When I claim my victims, they are on the hunt.

People like you should be prepared. As you know, since the 60s. Those were the days! Everyone was so preoccupied with flowers, music, free love, and drugs that they never saw me as a threat. Each new victim found in the woods identified me. Authorities surmised the youth perished because of time. But that was me. I've perpetually concealed myself behind foliage, for I possess the ability to become one. We are all alike. My axe-hand hews tree branches during winter. Hence, my discovery eludes them. For nearly a century, no clue emerged regarding the mastermind. It has always been me. The shadows are my stomping ground, my salvation, the release of my restraints.

When I finally come for you, you must be prepared. You must play jazz. Yes! This is the music of my soul. Though my soul is rotten and rusty, revengeful and resourceful, I wouldn’t trade it for any other soul in the world. No! All my senses rely on the sound of jazz. You must remember this, dear denizens of this dwelling! If you don’t, you shall be frightened. Because I am not alone. The Devil in Hell is my master, and I shall accomplish His will to the bitter end. So help me, Father. Evil, bless me. Amen.

The Axeman

The Woods, June 13, 1930

‘Where did you find this?’ Patrick asked.

‘Behind the front door! Looks like we’re gonna have a little fun!’

‘Fun? You mean a nightmare?’

‘C’mon. It’s just a joke! Surely no one has ever announced the killer in the newspaper! This smells like some criminal scheme. Don’t you see?’ Roxie couldn’t hide the rush of blood to her head.

‘Are you chipped?’

‘No. Are you?’

‘Even if, no more than you!’

‘Wait! June 13, 1930! Are you sure this is today’s newspaper?’ Katie remarked.

‘Yep.’

‘Did he say he wouldn’t kill anyone who plays jazz?’ Bradley looked concerned.

‘Yeah.’

‘Do we have any jazz recordings here?’

‘Nope! We lack a turntable, CD player, or internet access to locate such music. We’re fucked!’

‘Our troubles seem unending,’ Mathilde sighed heavily and put her dirty plate in the sink.

She retreated upstairs, shutting her room’s door, desiring no connection with the killer, bugs, or even her friends. She had had enough. It would be their last summer together before they went their separate ways. This creepy journey was contrary to her wishes.

To calm down, she pulled out her Tarot cards, more afraid than usual.

Cards played to her hands until the Ace of Wands from the Minor Arcana acted oddly and seemed to face Mathilde directly.

‘What the hell?!’ Mathilde asked.

‘Ah, be careful, my girl! Do not use the name of Hell in vain!’

‘Who are you?’

‘You know who I am. You are a clever girl, aren’t you?’

‘You are the Ace of Wands. You symbolise success, happiness, passion and new endeavours.’

‘I am the punishing hand of justice.’

‘The opposite?’

‘Aha!’

‘So, what are your plans?’

Before the Ace of Wands could reply, Mathilde ran downstairs screaming. She grabbed the front door handle and ran outside, face horrified, fists clenched, legs weak. She got tangled in spider webs, then fell onto the damp forest floor. She hoped to hide among the foliage. But Ace of Wands would find her. He hopped energetically. In minutes, he caught up, chopped Mathilde apart, and threw her remains into the forest fire. The girl's cries hung in the thick air, then faded.

Only Bradley heard Mathilde’s screams as she ran down the noisy stairs; his bedroom was beneath them. Following their nocturnal ghost-killer debate, the others, fuelled by cellar wine, retired without definitive solutions.

He ran outside after her. The forest hooted with owls, and the chill of the ground made his blood run cold. Bradley’s skin shuddered in revulsion. His heart hammered like the engines of an aeroplane. His teeth were grinding. His feet were stuck in the mud. The all-encompassing fog prevented visibility beyond several meters.

As he approached a group of trees, the spreading ferns around them drowning in the forest litter, Bradley saw someone kneeling.

‘Yo! Who are you? Can I help you? Have you seen my friend Mathilde?’

‘I am Marsha P. Johnson,’ the mysterious person said. The drag queen was holding a bouquet of white flowers in front of her face to cover the tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Are you? You are my man or woman, as you prefer! I am one of them, black gays. But shouldn’t you be dead?’

An eerie quiet held for some time.

‘Do you know how I died?’

‘Yep. They found you floating in the Hudson River. The dogs suspected suicide, but this was neither confirmed nor ruled out.’

‘I think I saw your friend by the river.’

‘I was unaware that a river flowed here.’

‘I will show you exactly where I saw her. Shall we go?’

And arm in arm they marched through the thinning darkness.

They walked along a rugged path, dotted with knee-high nettles, leading straight to the river. The queer drew attention to a bland body of water where duckweed was swimming in abundance. Marsha showed a location across the river, believing Mathilde had run away there.

Brad, stunned by the sight of the mist settling on the delicate water surface like an ethereal veil, slipped on the patches of mud blocking the entrance to the sluice. He was gone in a minute. His body floated downstream like Marsha’s on the fateful day of July 6, 1992. He didn’t even utter a kelpie’s cry.

Roxie bathed the night prior to that memorable morning. Friends agreed to take turns bathing because it was physically impossible for all of them to wash in a single evening or morning. Bathing time fell on each of them every three days according to the rotation.

In the dead of night, Roxie placed a set of orange candles around the bathtub; their heavy, musky scent saturated the air, already full of dread. Just before nightfall, she diligently scooped buckets of water from the well, intending to boil a third in the largest pot. Friends’ drunken evening caused images in her eyes to blur, resembling watercolours.

‘How did you get here?’ Roxie asked.

A female figure appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a white cotton sheath from the early 1900s.

‘This is a Jack and Jill bathroom, isn’t it?’

‘So?’

‘So, there are two entrances. From here I came - the second one. Although ghosts don’t need any doors.’

‘And who are you again?’

‘Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Amanda Aldridge; I was an opera singer.’

‘Was? Am I dreaming or what?’

‘Perhaps. You are just drunk, honey. Let me help you. There.’

The robed woman then seized Roxie’s head, submerging it in soapy water until the body ceased all sound or movement.

‘Almost like a soap opera!’ Amanda Aldridge’s spirit spoke. ‘Today's public shows more regard for television dramas than for theatre's fine art.’

She pursed her lips at the thought and hurried away from the scene, taking with her all the remnants of her evil deeds.

Soon after Roxie breathed her last, there was a fierce laughter that hailed from Dylan’s mouth.

‘Hey, guys! I found a gun.’

The young man jumped onto the balcony, intending to try out his new toy. Darkness stung his eyes, but Dylan, extremely stoned out on pot, seemed to have the bravado to start a battle. He began shooting into the air as if killing imaginary birds. The woods offered silence. His bullets pierced the void of the wilderness like lightning.

‘What are you doing, my boy?!’

‘What? What the hell’s going on?!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, who the hell are you? You are not one of my friends…’

‘Are you sure? Look deep inside. Am I really not?’

‘Wait! You resemble…’ Dylan observed the stranger closer, though dusk hid his eyes.

‘C’mon. You are a smart aleck!’ The male figure in the suit mocked him.

‘Dylan! You are Dylan Thomas! Man! Where have you been?! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

Dylan seemed blind to the fact that Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive was long dead and buried. Blackout took control of him, paralysed his senses, and caused the weapon to change hands.

‘Whoa! What are you doing, bro?’

‘Just trying to help a friend.’

Before Dylan knew it, the dead poet put a gun to his temple. Dylan raised his hands, surrendering, though it proved futile. A sharp tear, like old fabric rent, the gunshot's report split the atmosphere.

‘And death shall have dominion!’ Swansea’s Rimbaud hummed and hawed as he struggled with the corpse on the board balustrade of the balcony.

Only Katie and Patrick occupied kitchen space prior to supper. They used this opportunity to reminisce.

‘Remember the time when I was working at Avocado? I served you a cinnamon latte; you thanked me generously and, with a broad smile, invited me to dinner with your family. At our first meeting! Upon semester's end, we arrived, bringing delight to your mum!’

‘It was undoubtedly because of your natural dark-haired charm!’

‘You think so? All I remember is that she couldn’t stop feeding me like a baby. As soon as my plate was empty, she brought more delicacies: chicken soup, roast beef with plums… Ah, and her famous Welsh cakes! Her creations possessed a divine flavour. No wonder her son is a foodie!’

While his girlfriend raved about his mother’s culinary skills, Patrick sneaked into the basement, presumably to look for two items for dinner from the pantry. But he was actually looking for drugs hidden beyond Katie’s reach. He found LSD in a medium-sized glass container, deftly imported from London, on which no eyes rested except his own.

The aroma of tarragon and basil filled the air, while Katie bustled around the kitchen. She neared opening the icebox, her first time today. Her vision blurred from onion fumes, then she perceived a peculiar shape. A woman there fit the machine perfectly.

‘Hello. Who are you?’ Katie pretended to be brave, but her teeth were chattering mercilessly.

‘Me? I am Ștefania Mărăcineanu.’

The woman emerged swiftly from the cooler, reminiscent of a rabbit’s sudden appearance from a hat.

‘Pardon my English, but I am Romanian, and I speak French too. I am a scientist under the supervision of Mrs Curie. Actually, I was.’

‘Was? Why? Are you…?’

‘Dead? Yes. But you sure know it all, my dear girl.’

‘Yes, the Radium Institute at the Sorbonne? Heard about it, yeah. I graduated from Uni with a degree in physics.’

‘Congratulations!’

‘Thank you! But what are you doing here? Trying to expand your research?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Scientists have long established cryotherapy's impact on those expired. You want to take it to a different dimension?’

‘You know, my dear girl? You just took those words out of my mouth!’

And the Romanian physicist, equipped with a butcher’s knife, ruthlessly wreaked havoc on the girl’s body, personifying the Black Death. The blade seemed to perform its own motion, striking the table without guidance.

‘Sometimes the old ways are the best,’ the figure exclaimed, immediately removing herself, the body and all bloody traces of the incident from the crime scene. True alpha decay.

Patrick returned minutes later. The potatoes had scorched. The pot held no liquid. Katie was nowhere to be found.

‘This is weird. Where is she?’ he noticed with great surprise, though his mind, intoxicated with loads of acid, played tricks on him. He searched the cabin repeatedly, finding no other friends, to find out its emptiness. He alone survived out of the six present.

‘Where did they all disappear? I swear, if I get out of this shit alive, I’ll never touch the drugs again! Never!’

For the next few days, Patrick lived on food scraps left by his friends at the cottage. When the last stale croissant crust, a nearly mouldy bite of cheese, and some of the last week’s sour soup sewage poured down the cavity of his throat, which, incidentally, tasted like a burning fire consuming his entire insides, Patrick set out in search of sufficient survival supplies. Woods provided sole passage to the local shop. He slung his empty backpack over his shoulder and set off.

He found the forest quieter compared to the day of his first arrival. Now that all his friends seemed to be gone, he blamed himself for their disappearance.

Patrick hiked through dense forest foliage. Soon, he observed someone tinkering with a vintage, metallic green Mercedes, blending into the verdant scenery. The man's grey beard reached his knees, and grease smeared his navy-blue coveralls.

‘Hello!’ Patrick started. ‘Do you know it here? Are you local? I’m looking for a grocery store. Can you show me the exit form this wooden maze?’

The man didn’t answer right away. He seemed to ponder Patrick’s words as if searching for the right answer.

‘Why not take a ride? I repaired my car, so you can hop in.’

Patrick faltered for a moment. ‘Okay. How far is this store?’ He finally choked out.

‘Oh, not far. By car, it is just a stone’s throw away.’

And they drove into the vastness of the forest, with the driver guarding the road and the passenger measuring his safe space in his car. Patrick pondered that if he had had a driving licence, he would have used a Chevy to avoid depending on some forest swindler. It was too late now.

Silence held them captive until the driver activated the radio, filling the air with buzzing jazz from the speakers. Patrick recalled the newspaper and reports concerning the Axeman. He noticed the driver’s single-handed steering. His left one hid in his coveralls.

Patrick wondered if this was a coincidence. As he opened his mouth to dispel his doubts, the strength of the Axeman’s southpaw threw him out of his seat. The hatchet encounter proved fatal, splattering blood onto the dashboard, seats, and mirrors, and shattering the windshield into glass fragments.

Then the Axeman slowly drove to the nearest sawmill, his property, and began a conscientious operation of cutting. In the end, he set the whole place on fire. Its destiny should interest no one, given its years of neglect.

The Axeman returned to the cabin on foot. After turning gas, electricity and water back on, he lay his old bones in the armchair, picked up a book from his vast library, one of the All-Souls Trilogy, and immersed himself in reading by the skimpy light of the electric candles. He couldn’t have wished for a better completion of his mission.