The Face of Freddy Findlay

The Cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. I could just faintly see it from where I sat at the rickety, old, wooden table of my own summer cottage. I leaned forward, rubbed my eyes to be sure, and lifted the bottle of Jack Daniels to search for an expiry date. I had only had one drink after all. I stood up and walked slowly to the window to get a better look. I couldn’t breathe, my body was frozen; fingers pressed so firmly on the windowsill, my nails hurt. The flickering light shone through the woods and a shiver ran down my spine. Impossible!

The chilly October air seemed to swirl around me even though the windows were closed and the fireplace blazed fiercely in the corner. How could it be?

It was Freddy Findlay’s cabin. Freddy was dead. The boy in me immediately wanted to run over, clumsily, tripping over rocks and branches, calling his name out loud; but the man in me was angry and wanted to grab the shotgun, sneak over quietly in the shadows and see just who dared to break into my old friend’s place. And the spirit in me was petrified, my guts knew this was not just some teenage kids breaking-in for a little fun. This was not the good old days when Freddy’d come running out grinning ear to ear, waving a buck in the air, telling me excitedly we were going into town tomorrow to buy candy and cap guns. No, the guts in me felt something darker, something sinister, and warned me to be on alert.

I was up with the wife and kids for the week. We’d been up only a few times this summer, and now, as October closed in, we had preparations planned to close the place down for another deep freeze.

The cabin had been abandoned for years, but it was still owned by Freddy’s mom and pop, and no one had the heart to go after them about it. So now, it just sat, rotting there amidst the trees, for more then twenty-five years, a poignant reminder of the boy that once lived there and the family destroyed by his murder.

Seeing this ominous glow told me I’d be doing more than packing up food, batteries, liquids or stripping beds. I felt it in my bones, there was something else I would need to do this visit. Maybe start digging again, trying to get to the bottom of what happened to Freddy. I figured I should at least check in on the Findlays, if I could even find any of them. I decided I had to check it out.

I left quietly and walked over as if in a trance, the country air was thick and suffocating. The candle in the window had gone out and the cabin was now a shadow in the darkness. I shone a flashlight on the front door and windows. No sign of a break-in, yet the door was not locked. It creaked loudly as I pushed through. Inside was bare bones. Hollow and musty, with nothing but and old beeswax candle sitting in the window. I went over and saw it was degraded, with no signs of being lit in years. Beside the candle sat a bag of rotten candy. Now up close, I could see in the cracked, dusty window, a face. As if someone had drawn a smiley face with their finger, but I wasn’t sure it was smiling.

I took a deep breath, swallowed the ginormous lump in my throat and failed miserably at fighting back my tears. Blurry eyed, tired and vastly confused, I decided I’d head back and call it a night. Back at my cottage, I peeked in on my two young boys and shuddered, then laid next to my sleeping wife. I couldn’t get Freddy out of my mind.

Freddy’s death was a tragedy that haunted the town. It was an unsolved mystery in the small town of La Minerve, Quebec. With a population of 926 people, everybody pretty much knew what everyone else was up to. Yet no one knew what happened to this sweet 10-year old boy. And the nature of the killing was nothing short of horrifying.

Freddy was like every other kid. Always out exploring, swimming, catching frogs and fireflies. Sometimes, I’d see his little camp light glowing from his treehouse and I’d beg my parents to let me go over and hang out with him in the dark. We spent a lot of time together each summer in the woods and since the village wasn’t too far away, our parents would often let us hop on our bikes and ride in along the winding dirt roads. Every now and again we’d hit a monster of a hill and have to get off and walk. It was magic. We were free.

The village was quaint, with not too many people living there all year round. Most of the hustle and bustle came from the summer cottagers, like us, that came in to refill water tanks, grab milk, and maybe more dogs for the fire. Freddy and I would often walk over with a few other summer buddies to grab a vanilla soft serve from the ice-cream parlor, or a little brown bag full of penny candies from the corner store, same store we’d buy our worms for fishing! We were the kind of kids the townsfolk never trusted, city kids, so they’d watch our every move when we walked in.

That summer of 1995, last summer Freddy was alive, there was a new candy store opened up just beside the corner store, and we kids were delighted! This guy had everything! War Heads, starburst jelly beans, coke bottle gummies, and those cool little flying discs filled with tiny candy balls. His shop was just perfect, had nothing but rows and rows of candy and a small retro Coca-Cola fridge, filled with mini glass bottles of pop. He even sold rock candy and salt water taffy, which back then, you could really only find on holidays to beach towns like Maine or Maryland.

The guy that owned the place was a looming giant of a man, a little quiet some thought, but when he did speak he had a thick European accent. We didn’t care that he didn’t talk much. We were there for the candy, and he never yelled at us to hurry up with our picks, he would just watch us intensely as we made our selections. He filled our bags, that although bigger than the old brown bags at the corner store, seemed even smaller in his oversized hands. Candy store guy would have a long lineup outside on weekends when we cottagers were in town. Lots of parents dropped us off while they went in to shop down the road at the little “everything you need” marché. It was more popular than the pastry shop and the ice-cream parlor combined!

The thing was this big guy loved masks. That was the only kinda weirdo-thing he had going on, besides the gloomy scar across his left eye. Along the wall behind him were little masks – maybe five, or seven of them but it was a really strange and eccentric collection. These masks would stare back at the kids as they stood choosing their candies and filling their bags in exchange for their week’s allowances. And, as if he needed it, there was a sign that read NOT for SALE hanging over them!

That was the only thing new that summer, the summer when Freddy didn’t come home. We had all gone out to play in the village, it was a warm and humid Indian summer afternoon. That day, Freddy was told to get back a little earlier, since he had his little cousin, aunt and uncle arriving for a weekend visit. I still feel pangs of guilt today for letting Freddy ride his bike home alone. I stayed on to skip rocks down off the shore of Lake Marie-Louise. It was only a ten-minute ride home, and Freddy had insisted I stay on with our new friends Paul and Julie.

I recall getting home and my parents asking me where he was. Late that evening, Friday, September 13th, there were a bunch of frantic calls between parents before the local police department was called and a missing persons report was filed. The police spent all night searching and even called in for help from the K-9 unit. They opened up the opportunity for anyone to join in on the hunt. Immediately there were about 50 townsfolk showed up, but as word got around that number grew and grew until, after a long and grueling night, more than 200 people re-grouped at the local church to talk about what they’d seen and where they’d checked.

I went out with my pop just after breakfast to see if we could be of any help, we decided to bring the row boat and go out to a small island in the middle of the lake, the same beautiful lake I had been skipping rocks on the day before. We tied our boat up and walked through the sticky muck for a few minutes, and that’s where we saw him. His small body buried in a shallow grave of twigs and branches, mud and rocks. He was lying perfectly still hands crossed over his chest, but there was a ghastly component to the crime scene. His face was missing! All that was there staring out in that early evening sky was his skeleton face! Large gaping eyes and exposed nostrils and teeth; awkward adult sized teeth just growing into a still child sized head. Pop immediately started blowing his whistle repeatedly and it wasn’t long before emergency crews were there. Freddy’s faceless gaze would haunt my nightmares from then on.

The little summer town went still. Parents were rattled to the bone and kids were put on lock-down. Police went door to door searching for clues, but there was nothing found that would link anyone to the heinous crime that was committed.

The skull flashed before my eyes. I swallowed hard and fought off a heavy wave of nausea.

The candy bag, sitting next to the candle…

All those awful, creepy masks on the wall…

The masks! The kind you would shape from clay, then paint and bake. Something about them seemed carnival-like; evil clowns that seemed sad at the same time. Freakish looking. And small.

“Wake up Ron! Wake up!”, my wife was screaming at me, “Freddy’s cabin is on FIRE!”

I jumped up and ran to the window! There was the whole cabin glowing in the woods, thick black smoke curling upwards and filling the moonlit sky. I bolted outside where surprisingly, the air smelled...sweet? Not smoky and burnt but sugary, like cotton candy!

Now, fully awake, Freddy's skull flashed again before my eyes. Teeth smiling now, and chewing candy! Then, the skeleton grin morphed into something horrific…a mask!

All those creepy masks on the wall.

My wife was calling 911 to report a fire, but I had a message from Freddy, loud and clear. Yes, I had something very sinister to report.

I saw the images after his arrest, and wondered how I had missed it all these years? The mask of Freddy Findlay’s face was in the candy store! A shiny, purple face so familiar. There were others, a total of 13 by the time they caught him. All faces of children he had collected, presumably from around the world on various trips. Only one local boy. Only half were identified.

I never saw Freddy’s skull flash through my nightmares again, nor was I haunted by the putrid mask or the flickering flames of his burning cabin. Freddy, and I, could finally Rest In Peace.