The Writer

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

“That has to be literally one of the worst lines I’ve ever written,” Tom Nicholson angrily stamped out his cigarette in an astray full of butts. The lingering smoke swirled about him as he pushed away from his desk and stalked over to the window.

Yanking the dingy curtain aside, Tom stared down at the people hurrying about below his New York City apartment. The muted sounds of the city: the horn honks, the occasional yell, and the wail of emergency sirens were comforting. He opened the window and inhaled deeply. Pretzels baking from the corner street vendor, the garlic and oil from the Italian place across the street, and the stench of garbage all fought for dominance in his nostrils as the hot, humid air of a four-week heat wave washed over his skin.

Tom lit another cigarette and took a deep pull before exhaling a puff of smoke into the polluted air. Two months. Two very LONG months of writer’s block. In the past 23 years of writing Tom had never experienced anything like it. Fifteen novels, seven on the bestseller’s list and here he sat, day after day, staring at a blank page and a cursor that blinked mockingly at him. Tom was at a loss. He tried everything. He wrote drunk, sober, high. He tried idea generators. He even took a workshop on writer’s block. His deadline for his next horror book was in four months and he didn’t even have a decent idea, never mind an actual plot.

His cell rang.

His agent. Great.

“Hi Bruce.”

“Tommy, my guy, how’s the writin’ going?” Bruce’s forced optimism grated on what little patience Tom had left.

“Oh, you know, just one word at a time.”

“Still stuck, huh, buddy?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Well, I’ve got an idea for you. It just popped up on my feed. It’s genius really. I have no idea why one of us hasn’t thought of it earlier.” Bruce was in salesman mode.

Get to the point. Tom silently urged.

“You should stay in a haunted building for a couple of days. Stop waiting for the muse to come to you. You’re gonna have to go to the muse!” Bruce sounded unnecessarily proud of himself.

Tom rubbed his chin, the prickles from his day-old beard scratched against his fingers.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he admitted.

“Not bad? Tommy, it’s genius! You need a plot; I need a book. This is a win-win situation. There’s even a place close to the city. It’s in the Catskills.” Bruce’s enthusiasm was undaunted.

“We’re not talkin’ a couple of subway stops, Bruce.” Tom replied with a hint of amusement in his voice. “The Catskills are a good three-hour ride plus traffic.”

“The mountain air will be good for you,” Bruce insisted. “I’m sending you the link now. Take a look. Book it for the weekend. Worse case scenario, you don’t get inspired. Look, Tommy, I gotta go. Catch ya on the flip side.”

Bruce hung up as Tom’s cell phone pinged with the link to the website. Tom sighed, the cigarette still hanging from his lips and pressed on the blue text. A dorky ad appeared with a silhouetted cabin against a dark blue sky. Lightning effects flickered on the screen. Tom impatiently scrolled down. The cabin was situated near a preserve called Sundown Wild Forest. Tom scanned the blurb. It was a historical landmark, owned by one of the first settlers to make the area their home. It got passed down from generation to generation with several female family members accused of witchcraft and blood sacrifices. In the 70’s some self-declared Satanists lived in the cabin trying to channel the dark energy of its previous inhabitants. Now, it seemed some relation of the Satanists or the witches owned the cabin and was cashing in on an easy tourist trap. Tom was a sucker for history. Even if the haunting was bull, he would look for inspiration in the cabin’s dark past. There was a form to book the cabin and coincidently it was available next weekend. Tom entered his information and was approved to stay at The Haunted Cabin: A Thrill Like You’ve Never Experienced Before. Tom scoffed. The owner was not the creative type.

+++

It was late Friday afternoon by the time Tom drove his rental down the gravelly driveway and parked next to the baby blue, rusted out Ford pickup that most likely belonged to the cabin’s owner. Tom assessed the building briefly. It was a standard one-story log cabin with a front porch and two large windows on either side of the front door. If it had more than two rooms, he would be surprised.

Tom got out of the car and stretched, groaning as his joints protested after sitting for so long. It had been a grueling 4-hour drive between the congestion in the city and then the slow crawl to merge onto the George Washington Bridge. Apparently, Tom wasn’t the only city slicker seeking relief from the heat wave that was gripping the city.

“Hello there, Mr. Nicholson?” An older man in denim coveralls greeted him, emerging from the cabin. He ambled down the three steps and walked over to Tom.

“Just Tom is fine,” Tom offered his hand, and the man shook it firmly.

“I’m Al.”

“Great-grandson of the Satanists?” Tom inquired.

“The witches actually,” Al smiled affably. “The Satanists were just a bunch of 70’s squatters so high off their own asses, they thought they were talking to demons. Turns out, it was just the drugs.”

Al laughed heartily. Tom offered a weak smile.

“What brings you up my way?”

“I’m a writer, looking for some inspiration.” Tom said.

“A writer, eh?” Al mused. “Tom Nicholson…THE Tom Nicholson? As in, Murky Waters and The Scottish Bride?”

Tom nodded, feeling uncomfortable.

“You’re writing is something else. I’ve read all your books and seen all the movies.” Al’s face lit up. “Ya know? I’ve never had someone famous stay at my cabin before.”

“I’m glad to be the first,” Tom replied.

“You’ll be finding loads to write about after a few days here.” Al said proudly. “And I’m happy to give you as much information as you want. I’m pretty knowledgeable about the history ‘round these parts. Born and raised up here.”

“I’ll be sure to have lots of questions before I go. Tonight, I’m just looking forward to unwinding and relaxing. It’s been a helluva drive.” Tom was tired of the small talk.

“You came from the city, right?”

“Yup.” Tom popped the trunk, hoping Al would get the hint.

“That is a drive. Traffic is getting worse and worse I hear, too.” Al walked over to the trunk and took out Tom’s duffle bag. “Let me give you a proper tour of the place.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I insist.” Al waved off Tom’s protestations. “Right this way.”

Tom reluctantly trudged after Al and into the cabin.

“This here’s the main livin’ room. As you can see, you’ve got a small kitchenette over there. Nothing fancy, mind you, but it will do for a couple of days. The bedroom is through there,” Al pointed at the one other room besides the bathroom. “The mattress is fairly new and very comfortable from what I’m told. All the plumbing is on a septic tank so keep those showers short.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward.” Tom hinted once again.

“One more thing,” Al walked over to the front window and lit a black candle Tom hadn’t noticed until now. “I’d appreciate you keeping this candle lit.”

Both weird and coincidental, Tom thought to himself, thinking back to his discarded opening line.

“Sure, that’s fine with me,” Tom rubbed the back of his neck, fighting a random shiver. “Any particular reason why?”

“It’s part of the ambiance,” Al winked at him. “It’s a family tradition. Whenever someone stays in the cabin, the candle is lit to show occupancy.”

“Ah, that’s very…interesting.”

“We all have our idiosyncrasies.” Al said with a shrug, finally heading to the door. “I’ll be back to check on you in the morning,”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Al replied. “Safe night.”

What a bizarre man, Tom thought watching Al climb into his rust-bucket and drive off.

Tom spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening chain smoking and staring at the blank screen of his word document. Night fell quickly in the woods. It was unnervingly quiet. Tom yearned for the sounds of the city but had to settle for the chorus of crickets and frogs. He decided to go to bed early, hoping the cabin would inspire him with a few nightmares. As he fell into a deep slumber, a shadow detached itself from the ceiling and slid down the wall and over an unsuspecting Tom.

A scream from the woods woke Tom out of a dead sleep. He sat up with a gasp. A few minutes went by, and another scream echoed through the woods. Tom checked his watch. 2:54 AM. The third time he heard the scream, he got up, and went to the front door. Tom steeled his nerves, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch, peering into the blackness beyond. There wasn’t even a moon out tonight. The chorus from earlier had ended and the silence was deafening. The seconds drifted into minutes before the scream pierced the air again causing Tom to jump. This last scream was louder than the others indicating that whatever was making the noise was getting closer to the cabin. Despite his growing nervousness, Tom squinted into the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the light filtering down the porch steps from behind him. Another scream ripped through the air, this time it felt right next to him, almost like he could feel the exhale of breath as the fear was torn from the person’s lungs. Tom ran back into the cabin and slammed the door shut. He was breathing hard, his heart pounding. As the rushing of blood faded, another sound filled his ears. It took him a minute to realize what it was. He looked at the sink. The water was running.

Weird.

Tom walked over and turned off the sink. The screams seemed to have stopped as well. He lit a calming cigarette.

Some animals had mating calls that sounded human…what was it…a bobcat or a lynx? Yes, maybe that’s what I heard. A lonely bobcat calling for its mate. That made sense and the reason it kept getting closer and closer was because it was traveling through the woods.

It almost seemed silly at how frightened he allowed himself to get.

As for the sink running, there must be something wrong with the plumbing, Tom reasoned. Nothing to get spooked over. Although wasn’t that the point of this whole little trip? To find inspiration?

Tom finished his cigarette and went back to bed. It took him a long time to fall back asleep.

+++

The next morning, Tom got up late, had his morning cigarette and took a shower. He was cooking breakfast, another cigarette dangling from his lips when Al knocked and walked into the cabin.

“Mornin’, neighbor. How was your first night?” Al greeted Tom cheerfully.

“Aside from the bobcats mating, it was fine. Almost, disappointing.”

“Bobcats?” Al sounded confused.

“Yeah, the cats that scream when they’re in heat. Are they called something else up here?” Tom asked, pushing the eggs around to ensure they cooked evenly.

“There aren’t any bobcats or mountain lions around these parts,” Al replied slowly.

“Well, something woke me up screaming at around 3AM,” Tom insisted. “Maybe some other forest creature?”

“Hm, sometimes the red foxes scream but their mating season is in the spring.” Al said. “Who knows? Them horny little buggers make their own schedule, am I right?”

He laughed loudly. Tom struggled not to roll his eyes.

“What’s on your agenda today?” Al asked.

“I planned on checking out the nearest town, grab some supplies for a nice steak dinner tonight and explore the area to see if there are any historical sites I could use for my novel.” Tom said. He walked over to the table with his breakfast and sat down.

“You’ve been inspired already?”

“Not yet. I’m hoping something in town will trigger my imagination.” Tom took a bite of his eggs.

“Very good. I’m going to be heading out. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll pop by tomorrow as well.”

“Wait. Before you go. Can you check on the sink? I got up to see what all the ruckus was in the forest and when I came back inside the sink was running. I think there might be something wrong with it.” Tom asked. He didn’t need a broken sink showing up on his tab at the end of his visit.

“Let’s take a look,” Al ambled over to the sink and opened the cabinet beneath it. Tom waited patiently as Al poked and prodded some of the piping before checking the sink handles. “Looks in order here. Everything is nice and tight. Not a drip in sight.”

“Weird. Maybe it was just my imagination getting the better of me.” Tom said, feeling stupid for even bringing it up. “Thanks, Al.”

“No problem. Safe night.” Al tipped his hat and left the cabin.

Tom scarfed down the rest of his breakfast while jotting down a list of items he wanted to pick up while he was in town on his phone. He hopped into the rental, rolled down the window, and lit up another cigarette before navigating his way to town.

Fifteen miles. I can’t believe the nearest town is nearly fifteen miles away, Tom grumbled to himself as he finally parked in front of the town’s grocery store. As a NYC resident, Tom was spoiled. Everything he needed was within a 5-minute walk. He drove nearly a half hour through winding backroads and over two rickety bridges just to arrive at a one-stoplight town with the basics. Why anyone would ever want to live in the sticks was beyond him.

The bell of the grocery store tinkled in welcome when he opened the door. Tom perused the aisles and gathered some vegetables and potatoes for his dinner. He picked out a single serve apple pie for himself and went over to the sleepy-looking clerk at the check-out.

“Afternoon,” the clerk mumbled, jerking upright. He began to scan the items into a paper bag. His name tag said Jim and Tom guessed he was about seventeen.

“Hi, yes, I was wondering where the meat was?” Tom asked.

“Oh, you have to go to the butchers down the block,” Jim replied, looking at Tom curiously.

“Of course, I do,” muttered Tom. So much for one stop shopping.

“I can see you’re not from around here,” Jim, bless his observant heart, said.

“No, I’m staying up at the haunted cabin attraction,” Tom replied reluctantly. Why did everyone around here enjoy making small talk?

“Oh shit, dude, no way,” Jim’s eyes popped out of his head. “You really shouldn’t stay there.”

“Why not?”

“People have been going missing up there lately. It’s been all over the news.”

“Not in New York City,” Tom said.

“Up here it has. Three times in the last year at least.” The kid insisted.

Tom began to wonder if he should be concerned, then a thought occurred to him, and he began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Jim demanded.

“How much does Al pay you?”

“What?”

“Al, the owner of the cabin? This is the nearest town. I bet he’s got everyone in on it. Got to keep up pretenses, right?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Jim said shaking his head. “But I’m serious, dude, you shouldn’t stay there.”

“Wow, you’re dedicated.” Tom chuckled. “How much do I owe you?”

“$8.78.”

“Here’s a $10. Keep the change. You earned it.” Tom grabbed his bag of groceries and headed out the door.

The butcher shop was three stores down, after the post office and the pharmacy. The sign above the door read Mark’s Finest Meats.

“Afternoon,” Mark the butcher, a burly man in his late fifties greeted him.

“Hi, I’d like a porterhouse or a rib eye if you got one.” Tom said.

“I got a generous rib eye today,” Mark replied. He leaned down into his case and began to prep the meat. “Are you visiting someone in town?”

“I’m staying up at Al’s cabin for the weekend.” Tom replied. Great, another small talk lover.

Mark stopped cutting the meat and turned around. “The witches’ cabin?”

“That's the one.”

“You shouldn’t stay there.” Mark warned him.

“I see you’re in on it too,” Tom said. The haunted cabin act was beginning to wear thin.

“In on what?”

“The whole ‘don’t stay there, you’re going to die,’ routine. Jim down at the grocery store already went through this with me.”

“It’s not a routine. That cabins got a weird history, but you do what you like. There’s no talking to you adrenaline junkies.” Mark shook his head.

“I’m a writer, not an adrenaline junkie,” Tom replied with a shrug.

“Like I said, do as you like,” Mark handed him the rib eye expertly wrapped in butcher’s paper. “$15.88.”

Tom paid for the meat and left the shop feeling slightly uneasy. It was easy to brush off Jim’s concerns. He was a kid and easily spooked, but there was no mistaking the look on Mark’s face. He had been genuinely concerned. However, Tom was resolved to stay at least one more night. He could always drive back down tomorrow if things got to be too much for him.

With dinner handled, Tom decided to do a little exploring around the town. It was an older settlement but aside from a cemetery dating back to the 1800s, there wasn’t much historical interest. Disappointed, Tom headed back to the cabin. It was already getting late thanks to last night’s activities keeping him up. He made dinner, a labor of love and deliciousness. He patted his stomach fondly after he finished off the apple pie. He really should get back to the gym one of these days.

He cleaned up in the kitchen and glanced at his laptop sitting on the table. His muse was still eluding him, but he forced himself to sit in front of the computer and stare at the blinking cursor on the screen anyway. Two hours later, Tom gasped himself awake, still sitting in front of the computer. He hadn’t written a single word.

Dejectedly, Tom stepped out onto the porch for his last cigarette of the evening. He leaned against a porch column and breathed in the cool, crisp air of the Catskills. It felt more like early autumn than late summer up here. The insects called to each other, and the bullfrogs were croaking out their own conversations in a nearby pond. Tom admitted to himself that there was a certain serenity in the night sounds, but he missed the noisy bustle of the city. He finished off the cigarette with one last deep pull and flicked the smoking butt into the darkness before heading to bed.

A wild knocking at the front door jolted Tom out of his sleep.

“What the fuck?” He gasped, his heart doing a double beat in his chest. He scrambled from the bed, pulling on a pair of sweats as he ran to the door, flipping on lights as he went. “Who’s there?”

There was no answer. The frantic knocking continued.

Tom threw the door open instinctively. The knocking stopped immediately yet there was no one on the other side.

“Hello?” Tom stepped out onto the porch, feeling confused and annoyed. It was empty. He looked at his watch. 2:54 AM.

Tom went back inside the cabin and closed the door. The knocking started up again almost immediately. He could hardly believe his own ears.

He yanked the door back open.

Silence.

No one.

He closed it.

The knocking began again.

He ripped the door open.

Silence.

Still no one.

He slammed the door shut.

The knocking resumed.

“This is ridiculous.” Tom said. He wasn’t opening the damn door again. The knocking intensified then abruptly stopped. Then the doorknob began to turn as if someone was opening it from the outside. Tom threw his body against the door and slammed the lock in place. He pushed a chair up under the doorknob which was jiggling wildly.

“Go away!” he yelled. To his surprise, the doorknob stilled. The knocking did not resume. Tom sighed with relief. A familiar noise filled his ears. He turned around and fell back against the door in shock. While he was preoccupied with the door, all the cabinets had been thrown open, and the sink was running again. Tom’s eyes darted around the room wildly. All the windows were closed and the only way in and out of the cabin was the front door. How the hell had this happened?

As Tom closed the cabinets and turned off the sink, he looked over at the black candle burning in the window. It was about two-thirds melted. Maybe the candle had something to do with all this.

It’s all part of the…what had Al called it? The ambiance?

Al said the lit candled signaled occupancy. Could it also signal that the haunted cabin game was on? Maybe the cabinets had magnetic releases and the sink was remote operated. All the things that happened could be explained, right? The knocking could be a recording. The doorknob turning was another trick. Yes, this was all part of Al’s haunted cabin routine. Tom wondered what would happen if he just blew the candle out? Would the game cease? Tom wasn’t sure how much more creepiness his heart could take out here in the woods all alone. He walked over to the candle and tried to blow it out. The flame bent but refused to be extinguished. Tom blew harder. The candle continued to flicker defiantly. Tom scowled at it and tried to snuff the light out with his fingers.

+++

Tom woke up in bed with no recollection of how he got there. The last thing he remembered was attempting to extinguish the candle in the window and then…darkness. He looked out the window, it was night, the full moon casting an eerie glow outside his window. He glanced at his watch. 8:47PM. It wasn’t just night. It was the NEXT night. He’d slept for nearly eighteen hours. His clothing was drenched in sweat. Tom groaned as he got up. His head was pounding, and his stomach growled. What the hell happened to him?

He left the bedroom with every intention of taking a long, hot shower but froze when he saw the front door. He had locked it last night, from the inside. He had even shoved a chair under the doorknob. Yet, now, it was standing wide open, the moonlight slanting through onto the cabin floor. The chair was back at the table as if he had never moved it. He looked at the black candle. It was lower than ever but still burning brightly.

“That’s it. I’m out of here.” Tom declared. He was not going to be the cabin’s next victim. He closed the door and locked it again, took a quick hot shower to wash the sweat off himself and snacked on an apple as he packed everything up. Tom would drive all night if he had to, but he was not spending another night in this cabin. He headed out to his car, duffle bag in hand and got behind the wheel. He turned the ignition. The engine sputtered but refused to turn over.

“What the hell?” Tom cranked the ignition again. The car refused to start. Tom shivered involuntarily as the hairs rose on the back of his neck. What was wrong with the rental? It worked fine yesterday…

He popped the hood and walked around to the front of the car. He stared down at the mess of tubes and wires, using his phone as a flashlight. Who was he kidding? He was a writer not a mechanic. He never owned a vehicle in his life. Slamming the hood down in frustration, Tom cursed. He walked around to the side of the car and kicked the tire as hard as he could.

It was pointless to try and call roadside assistance this high up in the mountains. There was no signal. The cabin didn’t have wi-fi either which meant he was well and truly stranded for the night. Tom looked back at the cabin. The candle still flickered ominously in the window. Maybe he could sleep in the car?

A scream rent the night air, sending Tom running back to the cabin with his things in hand. Whatever was in the woods was more terrifying than the cabin. The screams continued as they did the first night, getting closer and closer. Tom huddled in the bedroom, hands over his ears. Eventually the screams stopped and Tom, emotionally drained, slipped into unconsciousness once again.

As Tom slept fitfully, the door to the cabin opened. Footsteps padded across the floor. The bedroom door creaked, waking Tom. He jolted upright. A shadow fell across the doorjamb. Tom’s eyes bulged out of his head as the shadow crept closer and closer. It climbed from the floor onto his bed until it covered him completely. The shadow let out an earsplitting scream. It felt like the scream was inside Tom’s head. Tom screamed trying to escape the noise and fell back on the bed. The time was 2:54AM. The black candle in the window went out.

+++

Al’s truck rumbled up the drive the next morning. He stepped out of the vehicle and observed the unlit candle before approaching the cabin’s open front door. He stepped into the gloomy interior, a familiar scent stinging his nostrils.

The cabin was unnaturally silent. The bedroom door was partially open. Al knocked as a courtesy before he entered the room. He already knew what he would find. Tom, still in the bed, the sheets clutched in his rapidly stiffening fingers. His pale face was drawn with terror: eyes bulging, mouth hanging open. His tongue was black and dried blood was caked on his ears.

“I hate it when they die in the bed.” Grumbled Al. He looked over at the candle. “I hope you’re satisfied for now.”

There was no answer. The shadow was only free when the candle was lit but it was listening. Al knew it was always listening.

The cabin in the woods was abandoned for several months while the police tried to make sense of what happened that weekend. Eventually they ruled Tom’s death one of natural causes. A heart attack brought on by poor food choices, a lack of exercise, and a nicotine habit. As a popular horror writer, Tom’s death only made the cabin in the woods more famous and appealing. Hollywood even came through looking to make a docu-movie about the whole experience.

+++

A few months later, at the peak of Halloween season, a young couple arrived at the cabin in the woods. They parked their Suburu Forrester next to Al’s rusted out blue Ford.

“Hello there. Are you Ms. Grace Thompson and Mr. Frank Applebaum?” Al greeted them from the cabin’s front porch.

“Call me Gracie! We are so excited to be here!” Gracie enthused. Frank looked less excited and more apprehensive. It was easy to see whose idea this little adventure was.

“It will be an experience you’ll never forget,” Al assured them, with a warm welcoming smile. “Come on in and let me give you the tour.”

“This is so quaint,” Gracie gushed, taking in the interior. “Frankie, isn’t this adorable?”

“Yeah, baby,” Frankie nodded, looking around the cabin nervously. “Is this place really haunted or is it just a gimmick to get tourists this far north?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Al replied with a mysterious smile. “Now, this here’s the main livin’ room. As you can see, you’ve got a small kitchenette over there. Nothing fancy, mind you, but it will do for a couple of days. The bedroom is through there. The mattress is brand new and very comfortable. At least, that’s what the salesman who sold it to me says. The bathroom is right next to the bedroom. All the plumbing is on a septic tank so keep those showers short and don’t throw anything down the toilet that don’t belong.”

“This is going to be so fun,” Gracie announced all smiles. Frank gave her a reluctant thumbs up.

Satisfied, Al got ready to leave Grace and Frank to their weekend get-away but stopped at the window near the front door. He bent down and lit the black candle on the windowsill.

“I’d appreciate you keeping this candle lit. Consider it part of the ambiance, if you will,” Al winked at the couple. “It’s part of my family’s tradition. Whenever someone stays in the cabin, the candle is lit to show occupancy. I’ll check on you two in the morning. Safe night.”