Wendel Diego

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

A figure carries an oil lamp through a grove of Chokecherries, near a grazing herd of deer. He magically inclines the deer to jump into a tree, turning them all into bunches of the hanging fruit. He then violently shakes the branches, tumbling their yield into a deep basin, where he bows his crown into a grisly feed, drenches his head in gobbling red. With a sopping-toothed grin, he licks down his chin, eyes surfacing about for more bloodfruit, as the grainy light of his lamp soon lands upon me.

—I awaken to a knock at my door at 7:00 a.m. That dream was really weird.m

My eyes open to branches of my own chokecherry trees, shadowing across my bedroom ceiling. Grabbing my bathrobe, the knocking persists. When was the last time I had a peaceful dream?

“Coming!” I call. I feel so much better this morning after the hoards of nightmares these last few days or whatever days, but man, am I stuffed!

Wait. What day is it, and what did I last eat?

My parents are staring at me impatiently as I open the door. I question why they are home so soon from their trip, and why did they come all the way to my place? When they tell me they have been gone for two weeks, I am surprised, because it means that it’s been that long since I last visited Landsmen.

Landsmen is my family’s seventeen-acre forest, close to Pompeys Pillar, a natural rock formation, upon which Louis and Clark left their historical marks.

What kind of infection could cause me to me to be so out of it for so long?

Rather than drive straight home to Bozeman for an early morning flight to Salt Lake, my parents drove all the way to Billings to find me. They heard about a fire near Landsmen and wanted me to have a look and take a few pictures of the area.

“We’ve been calling all day,” my mom says hugging me, concealing her expression at my sallow appearance.

“My phone must be in the car,” I say, as she steps past me, giving my dad a glance.

My dad watches me, quizzically. He calls it “Smelling for Foolishness,” We smile, fist-bump, and he walks with me to my Subaru.

“It’s been a scary week, Dad,” I begin.

“I won't tell you you look like you've seen a ghost, Son…Because you look like a ghost!” We laugh, as I unlock my car.

“I knowww,” I turn to him. “I’ve been pretty sick. This virus, whatever it was, left my skin completely dry and ashen.”

“Ashen doesn’t even begin it. Your powers of ashiness, or whatever the kids call it these days? Is extraordinary. Does lotion help?”

“No, it doesn’t work very well, but it’s so much better than it was last night.”

“I’m glad to hear that because you look like you’re about to molt.”

We laugh at the thought of me shedding my skin like a reptile, or expanding in size, like Godzilla. What creature would I be? I ask myself.

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay, Wen,” my dad puts a hand on the back of my shoulder.

Opening my car, my phone stares at me. All those missed notifications.

As my dad and I step inside my house, my mother is characteristically clanging and banging in the kitchen.

“Are ghosts doing your cooking?” She slams the empty fridge and opens the cupboards. “A whole kitchen staff of them, feeding you nothing but dust and air!”

My dad leads me into the living room.

“How about the cabin?” He asks, hand still on my shoulder, “Was anything out of place when you were there?”

“Still without a roof.”

The “Cabin” is a remarkable structure inside Landsmen, dating back to the Settler days. Cleverly obscured from the clearing below by a boulder, it’s perched upon a sandstone flat. The structure of it appears like an average, one-room ‘hunter’s cabin’ with a single door and lower entry, except it is triple the size of any others constructed in the same time period. Built from several, hundred-pound stones over a deep foundation, it has an interior wraparound staircase, corner landing platforms, and side tunnels, all leading to an unknown, lower level.

My father thinks the cabin is ‘cool,’ my mother thinks it’s ‘creepy.’ For myself, I love the ‘Labyrinthine Barn.’ We realize this cabin is a unique artifact, and are including it as part of a digital Walking Tour my parents will submit to the National Parks Service.

The “Walking Tour” is a digital photographic project at nps.gov, in the Lewis and Clark section, demarcating special interest structures near main stops along the trail.

The cabin first came to our attention when old Grandpa Diego mumbled something before falling asleep. A man of few words, I didn't always understand him growing up. When I asked him what was inside the forest during a day trip to the property, he answered, “Let it grow, and nobody be a disturbin’ business in it.” When I asked him how he acquired it, he said, “Ran it for a bit to keep the fly-footed kinfolk at the cabin.” He fiercely protected whatever “business” happened there. We looked through an old photo album from the 40s, of ‘Good Ole’ Grandad Diego’ and his posse: with shotguns, and sidearms, during their, no-trespass defense of Landsmen. I hear his voice in my head, as I remember my own reactions to his stories. Grandpa became the sole beneficiary of the seventeen-acre wood, passing it to my father before he died. Rumor has it the other five in the posse vanished, but Grandpa claimed otherwise: “Needin’ protection, so they don’t come knockin’ for me,” he’d say, keeping a slew of secrets, clear to his grave.

When I was in high school, my father commissioned a forestry-management team to create a surveyor’s map. Their assignment: three overnights to cut trails, and take core samples for evaluation. Setting their campsite in a clearing, they would widen it over the next three days. On the fourth day, they packed up and hiked out. They took pictures for my father, who renewed their contract to build a permanent base camp there for future visitors.

He sent them again into the woods with more equipment, wood milling tools, and netting. They installed the Observation Deck at Basecamp, out of forest planks, with fencing on the slope side. The first two days were uneventful.

On the third night, however, the chatter started.

They claimed ‘human voices called to them all night,’ yet they could never see who, what, or where the sound originated. They huddled close all night, with one man on watch at a time, but no one slept. The voices moved from one location to another. Then, finally, from a single location, one voice chattered at them until sunrise, at which time, it went quiet. In the late morning, the exhausted team cut another trail toward where the voice was last heard, accidentally discovering the cabin. The roof had long ago collapsed so they installed safety netting over the lines, a perimeter fence, and a gate. As they secured the last fastener, the voice boomed once, prompting the sound of a flock of woodpeckers to ‘peck in applause.’ The surveyor team promptly left.

Of all the photographs taken, only a grainy one exists.

My dad would regularly ignore the surveyors’ claims, by bringing mom and me for day hikes. Some visits would last until after dark: s’mores, ghost stories, and my dad's favorite campfire tune, ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky.’

“The most terrifying ghost stories aren’t just tales,” he said to me one late night. “But rather, a group of sightings that suggest something or someone decided to stay. I am thankful we are here.” We never shared about the surveyors’ encounters. We just admired the construction of their observation deck.

“The hunt is over!” Mom calls from the kitchen, as the clatter stops.

She enters with a tray of bottled juices, and an improvised selection of nuts, sausage, cheese, and packs of honey.

“Ali,” my dad scolds. “We just got off a two-week trip to L.A. Tomorrow, we leave for Germany. We are not staying to—“

“Oh Mike, relax,” my mom shushes. “We can talk to Wen for a few minutes about his empty cupboards before we can’t see him for another two weeks.”

“You’re right, Dear,” my dad dips a sausage in the honey.

“Your father and I are so relieved you’re okay,” my mother begins. “So, when was the last time you went to Landsmen?”

“Mom, I’m up there for one night every two weeks. Was planning a longer visit after you two left, but this last week was vicious with some kind of virus,” I recount.

“Believe me, I get it, Son,” my dad pats me on the forearm. “Remind me to tell you sometime, about your Aunt Mary-Jean's Mexican Revenge.”

“Diego, that’s gross,” Mom scolds, shutting down the subject. “And why, but for all of those vitamins, is your fridge emptier than a new one?”

Grimly, I recount what I remember of my ordeal, realizing that, except for a battery of strange dreams in those first four days, a total memory blackout is all I have for the rest.

“Bought a good supply of supplements before you left for California, and gave myself a dose on night one. I must’ve taken more, but I don’t remember when.”

“Wendel, you wolfed them down like some kind of animal,” Mom emphasizes.

“Did you eat anything else?” my dad asks, concerned: “That many vitamins would make anyone sick on an empty stomach.”

“I don’t know, maybe I was too sick to notice?” I try to remember. “Until the fever lifted late last night, it’s been like a deep hibernation.”

As they listen to my strange story, I have an uneasy feeling in my chest: I know I was sleeping a lot, but was I eating a lot, too? If not, why am I so full?

“No one needs that many supplements unless they’re fifteen feet tall. Those vitamins are all that kept you flying,” my Mom frets, pushing the plate toward me.

My parents give each other the ‘look.’ I see they’re running out of questions. My mom goes upstairs.

My dad leans toward me, trying to conceal his urgency. “Did you run into something? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I survived some kind of attack,” I say, using the quotations gesture. “Amazingly, I feel fine.”

“Did you call anyone for help?” my dad asks.

“I guess I was really out of it,” I shrug, ignoring the plate. “The last two weeks were hairy.”

An upstairs door opens and my mom comes down.

“Are you two talking about Bigfoot again?” She calls, just out of sight.

“I’m really okay, dad,” I say quietly, as Mom appears on the landing.

“No, Darling, I was about to speak to Wendel for both of us that his welfare is the most important. Screw Landsmen.”

“Screw Landsmen!” mom and dad raise their juice to a toast.

“Thanks!” I say.

“But at the end of the day,” he wags his finger. “As long as we know you’re okay, we need these other things done, for the history of the place.”

“History of what” I wonder.

“You mean, history of who,” My mom chimes. “Someone built a ‘cabin’ out of sandstone with multiple stories below ground, and fourteen-foot ceilings inside a deep hole going nowhere.”

“You’re right, Mom. Who,” I agree.

“Someone with tremendous strength, leverage, and skill,” my dad says, rubbing his chin. “The cabin will outlast us all. Still, we need your help to get the tour submitted by the new deadline.”

"Because NPS pushed it forward,” Mom adds. “From two months to two weeks.”

“Jeez, why would they do that?!”

“Who knows,” Dad rolls his eyes. “Government.”

“Are you sure it was a fire?” I ask.

“We’re pretty sure, Son,” he hands me a list. “Maybe it was a bunch of rowdy teens sending smoke signals.”

“Those rowdy teens,” I joke. “Going all that way to smoke signals?”

My mom gives me a look for being corny.

“A professor of mine once said, that humans are the most dangerous animal.”

“They’re also the most disgusting,” Dad says.

Dad makes a few lewd noises. I chuckle, returning the favor. Mom is not impressed with inappropriate noises.

“Well,” she clucks, as we carry on, getting up again, feigning her trademark ‘I’m-checking-for-dust’ position: elbows bent, fingers curled forward, like a T-Rex. She follows the paneling into the other room.

We snicker as she exits, then with a more serious business look, Dad leans in again.

“You know your mother is a little serious sometimes, yet she’s brilliant and extremely intuitive. All we need is for you to check the fences, gates, and over-netting, and of course, snag those photos to file the NPS thing.”

“Gee Dad, it’s been a little busy these last two weeks, eating all those vitamins, dust, and air.”

My dad grins, lifting his other eyebrow, expectantly. Setting silliness aside, I offer a plan:

“I’ll leave the house with the night vision camera about seven tomorrow, stay overnight, and get photos in the morning. Cool?” My dad’s eyebrow relaxes and camaraderie returns.

“Alissa, we just drove seventeen hours from California by car, instead of eight hours by plane. Before dark, I want to have a burger at that place we like, visit Marley for an hour to tell her she’s a good girl, and eat blueberries on ice cream before I sleep in my bed. I can’t be responsible if I turn into a flying ogre.”

“Flying, indeed,” Mom reenters, with a smile, “We love you, honey, thanks for taking care of this for us. I left our cooler snacks in your car."

“You will let us know, right Son?” My dad confirms.

“Of course!” I promise.

“Maybe get a probiotic moisturizer,” Mom kisses my forehead. “I’ll send you a link.”

My dad turns to me. “Thanks, son. And eat something, will you? So your mother doesn’t howl at me about what I’m eating, forcing me to have to eat her, too.”

We laugh again though, for me, it’s an awkward moment.

At dusk, I pack the camera in its glow-in-the-dark case, into a side pocket on my pack. It’s a little loose, but OK. An orange, two water bottles, and a thermos of my favorite tea. To make my parents happy, I pack yesterday’s morning snacks, too, setting everything next to their cooler dump: more oranges, carrots, peanut butter, protein bars, and chips. I load whatever food I can fit in my pack. Once out of city limits, I screech onto Highway-94, high beams up, piercing the night.

It’s normal for cell service to fizzle three miles after turning off after Lost Boy Creek. A little further, I drive to the single parking space at Landsmen, my headlights beam upon a single railing: Three steps leading off the sloping road onto the surveyor trail, below.

Vesting up, headlamp on low, I catch an eerie reflection of myself in my car’s window: head to toe, glow-in-the-dark. I mentally congratulate myself for adding extra amounts of glow tape and paint to all of my gears’ surfaces. Stepping down the familiar steps, as in countless times before, my muscle memory moves me along the surveyor’s path toward basecamp: a strange, ‘glowing alien’ descending, erasing the darkness, as far as my spectre shines.

Soon, I am at the gate of the base camp’s observation deck, I lean against a post to enter the gate code, when the camera slips out of the loose pocket, tumbling down the slope. Awe, man! I see where it lands, way out of my reach. Glad it didn’t roll off out of sight, I tell myself. Unlocking the gate, I step onto the deck and attach my pack reflector over the ledge. Next to it, is a small patch of fireweed. After leaving the deck, it’s a short scuffle to the camera. Retrieving and re-securing it, I test functionality, power it up, and press record. Good. It works.

Now, where’s that reflector? I look up toward the deck.

There it is, next to the flowers, right where I left it.

Climbing about five feet, a startling sound comes from another area, farther along the deck, above. Instinctively, I move my eyes toward the sound. Something heavy is being dragged, for sure. But what? Unable to hide my glow-in-the-dark me, I crouch and wait.

Probably a bear or deer, I imagine. A water bottle accidentally presses onto the power switch of my pocket radio and bursts music into the night air: Yellowstone Public Radio playing, 'Hall of The Mountain King.' Of all songs, I think to myself! As my eyes adjust, my stomach gurgles with indigestion. I am still feeling uncomfortably full!

Might as well make a racket as I ascend, turning up my headlamp, shouting, and banging water bottles. As I holler, I locate the reflector, climbing another ten feet, or so toward it.

Suddenly, the dragging restarts again and then stops. Briefly looking toward the sound, I determine it is closer to the deck’s ledge, now. Looking back toward the reflector, it is completely obstructed again. What the hell? I quit my yelling and banging and try to focus. Maybe a strap tumbled over it, I think to myself. No matter, as I clang the bottles a few more times, keeping my eyes on the darkness, overhead. To check my vision, I look down, narrowing my eyes in front of my boots. I can see just fine. Gotta be one of the straps just slipped.

Yes. A slipped strap. What else would obstruct it?

A loud plane flies overhead and behind me. I look toward it before turning back to the ledge, this time, looking up to mark how close I am. I see the railing and only darkness behind. My headlamp goes to high.

As my beam falls upon the fireweed and pack, I am expecting to see the fallen strap over the reflector…

But instead, I catch a shocking glimpse of a…Giant claw, sliding away to reveal the reflector???

I slip backward, catching myself. Blinking, I widen my eyes to let in more light. I must be getting tired. There’s nothing there, except for flowers and the reflector.

Is this what the surveyors encountered all those years ago? Wait! No Earth animal has a leg like that, because it wasn’t real. Yes, it’s my imagination again.

I can plainly see my reflector, staring back at me in the unflinching dark.

As the plane engines fade, I step onto the deck, my headlamp reveals nothing. Radio still on, I turn it off, listening.

Good. Spooked off whatever it was.

Lowering my headlamp, I set up camp, a fire, and the camera to include the cabin’s roof gable when the Sun comes up. The moon usually illuminates it, yet I can’t see it tonight. No matter, I’ll see it tomorrow, as I always do. For now, a thick shroud of Montana darkness envelops the area. I check the camera’s settings. Night mode. Good. I’ll just check the cabin, then time for some hot tea.

Soaking in the sounds of the nighttime woods, I walk up the surveyor’s trail for a routine flashlight check. Passing around the boulder, I marvel at the rock's unique shape, and how it hid the cabin all this time. Once past it, I am immediately in the front “yard,” a stretch of, flat-cut, sandstone tiles. As I approach, everything looks normal. I check the safety fence, and gate, giving the roof line netting a good tug. My parents will be happy to hear that no fire affected the cabin.

Now, for some tea.

Sitting at the table, I open my thermos, at last. Hibiscus, red and delicious. The last of the crickets sing as the wind filters through the trees. I am at home under a deep blanket of stars. Setting my mug down, I place my head on my forearms to meditate and close my eyes.

Silence.

Just the way I like it.

Maybe I’m pushing myself too hard. I feel normal and plan to finish my tea, contemplate the heavens, and maybe read by the fire pit…But, I am jarred awake from an insane dream:

I lift my head as the campfire burns in the pit. Small, cobalt-colored lizards frolic in the flickering flames. Above my head, sitting uncomfortably close, sits a huge, bird-faced creature, upon a stone throne. He tosses me a wooden flute, carved in the shape of a deer, expecting me to play until sunrise. At first light, he stops my playing, gesturing that I sit in his chair. As I approach, he hefts the throne above his head and throws it toward the cabin. Running to the cabin with the deer flute between my teeth, the creature lands powerfully behind me. It asks me to fetch a candelabra for him from the cabin’s tunnel. As I advance, the candelabra becomes an oil lamp that tips, spilling flaming oil onto the ground, slowly flowing into the tunnel. I hear deep growls, as silhouettes move upon the mossy stone walls. A startling explosion erupts within seconds from the tunnel. The creatures inside scream, as the stonework collapses inward, opening an inferno onto the arid foothill. One of the cabin’s creatures, far larger than the bird-faced one behind me, jumps from the burning stone structure to the yard’s edge. I cannot see it from behind the firewall. The sound of another wood flute trills somewhere behind me. Turning, I face the bird-faced creature. Now, I am a deer and the flute lies on the ground, smashed in two. Hissing, it squares low, talons out. I try to run, but it leaps at my backside, clamping one foot around my abdomen and hip, and the other into my cheek and neck. Screeching, it rolls me over, pinning me to a broken cabin stone. The little, blue lizards appear over me salivating, as I am filleted wide ope—

—Jesus! I jump awake, sitting upright, heart pounding, sweating, and grimy, soothing myself near the fire pit. As the embers glow, the campsite appears the same. Rarely do I remember my dreams and they soon fade when I awaken. But, Holy Hellfire, St. Francis! I hope it is the last of the nightmares.

Wait. I look at my hands.

I don’t remember getting this dirty climbing back up last night? Guess I’m not 100%, yet. However, my chest is deeply uneasy. I glance at my watch —just before six. It’s time to get up. But first:

I gotta pee, like right now!

Much of the dream dissipates as I stand, except for one, nagging detail: the lamp in this dream and yesterday’s is the same.

A cool, sweet mountain air surrounds me. I chug half of the first water thermos, quickly packing up the campsite. Noting that the second water bottle is empty, I figure it must have leaked in last’s night commotion. As daylight arrives, I collect the camera, switch it to day mode, clip it to my helmet, snuff the fire, and drink the rest of that crimson tea. At the last sip, I look toward the cabin’s roof gable. I sputter my sip in disbelief. It can’t be!

Racing to the yard, I am aghast. Attempting to process what I see, the structure is the same as ever, except now, it’s black, not as in a fire, but as if the rock, itself just…Turned black. What? How could this be?

I walk around the yard, checking fences, gates, safety netting, and fastening ropes—everything is in place. However, I am unable to account for the most chilling part: not only is the cabin impossibly black overnight, but someone has also woven a thick, grass roof over the top, with the net inside! I snap pictures at the angles my parents requested and, reaching the front yard, that familiar voice of Grandpa Diego in my mind, grumbles at me:

“Almost time to eat, You.”

Like a switch, hunger overcomes me.

Bounding to basecamp, I maul the oranges, tear into the snacks, and gulp the tea. I hike to my car and get in. My thoughts are in turmoil. Turned black with a roof??? I ask myself while driving west on Highway 94. I need to inform my parents about this, as I wolf down a car seat of leftovers on the thirty-five-mile return trip.

I arrive home that afternoon with groceries. My neighbors approach my car wearing masks. They don’t look thrilled. The closer they get to me, the longer their faces become.

“Our dogs have been digging at your fence since dark yesterday,” says one shifting her feet.

“Smells like something died back there,” says another, folding his arms.

“Died?” I roll the window down as the smell catches me. “Whoa,” I say, my eyes widening, then burning.

“Thanks, neighbors. I’ll take care of it,” letting myself in the backyard gate. The stench is intense. As I reach the source, I stumble backward at sight. Grabbing my phone, I make an urgent call to Fish & Wildlife and request the most bizarre house call of my natural, Montana life.

Halfway up the mound, beside the chokecherry tree, lies what’s left of a mule deer, gruesomely eaten in half. In two, separate pieces, only the head with neck, and rump with rear legs remain. The spinal bone sticks out from both ends, stripped bare, crushed, and severed at the middle. Wondering how the deer managed to meet such a fate, I walk the perimeter of my garden surrounded by a ten-foot-deer-repelling fence. There is no sign of abrasion or breakage; nothing. Returning to the remains, an awareness grips me. I get a respirator, heavy gloves, and a spray bottle of vinegar and bleach from the garage. Spraying the surrounding areas, I turn half of the carcass over at a time. I identify a huge and familiar imprint at the head/neck, and another, deep one over the rump/rear legs. Raptor!?? Impossible! A bird of prey with a foot this size would have to be twenty feet tall!

“What in the Hell on Earth!” I exclaim aloud, astounded that no one heard such a disturbance. A twenty-foot tall bird ate a two-hundred-fifty-pound deer, like a Praying Mantis, crunching and unraveling its meal, mere feet from my bedroom window, and I was fast asleep!

I was asleep this past ten days, wasn’t I?

As soon as the experts arrive, I’m leaving.

As anxiety and despair rise inside me, I am hounded by terrifying thoughts. How did this deer end up in my backyard? What kind of animal could make such a flight?

The most dangerous animal.

Returning late afternoon, Fish & Wildlife is gone—a bleach-vinegar pungency hangs in the air, and the backyard looks less sullied.

A text arrives from my dad, from somewhere in Frankfurt. Oh! The footage. Sitting down, sound up, I hit play.

As expected, my climb back to basecamp has sound, yet is black. The fall must have reset the mode. Oh well. Fast-forward to basecamp. No mischievous youth “sending smoke signals.” Just me setting up camp, leaving for ten minutes, and returning to sit, drink tea, look up at the stars, and put my head down. Strangely, I snore almost immediately, sleeping for twenty minutes.

At the twenty-first minute, to my shivers, it appears that I experience consecutive nightmares, one after the other, and I’ve no idea how I slept through all of them:

After thirty minutes, already in shock, I watch the terrifying creature, whose foot I glimpsed near my pack last night, appears. It's three times my height! Nimble and swift, its glossy black feathers cover an angular-framed body with thickly padded, raptor feet, and long, dangling fingers. Plus, its sunken, feathered face has no eyes! Only a blade-like horn above a mouth of many rows of sharp teeth defines where its eyes would be. This monster could easily chew through a two-hundred-fifty-pound ungulate while clenching it with its talons.

And what’s more frightening than the creature, itself, is that its appearance pales in comparison to what happens just before and right after it enters and leaves:

I gaze at myself, snoring in the footage.

To my horror, I see me stand, and walk to the cabin trailhead, climbing upward and out of frame. While I’m away, the creature silently enters and sweeps toward the fire pit, where it “stirs” the flame for hours, like a witch casting a weather-making spell in the heart of the family forest. The footage is grainy, yet I realize the creature and I are never together. At 4:37 am, it returns to the cabin trailhead, lifting itself off the ground. Dear God, it can fly! As the campsite is empty, I ask myself whether this is the same creature who visited my backyard and the surveyors. An uneasy answer gnaws at my stomach.

“No,” I hear Grandpa Diego's voice. “Someone hungrier, You.”

At that, I watch the footage with dread.

After the creature leaves, I see myself returning to the table, drink the entire, second water bottle, and fall asleep into a living nightmare.

————— WENDEL DIEGO —————