Weatherwood certainteed landmark weathered wood shingles
THE FOUR BROTHERS
2023.06.02 00:59 JoshAsdvgi THE FOUR BROTHERS
| THE FOUR BROTHERS; OR INYANHOKSILA (STONE BOY) Alone and apart from their tribe dwelt four orphan brothers. They had erected a very comfortable hut, although the materials used were only willows, hay, birch bark, and adobe mud. After the completion of their hut, the oldest brother laid out the different kinds of work to be done by the four of them. He and the second and third brothers were to do all the hunting, and the youngest brother was to do the house work, cook the meals, and keep plenty of wood on hand at all times. As his older brothers would leave for their hunting very early every morning, and would not return till late at night, the little fellow always found plenty of spare time to gather into little piles fine dry wood for their winter use. Thus the four brothers lived happily for a long time. One day while out gathering and piling up wood, the boy heard a rustling in the leaves and looking around he saw a young woman standing in the cherry bushes, smiling at him. "Who are you, and where did you come from?" asked the boy, in surprise. "I am an orphan girl and have no relatives living. I came from the village west of here. I learned from rabbit that there were four orphan brothers living here all alone, and that the youngest was keeping house for his older brothers, so I thought I would come over and see if I couldn't have them adopt me as their sister, so that I might keep house for them, as I am very poor and have no relations, neither have I a home." She looked so pitiful and sad that the boy thought to himself, "I will take her home with me, poor girl, no matter what my brothers think or say." Then he said to her: "Come on, tanke (sister). You may go home with me; I am sure my older brothers will be glad to have you for our sister." When they arrived at the hut, the girl hustled about and cooked up a fine hot supper, and when the brothers returned they were surprised to see a girl sitting by the fire in their hut. After they had entered the youngest brother got up and walked outside, and a short time after the oldest brother followed him out. "Who is that girl, and where did she come from?" he asked his brother. Whereupon the brother told him the whole story. Upon hearing this the oldest brother felt very sorry for the poor orphan girl and going back into the hut he spoke to the girl, saying: "Sister, you are an orphan, the same as we; you have no relatives, no home. We will be your brothers, and our poor hut shall be your home. Henceforth call us brothers, and you will be our sister." "Oh, how happy I am now that you take me as your sister. I will be to you all as though we were of the same father and mother," said the girl. And true to her word, she looked after everything of her brothers and kept the house in such fine shape that the brothers blessed the day that she came to their poor little hut. She always had an extra buckskin suit and two pairs of moccasins hanging at the head of each one's bed. Buffalo, deer, antelope, bear, wolf, wildcat, mountain lion and beaver skins she tanned by the dozen, and piled nicely in one corner of the hut. When the Indians have walked a great distance and are very tired, they have great faith in painting their feet, claiming that paint eases the pain and rests their feet. After their return from a long day's journey, when they would be lying down resting, the sister would get her paint and mix it with the deer tallow and rub the paint on her brother's feet, painting them up to their ankles. The gentle touch of her hands, and the soothing qualities of the tallow and paint soon put them into a deep, dreamless steep. Many such kind actions on her part won the hearts of the brothers, and never was a full blood sister loved more than was this poor orphan girl, who had been taken as their adopted sister. In the morning when they arose, the sister always combed their long black silken scalp locks and painted the circle around the scalp lock a bright vermillion. When the hunters would return with a goodly supply of beef, the sister would hurry and relieve them of their packs, hanging each one high enough from the ground so the prowling dogs and coyotes could not reach them. The hunters each had a post on which to hang his bow and flint head arrows. (Good hunters never laid their arrows on the ground, as it was considered unlucky to the hunter who let his arrows touch the earth after they had been out of the quiver). They were all perfectly happy, until one day the older brother surprised them all by saying: "We have a plentiful supply of meat on hand at present to last us for a week or so. I am going for a visit to the village west of us, so you boys all stay at home and help sister. Also gather as much wood as you can and I will be back again in four days. On my return we will resume our hunting and commence getting our year's supply of meat." He left the next morning, and the last they saw of him was while he stood at the top of the long range of hills west of their home. Four days had come and gone and no sign of the oldest brother. "I am afraid that our brother has met with some accident," said the sister. "I am afraid so, too," said the next oldest. " I must go and search for him; he may be in some trouble where a little help would get him out." The second brother followed the direction his brother had taken, and when he came to the top of the long range of hills he sat down and gazed long and steadily down into the long valley with a beautiful creek winding through it. Across the valley was a long plain stretching for miles beyond and finally ending at the foot of another range of hills, the counterpart of the one upon which he sat. After noting the different landmarks carefully, he arose and slowly started down the slope and soon came to the creek he had seen from the top of the range. Great was his surprise on arriving at the creek to find what a difference there was in the appearance of it from the range and where he stood. From the range it appeared to be a quiet, harmless, laughing stream. Now he saw it to be a muddy, boiling, bubbling torrent, with high perpendicular banks. For a long time he stood, thinking which way to go, up or down stream. He had just decided to go down stream, when, on chancing to look up, he noticed a thin column of smoke slowly ascending from a little knoll. He approached the place cautiously and noticed a door placed into the creek bank on the opposite side of the stream. As he stood looking at the door, wondering who could be living in a place like that, it suddenly opened and a very old appearing woman came out and stood looking around her. Soon she spied the young man, and said to him: "My grandchild, where did you come from and whither are you bound?" The young man answered: "I came from east of this ridge and am in search of my oldest brother, who came over in this direction five days ago and who has not yet returned." "Your brother stopped here and ate his dinner with me, and then left, traveling towards the west," said the old witch, for such she was. " Now, grandson, come across on that little log bridge up the stream there and have your dinner with me. I have it all cooked now and just stepped outside to see if there might not be some hungry traveler about, whom I could invite in to eat dinner with me." The young man went up the stream a little distance and found a couple of small logs which had been placed across the stream to serve as a bridge. He crossed over and went down to the old woman's dugout hut. "Come in grandson, and eat. I know you must be hungry." The young man sat down and ate a real hearty meal. On finishing he arose and said: "Grandmother, I thank you for your meal and kindness to me. I would stay and visit with you awhile, as I know it must be very lonely here for you, but I am very anxious to find my brother, so I must be going. On my return I will stop with my brother and we will pay you a little visit." "Very well, grandson, but before you go, I wish you would do me a little favor. Your brother did it for me before he left, and cured me, but it has come back on me again. I am subject to very severe pains along the left side of my backbone, all the way from my shoulder blade down to where my ribs attach to my backbone, and the only way I get any relief from the pain is to have some one kick me along the side." (She was a witch, and concealed in her robe a long sharp steel spike. It was placed so that the last kick they would give her, their foot would hit the spike and they would instantly drop off into a swoon, as if dead.) "If I won't hurt you too much, grandmother, I certainly will be glad to do it for you," said the young man, little thinking he would be the one to get hurt. "No, grandson, don't be afraid of hurting me; the harder you kick the longer the pain stays away." She laid down on the floor and rolled over on to her right side, so he could get a good chance to kick the left side where she said the pain was located. As he moved back to give the first kick, he glanced along the floor and he noticed a long object wrapped in a blanket, lying against the opposite wall. He thought it looked strange and was going to stop and investigate, but just then the witch cried out as if in pain. "Hurry up, grandson, I am going to die if you don't hurry and start in kicking." " I can investigate after I get through with her," thought he, so he started in kicking and every kick he would give her she would cry: "Harder, kick harder." He had to kick seven times before he would get to the end of the pain, so he let out as hard as he could drive, and when he came to the last kick he hit the spike, and driving it through his foot, fell down in a dead swoon, and was rolled up in a blanket by the witch and placed beside his brother at the opposite side of the room. When the second brother failed to return, the third went in search of the two missing ones. He fared no better than the second one, as he met the old witch who served him in a similar manner as she had his two brothers. "Ha! Ha!" she laughed, when she caught the third, "I have only one more of them to catch, and when I get them I will keep them all here a year, and then I will turn them into horses and sell them back to their sister. I hate her, for I was going to try and keep house for them and marry the oldest one, but she got ahead of me and became their sister, so now I will get my revenge on her. Next year she will be riding and driving her brothers and she won't know it." When the third brother failed to return, the sister cried and begged the last one not to venture out in search of them. But go he must, and go he did, only to do as his three brothers had done. Now the poor sister was nearly distracted. Day and night she wandered over hills and through woods in hopes she might find or hear of some trace of them. Her wanderings were in vain. The hawks had not seen them after they had crossed the little stream. The wolves and coyotes told her that they had seen nothing of her brothers out on the broad plains, and she had given them up for dead. One day, as she was sitting by the little stream that flowed past their hut, throwing pebbles into the water and wondering what she should do, she picked up a pure white pebble, smooth and round, and after looking at it for a long time, threw it into the water. No sooner had it hit the water than she saw it grow larger. She took it out and looked at it and threw it in again. This time it had assumed the form of a baby. She took it out and threw it in the third time and the form took life and began to cry: "Ina, ina" (mother, mother). She took the baby home and fed it soup, and it being an unnatural baby, quickly grew up to a good sized boy. At the end of three months he was a good big, stout youth. One day he said: "Mother, why are you living here alone? To whom do all these fine clothes and moccasins belong?" She then told him the story of her lost brothers. "Oh, I know now where they are. You make me lots of arrows. I am going to find my uncles." She tried to dissuade him from going, but he was determined and said: "My father sent me to you so that I could find my uncles for you, and nothing can harm me, because I am stone and my name is "Stone Boy." The mother, seeing that he was determined to go, made a whole quiver full of arrows for him, and off he started. When he came to the old witch's hut, she was nowhere to be seen, so he pushed the door in and entered. The witch was busily engaged cooking dinner. "Why, my dear grandchild, you are just in time for dinner. Sit down and we will eat before you continue your journey." Stone boy sat down and ate dinner with the old witch. She watched him very closely, but when she would be drinking her soup he would glance hastily around the room. Finally he saw the four bundles on the opposite side of the room, and he guessed at once that there lay his four uncles. When he had finished eating he took out his little pipe and filled it with "kini-kinic," and commenced to smoke, wondering how the old woman had managed to fool his smart uncles. He couldn't study it out, so when he had finished his smoke he arose to pretend to go. When the old woman saw him preparing to leave, she said: "Grandson, will you kick me on the left side of my backbone. I am nearly dead with pain and if you kick me good and hard it will cure me." "All right, grandma," said the boy. The old witch lay down on the floor and the boy started in to kick. At the first kick he barely touched her. "Kick as hard as you can, grandson; don't be afraid you will hurt me, because you can't." With that Stone Boy let drive and broke two ribs. She commenced to yell and beg him to stop, but he kept on kicking until he had kicked both sides of her ribs loose from the backbone. Then he jumped on her backbone and broke it and killed the old witch. He built a big fire outside and dragged her body to it, and threw her into the fire. Thus ended the old woman who was going to turn his uncles into horses. Next he cut willows and stuck them into the ground in a circle. The tops he pulled together, making a wickieup. He then took the old woman's robes and blankets and covered the wickieup so that no air could get inside. He then gathered sage brush and covered the floor with a good thick bed of sage; got nice round stones and got them red hot in the fire, and placed them in the wickieup and proceeded to carry his uncles out of the hut and lay them down on the soft bed of sage. Having completed carrying and depositing them around the pile of rocks, he got a bucket of water and poured it on the hot rocks, which caused a great vapor in the little wickie-up. He waited a little while and then listened and heard some breathing inside, so he got another bucket and poured that on also. After awhile he could hear noises inside as though some one were moving about. He went again and got the third bucket and after he had poured that on the rocks, one of the men inside said: "Whoever you are, good friend, don't bring us to life only to scald us to death again." Stone boy then said: "Are all of you alive?" "Yes," said the voice. "Well, come out," said the boy. And with that he threw off the robes and blankets, and a great cloud of vapor arose and settled around the top of the highest peak on the long range, and from that did Smoky Range derive its name. The uncles, when they heard who the boy was, were very happy, and they all returned together to the anxiously waiting sister. As soon as they got home, the brothers worked hard to gather enough wood to last them all winter. Game they could get at all times of the year, but the heavy fall of snow covered most of the dry wood and also made it very difficult to drag wood through the deep snow. So they took advantage of the nice fall weather and by the time the snow commenced falling they had enough wood gathered to last them throughout the winter. After the snow fell a party of boys swiftly coasted down the big hill west of the brothers' hut. The Stone boy used to stand and watch them for hours at a time. His youngest uncle said: "Why don't you go up and coast with them?" The boy said: "They may be afraid of me, but I guess I will try once, anyway." So the next morning when the crowd came coasting, Stone boy started for the hill. When he had nearly reached the bottom of the coasting hill all of the boys ran off excepting two little fellows who had a large coaster painted in different colors and had little bells tied around the edges, so when the coaster was in motion the bells made a cheerful tinkling sound. As Stone boy started up the hill the two little fellows started down and went past him as though shot from a hickory bow. When they got to the end of their slide, they got off and started back up the hill. It being pretty steep, Stone boy waited for them, so as to lend a hand to pull the big coaster up the hill. As the two little fellows came up with him he knew at once that they were twins, as they looked so much alike that the only way one could be distinguished from the other was by the scarfs they wore. One wore red, the other black. He at once offered to help them drag their coaster to the top of the hill. When they got to the top the twins offered their coaster to him to try a ride. At first he refused, but they insisted on his taking it, as they said they would sooner rest until he came back. So he got on the coaster and flew down the hill, only he was such an expert he made a zigzag course going down and also jumped the coaster off a bank about four feet high, which none of the other coasters dared to tackle. Being very heavy, however, he nearly smashed the coaster. Upon seeing this wonderful jump, and the zigzag course he had taken going down, the twins went wild with excitement and decided that they would have him take them down when he got back. So upon his arrival at the starting point, they both asked him at once to give them the pleasure of the same kind of a ride he had taken. He refused, saying: "We will break your coaster. I alone nearly smashed it, and if we all get on and make the same kind of a jump, I am afraid you will have to go home without your coaster." "Well, take us down anyway, and if we break it our father will make us another one." So he finally consented. When they were all seated ready to start, he told them that when the coaster made the jump they must look straight ahead. "By no means look down, because if you do we will go over the cut bank and land in a heap at the bottom of the gulch." They said they would obey what he said, so off they started swifter than ever, on account of the extra weight, and so swiftly did the sleigh glide over the packed, frozen snow, that it nearly took the twins' breath away. Like an arrow they approached the jump. The twins began to get a little nervous. "Sit steady and look straight ahead," yelled Stone boy. The twin next to Stone boy, who was steering behind, sat upright and looked far ahead, but the one in front crouched down and looked into the coulee. Of course, Stone boy, being behind, fell on top of the twins, and being so heavy, killed both of them instantly, crushing them to a jelly. The rest of the boys, seeing what had happened, hastened to the edge of the bank, and looking down, saw the twins laying dead, and Stone boy himself knocked senseless, lying quite a little distance from the twins. The boys, thinking that all three were killed, and that Stone boy had purposely steered the sleigh over the bank in such a way that it would tip and kill the twins, returned to the village with this report. Now, these twins were the sons of the head chief of the Buffalo Nation. So at once the chief and his scouts went over to the hill to see if the boys had told the truth. When they arrived at the bank they saw the twins lying dead, but where was Stone boy? They looked high and low through the gulch, but not a sign of him could they find. Tenderly they picked up the dead twins and carried them home, then held a big council and put away the bodies of the dead in Buffalo custom. A few days after this the uncles were returning from a long journey. When they drew near their home they noticed large droves of buffalo gathered on their side of the range. Hardly any buffalo ever ranged on this east side of the range before, and the brothers thought it strange that so many should so suddenly appear there now. When they arrived at home their sister told them what had happened to the chief's twins, as her son had told her the whole story upon his arrival at home after the accident. "Well, probably all the buffalo we saw were here for the council and funeral," said the older brother. "But where is my nephew?" (Stone boy) he asked his sister. "He said he had noticed a great many buffalo around lately and he was going to learn, if possible, what their object was," said the sister. "Well, we will wait until his return." When Stone boy left on his trip that morning, before the return of his uncles, he was determined to ascertain what might be the meaning of so many buffalo so near the home of himself and uncles. He approached several bunches of young buffalo, but upon seeing him approaching they would scamper over the hills. Thus he wandered from bunch to bunch, scattering them all. Finally he grew tired of their cowardice and started for home. When he had come to within a half mile or so of home he saw an old shaggy buffalo standing by a large boulder, rubbing on it first one horn and then the other. On coming up close to him, the boy saw that the bull was so old he could hardly see, and his horns so blunt that he could have rubbed them for a year on that boulder and not sharpened them so as to hurt anyone. "What are you doing here, grandfather?" asked the boy. "I am sharpening my horns for the war," said the bull. "What war?" asked the boy. "Haven't you heard," said the old bull, who was so near sighted he did not recognize Stone boy. "The chief's twins were killed by Stone boy, who ran them over a cut bank purposely, and the chief has ordered all of his buffalo to gather here, and when they arrive we are going to kill Stone boy and his mother and his uncles." "Is that so? When is the war to commence?" "In five days from now we will march upon the uncles and trample and gore them all to death." "Well, grandfather, I thank you for your information, and in return will do you a favor that will save you so much hard work on your blunt horns." So saying he drew a long arrow from his quiver and strung his bow, attached the arrow to the string and drew the arrow half way back. The old bull, not seeing what was going on, and half expecting some kind of assistance in his horn sharpening process, stood perfectly still. Thus spoke Stone boy: "Grandfather, you are too old to join in a war now, and besides if you got mixed up in that big war party you might step in a hole or stumble and fall and be trampled to death. That would be a horrible death, so I will save you all that suffering by just giving you this. " At this word he pulled the arrow back to the flint head and let it fly. True to his aim, the arrow went in behind the old bull's foreleg, and with such force was it sent that it went clear through the bull and stuck into a tree two hundred feet away. Walking over to the tree, he pulled out his arrow. Coolly straightening his arrow between his teeth and sighting it for accuracy, he shoved it back into the quiver with its brothers, exclaiming: "I guess, grandpa, you won't need to sharpen your horns for Stone boy and his uncles." Upon his arrival home he told his uncles to get to work building three stockades with ditches between and make the ditches wide and deep so they will hold plenty of buffalo. "The fourth fence I will build myself," he said. The brothers got to work early and worked until very late at night. They built three corrals and dug three ditches around the hut, and it took them three days to complete the work. Stone boy hadn't done a thing towards building his fence yet, and there were only two days more left before the charge of the buffalo would commence. Still the boy didn't seem to bother himself about the fence. Instead he had his mother continually cutting arrow sticks, and as fast as she could bring them he would shape them, feather and head them. So by the time his uncles had their fences and corrals finished he had a thousand arrows finished for each of his uncles. The last two days they had to wait, the uncles joined him and they finished several thousand more arrows. The evening before the fifth day he told his uncles to put up four posts, so they could use them as seats from which to shoot. While they were doing this, Stone boy went out to scout and see how things looked. At daylight he came hurriedly in saying, "You had better get to the first corral; they are coming." "You haven't built your fence, nephew." Whereupon Stone boy said: "I will build it in time; don't worry, uncle." The dust on the hillsides rose as great clouds of smoke from a forest fire. Soon the leaders of the charge came in sight, and upon seeing the timber stockade they gave forth a great snort or roar that fairly shook the earth. Thousands upon thousands of mad buffalo charged upon the little fort. The leaders hit the first stockade and it soon gave way. The maddened buffalo pushed forward by the thousands behind them; plunged forward, only to fall into the first ditch and be trampled to death by those behind them. The brothers were not slow in using their arrows, and many a noble beast went down before their deadly aim with a little flint pointed arrow buried deep in his heart. The second stockade stood their charge a little longer than did the first, but finally this gave way, and the leaders pushed on through, only to fall into the second ditch and meet a similar fate to those in the first. The brothers commenced to look anxiously towards their nephew, as there was only one more stockade left, and the second ditch was nearly bridged over with dead buffalo, with the now thrice maddened buffalo attacking the last stockade more furiously than before, as they could see the little hut through the openings in the corral. "Come in, uncles," shouted Stone boy. They obeyed him, and stepping to the center he said: "Watch me build my fence." Suiting the words, he took from his belt an arrow with a white stone fastened to the point and fastening it to his bow, he shot it high in the air. Straight up into the air it went, for two or three thousand feet, then seemed to stop suddenly and turned with point down and descended as swiftly as it had ascended. Upon striking the ground a high stone wall arose, enclosing the hut and all who were inside. Just then the buffalo broke the last stockade only to fill the last ditch up again. In vain did the leaders butt the stone wall. They hurt themselves, broke their horns and mashed their snouts, but could not even scar the wall. The uncles and Stone boy in the meantime rained arrows of death into their ranks. When the buffalo chief saw what they had to contend with, he ordered the fight off. The crier or herald sang out: "Come away, come away, Stone boy and his uncles will kill all of us." So the buffalo withdrew, leaving over two thousand of their dead and wounded on the field, only to be skinned and put away for the feasts of Stone boy and his uncles, who lived to be great chiefs of their own tribe, and whose many relations soon joined them on the banks of Stone Boy Creek. submitted by JoshAsdvgi to Native_Stories [link] [comments] |
2023.06.01 20:49 MoxGoat Does this estimate seem fair? This covers about an 850sq ft section of our house (an addition) in CAD
2023.05.31 01:57 _ok_mate_ Considering this quote and would like some educated opinions. I have never replaced a roof before and i am a total noob.
Hey guys, first time replacing a roof and its been a huge learning experience this past week.
The latest roofer i am considering uses Certainteed products.
My roof is 2,200 sq ft.
Here is the detailed quote for those interested:
https://ibb.co/Ny1X2R3 He has given me a list of upgrades which may or may not be needed. So i'm looking for some opinions on the quote and which upgrades may be worth the extra money.
1) Certainteed Roof Runner, or +$700 for CT Diamond Deck.
2) 3 tab for ridge caps (quote doesnt seem to note which ones), or +$800 for Cedar Crest, or +$400 for Shadow Ridge.
He says Shadow Ridge are the exact same as 3 tabs but have a slightly different coloration to make them pop. He said if i do want to upgrade these i should go Cedar Crest or stick with 3 tab.
3) Certainteed Landmark or +$1300 for Landmark Pro.
4) Certainteed 3 star warranty, or 5 star warranty $350.
Interesting to note this quote doesn't include CertainTeed's Ridge Vents which similar quotes from other companies did. I'm waiting to hear back if he wants an upcharge on those also.
Also quote says 4 nails per shingle, where as other quotes i have been given apply 6 nails per shingle. What is the standard?
For comparison, if you'd like to compare it to another quote i have.. this is the other company i am considering which is a similar price and includes the ridge vents:
https://old.reddit.com/Roofing/comments/13r1q44/i_feel_like_im_trying_to_read_egyptian/ Notes on this quote from that previous post are that:
1) XT25 ridge caps are supposedly trash
2) it includes the ridge vents which is nice
3) only 3 years labor warranty vs 5 on this new quote
4) uses 6 nails instead of 4
5) downpayment is ridiculously HUGE.
submitted by
_ok_mate_ to
Roofing [link] [comments]
2023.05.29 23:45 Daniel15 Slight colour variation in shingles
2023.05.29 04:46 scarlet2248 Recommended Wedding Venues by State Part I
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Hood National Forest. Unlike other wedding venues, guided hikes and rafting excursions are available here. There is also a golf course for your use. The largest venue can accommodate up to 400 people. Prices start at $100 per person. Lakeside Gardens Located at 16211 SE Foster Rd Portland, Lakeside Gardens offers essential vendors for photography, videography, flowers, DJs, and hair and makeup services. It is surrounded by a lake and offers a natural view of the garden. The largest hospitality venue can accommodate up to 300 people. Prices start at $100 per person. Washington Wedding Venues The Edgewater Hotel The luxury hotel at 2411 Alaskan Way, Seattle, was named "Best Classic Hospitality Venue in the Seattle Area" by Seattle Bride magazine. With views of Elliott Bay, the Olympic Mountains, and the Seattle skyline. The ballroom can accommodate up to 220 guests and prices start at around $200 per person. Sodo Park Located at 3200 1st Avenue South, Suite 100 in Seattle. This is a century-old building factory with a different style that makes it very popular in Seattle. The high beams and steamy ceilings make it unique. The entire venue can accommodate up to 300 guests and costs around $150 per person. https://preview.redd.it/7pydpxau5q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=6bb68468589b0b0fd4001d5f0fd9bba8b87ecc81 Cedarbrook Lodge The address is 18525 36th Ave S, Seattle. Here you will find a lush garden setting and luxurious accommodations. Indoor and outdoor hospitality venues are available to choose from, starting at $150 per person. Arizona Wedding Venues Boulders Resort & Spa The address is 34631 N Tom Darlington Dr, Scottsdale. This resort has a fantastic desert and rocky landscape. With open views and the vibrant colors of the desert sky at sunset. Offers a luxurious spa, and outdoor ceremony space. Prices start at $200 per person and can accommodate up to 300 guests. The Phoenician Located at 6000 East Camelback Road Scottsdale. There are various styles of venues to choose from, whether it be lush green gardens, sparkling waterfalls, or breathtaking valley views. There are also several sizes of banquet rooms to choose from. Prices start at $250 per person. Arizona Biltmore The resort is located at 2400 E. Missouri Ave Phoenix. Nestled among palm trees and mountains. A magical oasis forms at the base of the Phoenix Mountain Reserve, enjoying a tranquil desert setting. There are also two pools available and a total of six wedding venue options for up to 400 people. Starting at $150 per person. Nevada Wedding Venues The Venetian An old-school luxury hotel located at 3355 South Las Vegas Boulevard, it can bring you the most traditional and unique Las Vegas-style wedding. Here you can admire the Italian style of architecture. Featuring indoor and outdoor ceremony spaces, and luxury accommodations. Starting at $200 per person. Red Rock Casino Resort & Spa Located at 11011 W Charleston Boulevard, Las Vegas. Unlike other luxury hotels, here you have a view of the Red Rock Canyon. The hotel offers five ballrooms and wedding venues that can accommodate up to 300 people. Prices start at $150 per person. Neon Museum Want to try something different for your wedding venue? Choose the Neon Museum at 770 Las Vegas Boulevard North, Las Vegas, with its vintage neon signage, outdoor ceremony space, and unique atmosphere. You can take very vintage and fun photos. Prices are $2,500 for a two-hour rental, perfect for smaller weddings. https://preview.redd.it/y81lp1mw5q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=9c2444c8bee3e004a0d33ecaa3a0b3e063374816 Idaho Wedding Venues Boise Depot Located at 2603 W Eastover Terrace, Boise. This is a historic Spanish-style building that was once used as a waiting room with the building. 8-hour rental is $1,455 and can accommodate a minimum of 165 people. It is important to note that government-owned venues like this have strict rules of use. So it is best to check carefully before renting. https://preview.redd.it/ltd94bwy5q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=ccee5ac0e7cc98df66eb8b42662c597758bd8339 Chateau des Fleur The French-style building at 176 S. Rosebud Ln, Eagle. The largest ballroom features ivory walls, beautiful windows, an outdoor exit to the garden, gold chandeliers, and delicate gold wall sconces. Seating for up to 240 guests starts at $100 per person. Still Water Hollow Located at 18120 Dean Ln, Nampa. Has a rustic style and offers brand new indoor barn facilities. Tables and chairs for 150 people, pond with waterfall, fountain, and bridge. Rustic and elegant style venues can be designed for different styles of weddings. 12-hour rentals start at $5,500. Utah Wedding Venues Castle Park A full-service event venue located at 110 South Main Street Lindon. Featuring an old castle-style building with outdoor ceremony space. Starting at $5,500 for a 12-hour rental. Catering, wedding planning, and other services are also available. Red Butte Garden Magnificent gardens at 300 Wakara Way, Salt Lake City. With expansive views of mountains, valleys, and gardens, offering a beautiful backdrop of plants. There are also waterfalls, ponds, and many more beautiful spaces. We recommend coming during the growing season of the plants which is the warmer months. This allows for a ceremony to be held in the stunning rose garden. Four-hour rentals from $2,500. Log Haven Located at 6451 E. Millcreek Canyon Road Salt Lake City has a spectacular mountain wedding and reception venue. With countless natural features and waterfalls, the area also offers activities including skiing, hiking, biking, and golfing. Prices are affordable, with menu pricing starting at $32 per person. Montana Wedding Venues Chico Hot Springs Located at 163 Chico Road Pray, Montana, this is a great year-round destination for weddings in Montana. Offering a variety of natural beauty and architectural features. Besides the historic stone houses, there are also mountain views. You can also soak in the hot springs to relieve the fatigue from the ceremony after a long day. Four-hour rentals start at $2,000. Rockin' TJ Ranch The address is 651 Lynx Ln, Bozeman, with unparalleled views of the Bridger Mountains and open meadows. This wedding venue has been a professional wedding service for 20 years and offers full-service planning. Basic venue packages start at $9,495. The Ranch at Rock Creek Located at 79 Carriage House Ln, Philipsburg, this large ranch allows the exploration of five mountain peaks. Find nature's rest and inspiration in the peaceful, storied West. It is also the world's first Forbes Travel Guide 5-star ranch. With ten square miles of rivers, forests, valleys, and vistas. Of course, this luxury experience comes with a hefty price tag. Charters start at $90,000 per night for groups of 21 or more, plus 23% of the ranch fee. Wyoming Wedding Venues Jackson Lake Lodge Located in Moran, Grand Teton National Park, this is a beautiful lodge less than five minutes from Jackson Lake. Known for its iconic views of the Teton Mountains. It is a must-see venue for couples who love nature. Because of its location within the National Park, Jackson Lake Lodge is open seasonally from mid-May to early October. Rates start at $150 per person. Shooting Star Jackson Hole Golf Club The address is Shooting Star, 6765 Crystal Springs Rd, Teton Village. In addition to the golf course view, a pond, lake, or stream is one of the beautiful views. Starting price is $200 per person. Wyoming Stargazing Are you an astronomy enthusiast? Check out the Stargazing Agency located at 1135 Maple Way G1, Jackson. Their wedding packages include the opportunity to learn about the constellations, planets, and the fascinating stories behind them. Stargazing tour leaders will guide the group through the night sky, answering questions and gaining insight into the beauty of the stars. This will be one of the most unique themed weddings guests have ever attended. Prices start at $175 a person. Colorado Wedding Venues Boettcher Mansion Located at 900 Colorow Rd, Golden's premier historic event venue, the Boettcher Mansion offers unparalleled service in a meticulously maintained estate. Along with the beautiful mansion, there are mountain views for you to enjoy. The ballroom can accommodate up to 150 people with six-hour rentals starting at $3,500. Butterfly Pavilion The Butterfly Pavilion at 6252 W 104th Ave, Westminster can turn your wedding into a fairy tale. Offering outdoor venues such as gazebos, gardens, and a theater. There is also a popular and unique butterfly release ceremony. It is important to note that there are a variety of butterflies and plants, so please treat them with care. The minimum venue rental is $1,800. Great Divide Brewing Company Great Divide Brewing Company, located at 1812 35th St, Denver, allows you to host a beer wedding. Up to 75 guests can be accommodated so they will be in the middle of a keg. The atmosphere will be more relaxed and enjoyable, and a bar and drinks, planning, equipment, and servers will be provided. Rentals are for 6 hours and start at $3000. New Mexico Wedding Venues La Fonda on the Plaza The hotel at 100 E San Francisco St, Santa Fe has a long history as well as a cultural background. It can provide an elegant atmosphere for your wedding, with unique hand-carved furniture in each room. There are four ballrooms to choose from, with authentic New Mexican décor. This includes charming fireplaces, hand-punched pewter chandeliers, and traditional terracotta tiles. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $4,000. Loretto Chapel Located at 207 Old Santa Fe Trail, Santa Fe's Museum of Historic Places is perfect for weddings. Accommodating 139 guests, the interior of the chapel features original stained glass windows and an ornate altar. In particular, the church's famous spiral staircase is the star of many articles and is worth a look. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $2,500 and services include the use of the church and wedding coordinator. https://preview.redd.it/fe6dx2916q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=8d2e10702746d6b6c978cc0149f31cda7e68b97b Albuquerque Balloon Museum This is the hot air balloon museum located at 9201 Balloon Museum Dr. NE, Albuquerque. It offers soaring spaces and panoramic views of the Rio Grande Valley and the Sandia Mountains. The museum features displays of hot air balloons of all colors and eras, including a weather lab. The price to rent the entire museum and North Plaza for six hours is $6,000. North Dakota Wedding Venues Red River Zoo The Zoo at 4255 23rd Ave S, Fargo will be the most interesting wedding venue. The zoo is home to animals such as red pandas, gray wolves, and Pallas cats. There is plenty of space for outdoor weddings as well as indoor receptions, and a carousel is available in one of the venues. Saturday weddings start at $1,500 and services include tables, chairs, and access to the zoo exhibits. The North Dakota Heritage Center The address is 612 E Boulevard Ave, Bismarck. The museum showcases the state's rich history from its earliest geological formations to the present day. Offering a variety of indoor spaces, including galleries and a theater, it provides a unique and educational wedding experience. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $1,500. https://preview.redd.it/9xgracm66q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=1a93e0d6f2377d2b555f63c47fb381ff5a8cf3db Avalon Events Center Prefer a more modern style wedding? The Event Center at 2525 9th Ave S, Fargo, while historic, offers five function rooms and new audio technology. Five ballrooms offer seating for up to 700 people and a full bar. Saturday weddings start at $2,000. South Dakota Wedding Venues Chapel in the Hills The church at 3788 Chapel Ln, Rapid City is a place of beauty and inspiration. There are museums, trails, and hillsides to host services. Weddings are performed by the Chapel's pastor and it is open for weddings from May 1 to September 30 each year. The price is $400 for the use of the chapel and courtyard area. This includes a $100 minister's fee. https://preview.redd.it/1cq5faw76q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=ef16d548f88cab604b857a372daa7e803b756fbf The Lodge at Deadwood The address is 100 Pine Crest Lane, Deadwood and the backdrop will be the beautiful Black Hills. With four adjoining event rooms and the main ballroom, it provides the perfect space for weddings of any size. Wedding packages are available at a variety of prices, with the least expensive buffet package starting at $65 per person for a minimum of 100 people. Buffalo Ridge Resort A rustic resort located at 1312 Coteau St, Gary. Offers charming and historic wedding venues including a restored barn and beautiful chapel. The venue can accommodate up to 300 people and prices start at $4,500 for a Saturday wedding. Nebraska Wedding Venues Scoular Ballroom The Ballroom at 2027 Dodge St, Omaha, is located just minutes from downtown. Located in the historic Scoular building, from the grand Italian marble floors of the atrium to the romantic balcony overlooking the spacious and inviting ballroom. Offering a modern and elegant wedding venue with a grand ballroom and beautiful outdoor terrace. Accommodates up to 300 guests and starts at $4,000 for a Saturday wedding. Rococo Theatre The theater at 140 N 13th St, Lincoln can give you a movie-like wedding. The theater has seating for up to 500 guests. The bride and groom can get married on stage while the guests sit in the first few rows of seats. Saturday weddings start at $2,500. The Barn at the Ackerhurst Dairy Farm Located at 15220 Military Rd, Bennington, this is an Omaha landmark and a historic site in the area. This wedding venue can accommodate up to 450 guests and includes an outdoor ceremony space and a large terrace with a fireplace. Off-season wedding rental rates start at $2,500. Kansas Wedding Venues Madison Avenue Central Park Central Park at 512 E Madison Ave, Derby features a lawn, theater, and playground. And in the southwest corner, there is an event center including an indoor reception and outdoor patio. Accommodating up to 370 people, rates start at $800 for an 8-hour rental. Petroleum Club of Wichita The address is 100 N Broadway St 900, Wichita. this is a rooftop wedding venue located on top of the iconic Ruffin Building. With views of the skyline and city, it offers personalized service and beautiful décor. Wedding venue fees start at $4500. The Oread Hotel Located at 1200 Oread Ave, Lawrence, the hotel has two large outdoor patios. The patio overlooks the city and the Kansas River. There are nine different banquet rooms to choose from, the largest of which can seat up to 275 people. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $4,000. Oklahoma Wedding Venues The Dominion House The main house is located at 602 E. College, Guthrie. The boutique hotel offers both intimate and grand wedding packages, including romantic indoor and outdoor venues. The outdoors includes a wedding garden and a four-season chapel, while the grand ballroom is designed in the opulent style of the 1920s. Wedding packages start at $2,000. Glass Chapel This is an intimate wedding venue located at 1401 West Washington St S, Broken Arrow. This chapel offers a unique and romantic wedding venue with a beautiful glass chapel and outdoor garden. The triangular roof and all-glass walls will make you feel like you are in a fairy tale world. Outside, the gardens and woods complement the modern design. The church can accommodate up to 100 guests and wedding packages start from $2450. The Springs Event Venue This is a wedding planning company that offers multiple venues. Event venues are located in various cities throughout Oklahoma, including Edmond, Norman, and Tulsa. Versatile and affordable wedding venues are available with a variety of indoor and outdoor spaces. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $3,950. Texas Wedding Venues Grand Galvez This is a historic hotel located at 2024 Seawall Blvd, Galveston. The hotel is surrounded by lush gardens, expansive green spaces, and sparkling beaches. An indoor ballroom and terrace are included, and the ballroom features floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the bay. Up to 200 guests can be accommodated for a great wedding service. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $10,000. The Bell Tower on 34th This beautiful clock tower is located at 901 W 34th St, Houston, and has a castle-like interior with a magnificent grand staircase, arches, and marble floors. Every aspect of the building is luxurious. Wedding packages are available on an all-inclusive basis, with prices starting at $10,000 for a Saturday wedding. The Oasis on Lake Travis This restaurant is located at 6550 Comanche Trail, Austin.Along with an event center located 450 feet above Lake Travis, offering unparalleled views. An outdoor patio overlooking the lake is available. Up to 400 guests can be accommodated and prices start at $5,000 for Saturday weddings. Minnesota Wedding Venues The Gale Mansion This mansion at 2115 Stevens Ave, Minneapolis is also a very popular wedding venue. With a warm atmosphere and inviting decor, it offers an elegant and convenient space to host the wedding of your choice. 12 hours of rental costs a total of $5,700 including the rental of the mansion and ballroom. The Outpost Center The address is 6053 US-212, Chaska. Built on 32 acres of rolling hills and woodlands, it is a beautiful and peaceful venue close to the city. The main venue's red facade and green roof create an oil painting-like backdrop. It has the ambiance of a barn wedding with all the amenities and gorgeous rustic grounds. Wedding packages start at $4675 for 50 guests. Nicollet Island Pavilion The event venue at 40 Power Street, Minneapolis is full of unique charm and style. Exposed brick walls and tall industrial ceilings create an open atmosphere full of character. You can have the best views of the Minneapolis bridges and skyline at this venue. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $3,500. Iowa Wedding Venues Brenton Arboretum This is a botanical garden located at 25141 260th St, Dallas Center. It has approximately 2,500 plants representing more than 500 different species, cultivars, and hybrids. Offers great outdoor views and can accommodate up to 300 people. Saturday weddings start at $2,500 and services include access to the gardens and a wedding coordinator. The Temple for Performing Arts Located at 1011 Locust Street, Des Moines, it offers a large auditorium, recital hall, and suites for weddings. The Grand Hall can accommodate up to 450 people and features a tinted glass skylight and a magnificent original light fixture and a sculpted ceiling. High-season wedding receptions start at $4000 for the venue. Figge Art Museum The Art Museum at 225 W 2nd St, Davenport. The museum's lobby can accommodate 200 guests and has a modern design with high ceilings and terrazzo floors. The striking river view offers countless possibilities. The outdoor terrace provided also offers a magnificent view of the Mississippi River. The rental fee for the lobby is $2,500. https://preview.redd.it/te5pv8ra6q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=68745b1cccd5193021cfeb6108307d8fb38bf103 Missouri Wedding Venues Lemp Mansion Located at 3322 Demenil Pl, St. Louis, this mansion was once the home of a beer magnate but was the site of three suicides. It has since been turned into a restaurant and hotel, offering historical and ghost tours. The mansion has four sites, including a mansion, terrace, auditorium, and loft. Ceremony fees range from $950-$1900 and meals start at roughly $47 per person. Jewel Box The public gardening facility in Saint Louis is made of glass plates and copper frames. It has a variety of flowers and plants and is filled with bright sunlight perfect for wedding photography. It can accommodate up to 250 people as a ceremony venue and costs $1,000. https://preview.redd.it/l3moosqd6q2b1.png?width=1200&format=png&auto=webp&s=7e8d682eee85284df8fd428719fcfa6269dd602b Wild Carrot Located at 3901 Shaw Blvd, St. Louis, with indoor hospitality space and loft and terrace. Includes renovated industrial building and outdoor patio. Prices for Saturday weddings start at $4,000 and can accommodate up to 200 people. Arkansas Wedding Venues Castle on Stagecoach This is an old castle located at 6601 Stagecoach Rd, Little Rock. Offering intimate indoor spaces, the castle's unique architecture and décor provide an elegant and luxurious setting. The venue includes a lawn, barn, and stables. Prices start at $6,673 for 50 guests. The Brick Ballroom The event space at 119 B S Broadway St, Siloam Springs, was formerly a Chevrolet dealership. The building is 100 years old. Inside are black walls and original tin ceilings, vintage glass chandeliers, blue benches, and a built-in bar with a sink. There are also 5,000 square feet of covered balconies and gardens. The starting venue fee for a high-season wedding is $3,000. Osage House Located at 243 Pace Ln, Cave Springs, offers a beautiful and modern wedding venue. The venue is suitable for couples seeking minimalism, with architectural designs mostly in black and white. A chapel will be located a short distance from the lobby and included in the wedding package. With a maximum capacity of 428 people, wedding venue rentals start at $2800 in high season. Louisiana Wedding Venues The Elms Mansion Located at 3029 St Charles Ave, New Orleans, the mansion is a typical Italianate-style building. It features an imported hand-carved marble mantel, decorative cornices, 24-carat gold sconces, and a 48-foot ballroom. Accommodates up to 400 people and starts at $4,500 for a Saturday wedding. The Presbytère This museum is located at 751 Chartres St, New Orleans, and has a rich history. A collection of elaborate carnival artifacts and memorabilia. You can hold a ceremony among the beautiful exhibits and rich artifacts and enjoy a fun evening with your family. Accommodates up to 500 guests, starting at $6,590 for 50 guests. Race + Religious It is located at 510 Race Street, New Orleans, and has three buildings with brick courtyards filled with greenery. The hotel has 4,000 square feet of indoor and outdoor event space on the ground floor. Dinner parties can accommodate up to 90 people, and prices start at $7,500 for Saturday weddings. Alaska Wedding Venues Alyeska Resort This is a leisurely resort located at 1000 Arlberg Ave, Girdwood. is Alaska's premier year-round destination. Featuring more than 300 guest rooms, many fine dining experiences, a saltwater pool, a ski hill, and bike park, and a brand-new Nordic Spa. The ballroom can accommodate up to 220 guests. Reception rentals range from $500 to $1,000 and include five hours of event time. The Alaska Zoo The Alaska Zoo is located at 4731 O'Malley Rd, Anchorage. Inside are animals such as polar bears, wolves, snow leopards, and other rare species. The zoo has very spacious halls and lawns and a bright greenhouse. Hospitality hall rentals start at $800. Lawn rentals start at $1,450. Greenhouse rentals start at $675. Hotel Captain Cook Old fashioned hotel located at 939 W 5th Ave, Anchorage. One of the meeting and function rooms has a stunning panoramic view and fireplace. Panoramic views of the Chugach Mountains and Cook Inlet. Accommodates up to 600 guests and Saturday weddings start at approximately $5,000. Hawaii Wedding Venues Haiku Mill The address is 250 Haiku Rd, Haiku, a unique European-style building amid Maui's lush surroundings. With over 150 years of history, it is an important landmark. A quaint and beautiful ceremony can be created. The venue can accommodate up to 100 people and prices start at $6,500 for a Saturday wedding. Kauapea Beach Also known as Secret Beach, has a 3,000-foot-long North Shore beach. Enjoy a sparsely populated stretch of beach with breathtaking views of Moquawe Island and Kilauea Lighthouse. Perfect for your seaside wedding venue. You can look for the right wedding contractor to prepare everything for you and prices will probably range from $800 to $1500. Moana Surfrider The resort is located at 2365 Kalākaua Ave, Honolulu. First opened in 1901, it is just steps from the perfect shores of legendary Waikiki Beach and within walking distance of Honolulu's most popular shopping, dining, and entertainment attractions. There are seven event rooms in total, and the ballroom can accommodate up to 300 people. Wedding packages range in price from $3,500 to $9,500. To be continued After introducing the most popular and unique wedding venues in the western and central states, we will continue to cover the wedding venues in the eastern states. Stay tuned for part two of our wedding venue recommendations. In the meantime, if you choose an outdoor wedding venue, check out our multi-sized, stylized wedding tent. it will ensure that your outdoor wedding is not disturbed by the weather. submitted by scarlet2248 to u/scarlet2248 [link] [comments] |
2023.05.28 22:08 CIAHerpes My father always kept the shed locked. Today, I found out why (part 1)
Growing up, I remember it all vividly: any time my friends or I got too close to the shed, my dad would come out hollering and yelling, telling us to stay away from there and that it was no place for kids. He told me he had expensive tools and dangerous chemicals stored there. As a child, I didn’t question it. It was just one of those things. In my mind, I had been born into a world where the sun rises in the east, breakfast is the first meal of the day and the shed stays locked. They were all true, self-evident and simply the way things existed in my young mind.
But as I grew older and eventually moved off to college, I began to question the shed more. My father still wouldn’t let me look in there. In fact, he kept the sole key on his person at all times. Even when he slept, he would keep the key in his pocket.
Then, during my second semester at the nearby state university, I got a call that every son or daughter dreads. I was attending a lecture on anatomy when my phone lit up, ringing silently in the great, crowded hall. Looking down, I saw it was my brother’s number. I went outside, lighting up a cigarette and answering it.
“Hello?” I said. “Gil?” My brother answered immediately.
“Luke, thank God you answered,” he said. “It’s dad. He’s being taken to the hospital. He had some sort of medical emergency. Can you meet us there? In maybe twenty-five minutes?” I said I would, hanging up. I grabbed my stuff in the lecture hall and made my way to my car. Twenty-two minutes later, I pulled into the hospital.
It was too late, however. My father had died of a heart attack on the way. He was declared dead on arrival.
***
We ended up inheriting the house. Our mother had died of breast cancer ten years earlier, so Gil and I were the last two of the Mortin bloodline. My brother was a good guy, though somewhat of a waste case, constantly smoking weed and dropping acid. He had a tendency to travel out far across the country without notice, moving around to see nature or go to music festivals. That is, when he had the money. And since he worked as a freelance writer, he was often broke.
He really wanted to get at the money dad had left us. He wanted the money from the house most of all. He told me repeatedly that it would be enough to tide him over until he got a footing in the writing industry, that he just needed to make a name for himself and then the money would start rolling in. He had his heart set on it. He would write anything that he could make money off of, from horror stories to romances, short stories to novels, even technical manuals or freelance journalism articles. As we walked to the house together for the first time in months, he repeated this mantra to me again: “Just enough to tide me over, Luke…”
“I think you’re probably going to burn through the money that Dad left you,” I said. “Why don’t you get a real job and just write on the side?” He gave me a sideways look.
“Did you see Hunter S. Thompson getting a ‘real job’ while just writing on the side?” he asked. I nodded.
“Yeah, he was a journalist…” I began as we walked into the house, but we both stopped simultaneously when we saw what was on the coffee table. It was all of Dad’s possessions he had when he died. They were placed neatly in a line- his wallet, his phone, his car and house key, some cash, and last of all, a little shed key on a thin, leather chain.
“What do you think is really in that shed?” I asked. Gil looked at me, pale and wide-eyed in the dark living room.
“I don’t really… I don’t know if I want to find out,” Gil said, whispering as if he were in a church- or a funeral home. I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him gently.
“Of course we need to find out,” I said. “You and I own this property now. We should go look right now.” He breathed in sharply.
“No, no, don’t be an idiot,” Gil whispered. “It’s dark now. In the morning, we can go together. In the morning. You have waited twenty years to find out, I think you can wait a few more hours.” But there was something pleading in his voice, something scared and child-like. It reminded me of when I was scared as a little boy at bedtime, telling my dad there were monsters in the closet, and he would go to open up the door, and I’d tell him to stop, that they’re going to hurt him if he opens that door. But he would open the door and there would be no monsters in there. Surely, it was the same here. Gil would see, and for that matter, so would I. There were no monsters in there.
***
This all happened from yesterday to this morning. We ended up leaving that place together a few hours ago, bloodied and bruised and injured, after being trapped inside all night.
The day before it started, Gil stayed up late downstairs, watching TV and smoking a joint. He made himself a night-cap from my father’s liquor cabinet, pouring some Jack Daniels and ice in a cup with some Coke and sipping it slowly. I stayed with him for a while, talking.
We talked about the good times we had with Dad, about going hiking with him at the Green Mountains, or traveling to New York City with him to see the museums. I thought about how much I really missed him, and a knot formed in my throat. I quickly blinked my eyes to try to get the tears to go away.
Eventually, I went to sleep in the guest bedroom. Gil stayed downstairs, sleeping on the couch in front of the TV. I heard the faint hum of it from upstairs, the canned laughter of whatever comedy he was watching, the acerbic tone of the lead characters as they delivered one witty joke after another. I fell asleep to it, the voices blending into a sarcastic, hissing whisper in my ear.
And then I was floating, bodiless, looking down on a dark cornfield with ravens staring at me. The voice was bodiless, too, sounding like it came from right behind me, but when I turned, nothing was there.
“In the halls of our fathers, everyone is dead,” it whispered mockingly. “You’ll be dead soon too, if you get curious. Some doors are locked for a reason. Some doors should
stay locked.”
I woke up suddenly. Something was wrong. I heard Gil yelling. I fumbled around in the dark for the lamp, groggily checking the time. 4:17 AM. Flinging the comforters off, I ran downstairs.
Gil was sleeping on the couch, still as a corpse, and quiet as one too. I looked around confusedly. Where was the screaming coming from? I followed the noise out back. I looked at the shed, and my blood ran cold as I heard another long cry come from inside. I walked across the dirt yard in my slippers, not wanting to get any closer but walking forwards nonetheless. Part of me wondered if I was still dreaming, but the chill air against my sweaty face felt real enough.
The screaming from the shed was not in words. It was a long, drawn-out, painful shriek. It was the shriek of a mother who just lost her only child in a war zone, or the yell of someone doused with gasoline and burned alive, but amplified into an ear-splitting cacophony. I had the key in my pocket. I reached for it with shaking hands, pulling it out, slowly approaching the shed.
Then someone grabbed my shoulder. I jumped, whirling around with clenched fists, ready to fight. Then I saw it was Gil.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” I said through clenched teeth. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He put his finger to his lips, the universal signal for silence. Then he leaned close to my ear and whispered.
“If you open that shed now, we will both die,” he said quietly and calmly, as if he were just stating the weather for tomorrow. “Put the key away and go back to bed. You never want to open it in the dark.
Never.”
“What do you know about it?” I whispered back, shooting glances over my shoulder at the shed. The screaming still came, though slower now, maybe one heart-rending shriek every minute or so. Part of me was glad there were no neighbors for half a mile in each direction, and that made me want to laugh. There was probably some horrific animal in there that would rip me apart if it got the chance, and I was thinking about noise complaints.
“Tomorrow,” Gil repeated, gently taking my arm and leading me back into the house. I sat next to him in the living room, pouring myself a gin and tonic, sipping it slowly as the screams from behind the house mixed with the canned laughter of the TV show, wondering what kind of man my father really was.
***
I woke on the couch, an empty glass falling out of my hand onto the cushion. Light streamed in through the windows. Gil was nowhere to be found. I looked back and forth, then heard the sizzling of food from the kitchen.
Stumbling in, I saw he had prepared a massive breakfast of bacon, sausages, corned beef hash, eggs Benedict with Hollandaise sauce, Texas toast, orange juice and coffee. He was smoking a joint with the windows opened, occasionally sending a grim look out the back of the house towards the shed. I sat down, pouring myself some coffee and grabbing milk and sugar to mix in.
“Who is all this food for?” I asked. He kept staring out the window. “Hey!” He turned suddenly, his face looking pale and drawn.
“What?”
“I said, who is all this food for?” I repeated. He looked around, smiling.
“Just for us. Why not? I figure you will need the energy today, and so will I,” he said cryptically. He sat down across from me, pouring himself coffee and orange juice and grabbing a plateful of meat, toast and eggs. I did the same, giving him occasional glances.
“What did Dad tell you?” I asked, pouring maple syrup on my sausages and bacon and chugging an entire cup of coffee in one long swallow. It burned my throat, but the rising heat and caffeine made me feel instantly better and more awake. Gil sighed heavily.
“Not much, to tell you the truth,” he said. “He was really drunk one time when you were away at college, a couple months ago. He was drinking more and more before he died, like something was weighing on him, something he wanted to forget. Well, anyway, I was sitting down here with him, watching those documentaries he used to love with him, and during a commercial, he just started talking about the shed.
“‘Now boy,’ he said to me, ‘I know you probably have a few questions for me. I probably should have told you and your brother about it a long time ago, but it is something I don’t like to talk about. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I think talking about it tends to wake it up.’
“‘Wake up what?’ I said. Dad was quiet for a long time, just staring at me. Then he leaned close to me and whispered something strange.
“‘The stairs,’ he said. ‘They’re not normal, son. Sometimes they go down below the shed to a… Well, I guess it is just an empty sub-floor. Just a plain, swept dirt basement below the shed. But I never built any such sub-floor, and it wasn’t here when I bought the house, and it isn’t on the plans either. If that was it, then who would care? Hah, a free storage place, people would be happy, right?’ I nodded, grinning back at Dad. He seemed to have a glimmer of his old self for a second, happy and free. But then his face darkened again.
“‘But lots of times, boy, those stairs do not lead to a sub-floor. One time, they led down to a white room covered in blood, with bright fluorescent lights flickering all over the walls and ceiling. And there was a little girl down there, dancing among all the blood, jumping and twirling in her little blue dress, little ballerina slippers on her feet, and all the skin on her face peeled off. She was just a bloody, grinning skull. And when she saw me on the spiral steps in the corner, she stopped dancing and just stared. The lights began to turn off, everything went dark, and I ran, my boy, I ran faster than I have ever run in my life. I felt little hands grabbing at me as I made my way up the last stair and slammed that shed door behind me. I locked it as something fought to get out, something that felt far stronger than any child. And that was just one time.
“‘It’s worse at night. That’s when the real dangerous ones come out. I don’t know how the stairs work, son, and I don’t think I ever really want to. Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll never have to deal with them. Maybe I’ll find a way to destroy them before I die. Aye, maybe…’” Gil stopped speaking, deep in thought and remembrance. I took another sip of juice and ate some bacon before responding.
“So you’re telling me Dad went batshit crazy before he died?” I asked. Gil shook his head quickly.
“He wasn’t crazy, Luke,” he said simply. “At least, I don’t think he was. If he was, the stairs probably made him that way. Do you really think that you were just hearing a fox or something caught in the shed last night? Those screams sounded
human. We both know that was something unnatural. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. If you need proof, we’ll have plenty after today- assuming you still want to go into the shed.” And after we finished eating, with no fanfare or delay, we did. I grabbed the key, and Gil and I went out side by side, scared but not showing it, ready to finally see for ourselves the mystery that had haunted our family for decades.
***
We walked through the hard-packed dirt yard, looking down the grassy field behind the house to the rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. They began to grow blue, pale and fuzzy near the horizon. It was a beautiful place to live, and hard to imagine something so evil might be right in the middle of it.
The shed loomed up ahead of us, boards tightly hammered together and freshly painted a dark red color. The shingles on the small roof all looked relatively new, and the door was expensive and sturdy. I stood in front of the door, listening for the sounds of any movement, but there was nothing. I fumbled in my pocket for the key, pulling it out, looking at Gil who stood close by my side. Then I shoved it in the lock and opened the door.
The shed was dark, as if a curtain of shadow fell across the open door. I stuck my head in, feeling around the side for a lightswitch. And that was when something grabbed my hand. I screamed, ready to pull my hand out and run, and then I felt the lightswitch on the wall. I flicked it on quickly. There was no one in there. Shaking, I turned to Gil.
“Something grabbed me,” I whispered. He nodded, unsurprised. Then we walked in the shed together.
The walls inside were all covered with plates of sheet metal. Every square inch of the shed was reinforced with steel, including the roof, which had a flat pane of metal going straight across the shed, welded to the four that covered the walls. Only the floor was unprotected. It was just a plain dirt floor with a hole in the center.
Looking closer at the protective structure of the shed, I saw deep claw and gouge marks raking the metal’s surface, even those on the bottom of the ceiling eight feet above the floor. Something had clearly been in here and wanted very badly to get out.
I inched closer to the hole in the floor, which took up most of the floor of the shed. It was at least ten feet wide. Looking down, I saw spiraling steps, descending in a clockwise fashion as far down as the light extended. I found a small rock on the ground outside, came back in and dropped it down the center of the stairway. I listened for it to hit bottom, counting the seconds on my watch. After about thirty seconds, I realized it wasn’t going to. Maybe it was too far down to hear when the stone connected.
I looked over at Gil. He was standing as near to the door as he could get, looking like he would rather be anywhere else in the world. I gave him high marks for courage, though. There was something wrong in here, and I could feel it. Outside, it was warm and a fresh breeze blew the smell of flowers and pines through the yard. But in here, it was cold and oppressive. A freezing chill seemed to come from the hole in the floor, spiraling up with the stairs and running over my body, sending a feeling like ice running up and down my back.
“Do you want to go first, or should I?” I said, gesturing to the hole. Gil stared at me as if I had gone mad, his eyes widening.
“Why in the fuck should either of us go?” he said, raising his hands and using them to gesticulate wildly as he often did when he was upset. I shrugged.
“This is our property now,” I said. “We need to at least know what’s on it, don’t you think?” But there was another reason too. It was sheer curiosity, and a desire to prove to myself that there was nothing supernatural going on here, no monster in the closet, just the overactive imagination of an old man. Gil sighed.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go. Go grab two flashlights and Dad’s gun. Maybe some extra batteries. Some extra magazines too. Better safe than sorry, after all…”
We both went inside the house together, leaving the shed door wide open, and that was when, I believe, something got out. And then the killings in town began.
***
We descended the stairs slowly. They were stone, slick in some places. There was no guard rail or any protective barrier, which made my heart beat a little faster. I liked something to hold onto. If I took a tumble on these stairs, I might keep falling forever.
We heard strange sounds from below periodically, but when we shone our lights down there, we couldn't see anything. Echoes rose around us, sounding at one point like kids playing a game of hide and seek, at another like the howling of a wolf. Strange squeaks and clicks would also arise intermittently from the shaft below us, and then stop as quickly as they had started.
The noises got louder as we descended dozens of stories, then hundreds. It seemed like the stairs would just keep going on forever, until we hit the mantle of the Earth and got burned up. Then a door appeared, painted a chipped blue with a fading daisy on the center of it. I looked at Gil, then swung it open.
Beyond it, a hallway with fluorescent lights extended as far as the eye could see. Countless rooms went off it to the left and right. The lights flickered on and off, sending portions of the hallway into darkness. The floor was falling apart in many places, with strange molds and fungi growing out of the wood. White and black molds battled for space, forming huge colonies that were bigger than my shoe. I walked forward, putting my weight gingerly on the floorboard. It creaked slightly and felt wet under my shoe, yet it held my weight.
“Come on,” I said to Gil, who followed closely behind. As soon as we had walked a few steps down the hall, the door slammed shut by itself behind us. I jumped and turned, pulling out the gun reflexively. Gil put a hand on my shoulder, pushing the gun back down.
“It’s OK,” he said. I was breathing hard, my heart hammering in my chest. Maybe that was why I didn’t hear the counting at first.
But as we walked down the decayed hallway, the lights turning on and off above us with every step, I realized that someone was counting, and it had been going on for a while. It sounded like the voice of a little girl.
“Forty… thirty-nine… thirty-eight…” she said, counting off the seconds. I heard giggling from the rooms around us, but I couldn’t see anyone. We kept walking forward, but that counting was getting on my nerves- not least because I couldn’t for the life of me tell where it was coming from.
We checked the rooms to the left and the right. There were broken tables, old office equipment and chairs in nearly all of them. Some of them had fish tanks, but instead of fish, they had plumes of multi-colored molds growing over the top of them, or, in one case, a dead and dried-out turtle.
“...one… ready or not, here I come!” the girl’s voice screamed gleefully, and that was when all the lights went out at once. We quickly fumbled for our flashlights, turning them on at the same time. I had the gun in one hand crisscrossed with the flashlight in the other, a trick I had seen used in cop shows. Gil had a ten-inch bowie knife in one hand, which he had just removed from the massive scabbard he had it in around his leg. In his other hand, he held the flashlight, which he frantically shone back and forth, up and down.
“Geez, calm down with that thing,” I said. “You’re going to make me dizzy.”
“Something’s coming,” Gil whispered, a note of dread in his voice. “Don’t you hear it?” I stopped, listening hard. Indeed, I heard footsteps nearing, small suppressed giggles, the swishing of a dress. My flashlight illuminated a pale face, a little boy sneaking a peak out of the nearest room. He was filthy, covered in black soot with torn clothing and what looked like blood caked into his hair. He looked up at us quickly then withdrew into the room. For the first time, I felt genuinely scared. Now we could be certain we were being watched.
“Hey!” I whispered, running into the room after him. Gil followed close behind me. The footsteps seemed to be right next to us now, but I looked around, not seeing anyone. Then a blur of movement passed by as a little girl ran over to the little boy, where he was curled in the corner under a broken folding table, crying and shaking with terror.
“Found you!” she said. I shone my light directly at her back, seeing a pale blue dress, but I couldn’t see her face.
“Get away from that kid!” I yelled. She ignored me, bending down quickly, and before I knew what had happened, she had ripped the boy’s throat out with her teeth. She turned to look at us, and I saw that her face had been cut off, and now only a grinning skull remained. It was covered in a thin sheen of blood, and two tiny white pinpoints of light seemed to glow inside the empty sockets of her eyes. With her teeth full of flesh and gristle and fresh rivulets of blood running down her skeletal mouth, she continued to cry, “Found you! Found you! Found you!”
Without hesitation, I shot her in the shoulder. She fell back a half-step, turning to look at me with that skeletal grin, then spun around and continued eating the little boy. He was still alive, choking on his own blood, his huge eyes moving over to me as he died, as if accusing me of being the cause of all this. The sound of his last gurgling breaths were the only sounds now. I shot her again, but she wouldn’t go down. A blossom of blood began to spread outwards on her back where I had shot her, but she showed no pain. Gil grabbed my shoulder tightly.
“We need to get out of here,” he said through gritted teeth. I nodded. We ran back to the door we had come in through, but it was locked tight. The lights were still off. I told Gil to take a step back, then tried shooting at the lock. The bullet ricocheted crazily as if I had shot a reinforced army tank rather than a plain wooden doorway. Next we tried kicking it open, but it was as if it were fused to the wall.
I turned to look at him, and the truth passed between us in a glimpse. To get out, we would have to go farther in, where there were likely even worse things waiting for us.
Part 2:
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2023.05.28 03:46 YandereLobster Lone Wolf
One week prior to the repair of Bracco Village.
For as far as Bianca Nero could see, red littered the landscape. Nothing but red and orange. An always-autumnal path in the pilgrimage she’d taken so long ago, when she set off for Beacon. But for better or worse, she didn’t feel like the same person she was when she’d taken this path so long ago.
Leaves crunched beneath her feet, a cool breeze bristling against her cheek as her white cloak gently swayed in the breeze, making her stand out like a white blot on a red canvas. She was alone, but never felt lonely here. Just a little further and she’d be home again, catching up with her grandparents and telling them how Beacon was going.
It wasn’t an easy trip per say. If it was, she would’ve come back more often. But seldom were the times that she actually could make a trip like this without missing a day of classes, and the shoddy connection on her scroll way out here in the wilderness made it particularly difficult. It’d taken more than a little struggling just to message Russet to let him know the trip had gone well.
But slowly, the crunch of leaves slowed to a halt. Bianca’s eyes shifted skyward, staring up at the treetops as the wind bit against her canine ears. Something wasn’t right. There was a chill in the air, and not the same as the cold wind. It was difficult for her to put her finger on just what was bothering her, in fact. Like feeling a change in the weather in one’s bones. But this was Bianca’s home, so what could there be to worry about? She’d come all this way, and now it was just a half hour walk until she was finally back.
And so the girl continued on to Bracco.
Bianca’s single, bright blue eye gazed numbly at the old watch-tower. It was one of Bracco’s oldest landmarks, an old stone watch-tower from the Great War, left behind and abandoned. She used to climb it all the time as a kid, to get a good look over the forest.
But now, the stone tower lay crumbled and broken, toppled over by damage to one of its now ancient supports. It was old and fragile, but to collapse like this? Bianca knew without a second thought it wasn’t an accident or coincidence.
The overgrown stone bricks finally led Bianca to her destination as she reached the tip of a rather bumpy hill, her heart filled with worry rather than nostalgia. On the very edge of her sight lay the familiar red and white tents that littered the market, always enticing the travelers that passed through Bracco on the way to Vale. But it wasn’t like she remembered, not in the slightest. Gone were the echoes of carts clattering and the commotion of conversation, replaced with dead silence save for the hissing wind. Like a nightmarish reflection of her most treasured memories.
Her ears perked up as she turned back and forth, but the stalls were empty. No proof they’d ever been full, save for the tracks of carts against the road. But what’s more odd was the contents of the stalls. The produce hadn’t been set out, but many of the supplies and registers were still locked. Only the essentials were gone. Which meant, if Bianca’s assumption was correct, that they’d left in a hurry. But it was what awaited her in the square that terrified Bianca the most.
Just past the market and between the somewhat narrow paths, Bianca found herself in what should’ve been the busiest part of this small town. A simple gathering in the middle of Bracco, with a bar, some local government related buildings, and a fountain situated on the edge of the Ghiaccio River — right across from the farmstead she’d grown up on.
The roof of the old bar had been caved in by something heavy, the entrance torn open as if by a feral beast. The fountain cracked from something impacting against it, with a dark red stain about its edges. Like the ruins of some battlefield rather than the homely town she’d been expecting. It was gone. Even if she found where the people had gone, if they had in fact survived, Bracco was in ruins. Her entire purpose in becoming a Huntress, destroyed before she’d even had a chance to try.
“Anyone!?” Bianca called out as loud as she could. “Is anyone here!?”
Worry caught in Bianca’s throat. “Rosso!? Rosa?” Bianca called out again, her voice shaky with concern for her grandparents. “...Anyone? Please...”
But no one replied.
Until something did.
Bianca turned sharp towards one of the collapsed houses as the sound of wood creaking echoed out. White claws emerged from the darkness, old bits of red stained against the tips as black furred legs emerged, bone plating littered across its body, forming a mask with red accents - pristine save for a long crack down the side of it’s mask — and a tiny knife still embedded within it’s eye socket, though it didn’t seem to be able to feel it. Bianca’s old knife.
It was a Grimm Bianca knew all too well. An old, local legend nicknamed Belial by the towns that had been victim to it. One of those victims being a much younger Bianca, and it’d cost her an eye. But why here? It was true that Bracco was rural, but they’d never had Grimm in town before. And this damage couldn’t possibly be the work of a single Beowolf, alpha or not. Something had drawn them into town. But there was a more pressing matter than that.
Bianca’s heart ached for her home, but rage made for an excellent painkiller.
The Beowolf growled menacingly, only for the gnashing of teeth to be overpowered by the deafening, echoing burst of aura engulfing Bianca as her semblance practically erupted from her. The ringing howl of her semblance betrayed the pure fury that filled Bianca, her teeth clenched tight and the claws of her gauntlets begging to tear into the creature. For a Grimm that could only see negative emotion, the sight of the young huntress was like looking upon a bonfire of nothing but anger and hate, and only moments later would it all be directed upon the beast.
Bianca leapt forward like a crazed, feral animal, her claws tearing into the Beowolf’s arm as she opened the brawl with a series of feral slashes from her claws. Aggressive and fast, far more so than she even knew she was capable of. More than she’d ever put to use at Beacon. But those were training, just practice against other huntsmen. This, on the other hand, was a raw desire — or even a need, to kill no matter what it took.
Even as the Beowolf’s claws lashed out at Bianca, blue sparks of aura fluttering off as it impacted against her aura, there was no flow of combat. No ebb and flow of attack and defense, just raw aggression tearing into the opponent, the pain barely registering in Biana’s mind. But soon she was forced to confront it as the beast rammed its full force against her, slamming against the berserk huntress as she was hurtled backwards, crashing through wood as what was left of the aura shielding her dissipated.
Bianca winced as she stood, quickly recognizing the old inn. Pain was beginning to set in as she looked down, a bit of wooden shrapnel having embedded itself loosely in her side, blood pooling against the black fabric. A surface wound, but a warning of what would come if she kept this up. Her eye shifted to check the dust chamber of her left gauntlet, a vicious smirk breaking her composure. ‘Thanks, Firnen. Worked out perfectly.’
The already precarious roof of the inn shifted and creaked as the Beowolf violently bashed aside one of the bits of lumber blocking the entrance, only to be met with a volley of bolts from Bianca’s crossbow. Only it wasn’t to cover her retreat, but the opposite. By the time it had caught a glance of her, she’d already closed the distance again, the claws suddenly lifting away from the hand just a bit, the circuit connecting as a sharp, crackling sound filled the room, lighting up the darkness of the entryway in an instant as the electrical dust sparked to life. Shock coursed through the Beowolf’s body, numbing it to the sensation of Bianca gripping the knife embedded in its blind eye, tearing it from the socket. No sooner had her childhood knife returned to her grip than she embedded it in the creature’s neck. But what would’ve been a fatal blow for another Grimm was far too shallow for Belial.
Just as she was about to press the assault, pain filled Bianca’s mind as she let out a harsh cry, the Grimm’s maw biting down desperately on her arm, cracking through the dust chamber as it sparked, burning against Bianca’s shoulder. Floorboards cracked beneath them, liberating Bianca from its grip only to fill her with the brief terror of falling, as the two opponents fell to the basement below. And while Bianca was able to land on her feet, it may have been for the worse, as a barely audible ‘crack’ seemed to send pain up her leg. Burning, agonizing pain from her ankle, but even still she was determined to fight through it. The creature had taken her eye, and now her home. No matter what it took, it wouldn’t take more.
Belial looked up to meet its opponent just as a flash of white appeared before it. But what it slashed at wasn’t a huntress at all. Rather, Bianca’s thrown cloak in a last ditch effort to distract the creature. And that sheet of white would be the last thing the beast saw.
With a cry of both pain and rage, Bianca threw herself at the Grimm, ready to kill or be killed as she tore her gauntlets into its neck. The moment the claws connected, the damaged dust-chamber sparked to life. Pitch black fur split aside as the Grimm’s head separated from it’s body, propelled by the imminent blast of sparking and combusting dust blowing open the side of Bianca’s gauntlet.
The sounds of battle faded, as did Bianca’s anger. And all that replaced it was emptiness, and pain.
Even once she’d dragged herself out of the ruins, Bianca could hardly walk. It took an old piece of wood just to balance herself enough to walk on her broken ankle.. No sooner had she been greeted by the empty silence of a dead town than familiar howls rang out in the distance, a shiver running down the Faunus’ spine. She knew one Grimm couldn’t have done all of this, but even with all her desire for vengeance, she wouldn’t last through another fight. And Bracco needed help more than she did.
Her mind felt light and dazed, practically dragging herself along as she made her way back down the road and into the familiar red forest. Desperately she stared at her scroll. And the moment there was even the smallest bit of a signal, her shaky hand began sending an SOS to Beacon, even as the pain from her combusted gauntlet began to set in along the burned arm.
No sooner had it gone through than Bianca collapsed against a tree, her lone eye watching the red canopy of leaves above. Finally, she had a chance to breathe. Her reason to hunt had been destroyed, and in turn she’d burned her anger and every last bit of effort she had to destroy one of the creatures responsible. But now the deafening anger was gone, and she could hear again. But the only sound she heard was unbearable loneliness.
By the time Bianca was found by the huntsmen that Beacon sent, she was barely clinging to life. A makeshift bandage made from her sleeve was all that kept her from bleeding out, although even then it wasn’t clear if she’d really survive. But days came and went, and with time, Bianca found her strength returning. But even then, her purpose was still gone.
But a purpose was something Bianca could find with time. It would take more than one loss to break the young wolf.
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2023.05.27 20:33 mimtut Shingle Color ID?
2023.05.26 21:55 cigarfanatic Anything to worry about in this quote? House, shed and two skylights
2023.05.23 03:21 4estGimp Tulsa Roofing Referral - Power Roof Vent Replacement
I need to have a Power Roof Vent replaced. Here's
a $165 fan comparable to what is being replaced. What company will do this work without trying to charge $1700 - $2200 for a fan? Yes, I was quoted that for just the fan.
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2023.05.22 14:29 Erutious Cabin in the mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one. Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
submitted by
Erutious to
TalesOfDarkness [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:29 Erutious Cabin in the mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one. Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
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Erutious to
stayawake [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:29 Erutious Cabin in the mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one. Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
submitted by
Erutious to
spooky_stories [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:28 Erutious Cabin in the mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one. Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
submitted by
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SignalHorrorFiction [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:28 Erutious Cabin in the mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one. Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
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2023.05.22 14:15 Erutious Cabin in the Mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one.
Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
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MecThology [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:14 Erutious Cabin in the Mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one.
Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
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2023.05.22 14:14 Erutious Cabin in the Mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one.
Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
submitted by
Erutious to
Creepystories [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:14 Erutious Cabin in the Mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one.
Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
submitted by
Erutious to
CreepyPastas [link] [comments]
2023.05.22 14:13 Erutious Cabin in the Mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one.
Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
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2023.05.22 14:13 Erutious Cabin in the Mountains
It began as a freak snowstorm.
I've been hiking and camping in the woods outside of Cashmere since I was in high school. It was a spot I used to like to come to with my friends before they all got too busy to return to nature every now and again. The wilderness in north Georgia is just so beautiful. It's a great place to immerse yourself in nature and return to your roots.
This weekend, however, I have found myself at nature's mercy instead of its beauty.
Well, maybe not nature.
The longer I stay here, the more I suspect something insidious might be in this place.
When I had set up my tent Friday afternoon, the temperature had been a little crisp but nothing out of the ordinary. Spring has been in bloom, and it seemed unthinkable that it could get below 50° in the daytime. I had been meaning to hike deeper before coming back out again on Sunday, but when I woke up to find snow, I decided my weekend might be a bust. After gathering the gear I could find, I began hiking back to my truck, but I must've gotten turned around.
As the day fretted out, I realized how lost I had become. My usual landmarks were either covered in snow or changed so drastically that I didn't even recognize them. My compass was also no help. The needle kept turning and turning, leading me in circles as I wandered through the snow. As I got more and more turned around, the night began to creep up on me. I was soon watching the sunset as I thought about whether or not to put up my tent or keep walking, and that was when I saw the light.
It was small, like a candle on a windowsill. I had never seen any houses out in the woods before, but it was possible that someone had built one in the six or eight months since I last been out here. I began heading in that direction, and as I did, I saw a cabin begin to materialize amidst the snow. A candle was burning on the windowsill, and as I approached, I began to look for signs of life. I saw no four-wheeler or any means of getting in and out, and the thought of someone just living in the woods was a little strange. I was certain to make a little noise, whistling and crunching loudly through the snow so as not to startle someone who might not want company.
The cabin was not the sort of premade ones you sometimes saw in showrooms. It looked to have been made out of sturdy trees, and the wood looked new and raw. Someone had built this recently, and it made me even more aware of whoever was inside. It was pretty likely that a gun lived there as well, and I was in no hurry to be a squib in the local paper.
As I knocked on the door, I felt a little like Goldilocks trying to introduce myself to the three bears.
I don't know what possessed me, but when no one answered the door, I tried the knob. It opened easily, the door having not even been locked, and I stepped out of the snow to find a fire roaring in the grate of the one-bedroom cabin. It was humble, a bed, a table, a large bookshelf that seemed to stretch the length of one wall, some chairs, and the fireplace. It was so warm after having come out of the cold that I couldn't help myself. I stepped inside and made a beeline for the fireplace. I was careful not to track snow in, leaving my boots and pack on the front porch in hopes that whoever lived there would recognize that I was here and not be startled. I didn't know where the owner of the cabin was, but if they were out hunting in this weather, I wasn't likely to receive a warm welcome.
Either way, I didn't think I had any options with the snow falling and the night fast approaching.
I sat by the fire, and as the flames dried my clothes, I couldn't help but look at the huge bookshelf that stretched across the wall. It was floor to ceiling, and as big as it was, there was still space for more books. The books were numerous, about thirty in all, and their spines had the names of people instead of titles. My curiosity got the better of me, and I went and took the first one down. The name Jeremy Blake was printed in gold leaf on the spine, and when I opened it, it cracked in that satisfying way old books do. The owner of the home probably wouldn't appreciate me perusing their bookshelf, but I figured I already had enough to apologize for. What was one more thing?
The inside was written in what appeared to be real ink, and the handwriting was delicate and practiced. Whoever Jeremy Blake had been, he had been a very dab hand when it came to writing. I had to assume it was biographical, but the book didn't look old enough to have been written in 1736, as it claimed. Jeremy talked about being out hunting deer with his brothers when they were suddenly set upon by a snowstorm. It had been snowing when they set out, but what they now found themselves in was a blizzard. His brothers had left him when he couldn't keep up, but Jeremy thought he was about to die. That's when he saw the light out in the woods. He talked about coming upon the cabin and how it had seemed empty but lived in. Like me, he had decided to thank the owner when he returned and set about pinning this in his journal, which he had brought with him.
"I pray the snow passes quickly. I would love nothing more than to return to my father's home so that I might chastise my brothers for leaving me in such a sorry state."
The next entry was a little bit different.
Jeremy had woken up to find that no one had returned to the cabin and that the snow was still falling outside. He had thought it looked a little better, and now that he was warm, he had thought he might try to make it home again. Jeremy had opened the door to leave, but upon stepping out, he had walked right back into the cabin instead. He had tried this several more times but always found himself stepping back into the warm, inviting cabin. There was only one door, and when he had tried to break a window in his fervor, he found that they would not break. He became a little bit upset, fearing that he had stumbled into some kind of deviltry. He tried to leap through the windows and nearly knocked himself unconscious. He had destroyed the house, flipping over tables and throwing chairs, but none of them had broken. When he turned around, it had all resumed its previous position, and Jeremy was certain he had found himself in a witches' den and was most afraid.
The next few days were full of entries about Jeremy continuing to live inside the cabin and discovering what it was all about. He found that he did not need to eat or drink, which was both a blessing and a curse. Despite not needing these things, he found that he was always hungry and constantly licking his lips when his mouth felt dry. He watched from the window as the snow began to melt, and as winter became spring, he watched animals roam outside the cabin.
After a while, his entries became a journal of what he had seen from the cabin's windows until I discovered the last entry in his long series of observations.
"I know not if anyone will ever read this. I suppose it matters not. I have existed in this house for a long, long time. I cannot say how long exactly, but I was not even fifteen when I came in out of the cold, and now when I look at the glass over the fire, I see an old man staring back at me. I don't know how much longer I will survive, but today I saw another person for the first time in a long time. I was looking out the window, watching the snowfall again, when a child came hesitantly from the tree line. He was looking at the same candle that had brought me here, but his eyes got big when he saw me. He took a step towards the house, meaning to come inside or ask who I was, but I shooed him away. I think now that I should have let him open the door to see if I could escape, but I couldn't take the chance of the boy being stuck as well. Better to die alone here than have some young fellow watch me pass. He scampered away when I banged on the glass and yelled at him, probably for the best. I'm going to stop now. This journal does nothing but remind me that I am alive. Maybe it would be better to be dead."
I wasn't sure what to make of the journal. Was it real or some make-believe story the owner had concocted? I looked at the bookcase and wondered if they were all like that? It was dark outside now, so I took the second journal over to the fireplace so I could read it in the roaring light of the fire. A pine knot cracked as I got comfortable, and the whole experience was very rustic.
The handwriting was a little rougher, not the same as the beautiful script of the previous one.
Inside were the musings of a woodcutter.
His writing was shorter and more surface-level. He had gotten lost while chopping wood and found the cabin on his way home. He stopped in to see who lived there and got himself trapped inside, just like the writer before him. He had used his ax to try and break free but to no avail. He had taken up the book he found on the shelf and began writing it to pass the time. It wasn't much, three or four pages before he stopped. He wrote about watching some squirrels, seeing a deer, and worrying that he would starve when he didn't find food in the cabin. Whether he died or became bored, I don't know.
He stopped writing after the fifth page, signing Roland Wood at the bottom.
The same name on the book's spine, written in the same rough gold leaf that the words were written in.
The next diary turned out to be a kind of fantasy story, something my grandpa would've called an oat opera. It talked about pioneers on the trail, one of them breaking off in the night to have a call to nature. He finds a strange cabin with a flickering candle, and once he went in, it refused to turn him loose. He spent a few pages talking about being trapped in the cabin, and when his sister came to look for him, he saw her and banged on the window to get her attention. She looked up, clearly startled, and ran away before she could help him. Whether she had seen him or not, no one else ever came to look for him. The rest of the journal was spent telling the story of the pioneers and what they must've seen on the trail. His sister seemed to be the main character, and he talked about the Indians they fought, the animals they hunted, and the things they survived on the way to their new home. Eventually, she married a man, and the two lived on the prairie with their growing family on the outskirts of Preachers Glen. Towards the end, he must've become a little jaded with the whole thing as the story took a dark turn. His sister, her husband, and her children became riddled with hardships as the Indians descended upon their house, burning their crops and killing them all. His sister watched her family suffer for the crime of leaving her brother behind. The journal ended with her finally being allowed to die at the hands of her captors.
He signed it William T Pitt on the last page, and when I looked up from the story, I realized that it was day again.
As snow rattled loudly against the window, I had to wonder if it had only been a day? Jeremy's journal had made it clear that the concept of time was a little wobbly. Had I been here a day, a week, a year? I had no way to know. The snow was still blowing outside, but it didn't have to be the same storm that it brought me here. I looked at the door as I got up to put the book away and wondered if I would find myself stepping right back into the cabin. I took a step towards the door, but I just wasn't bold enough to try it yet.
I needed more research first.
With little else to do, I picked up the fourth journal. I noticed that William Pitt was on the spine of the third one, as I put it back, and Beverly Striker was on the spine of the one I took down. It seemed that the cabin had finally attracted a female resident, and I was interested in getting her point of view on this whole situation.
Beverly's story was a little different from the others.
Mrs. Striker was in trouble when she found the cabin.
Beverly had been fleeing into the night to escape her abusive husband. She hadn't wanted to marry him, he was not the sort of man that women like her often married, but she had made the mistake of falling for him when she was younger, not realizing what a brute he was until it was too late. By then, her father had decided that if his youngest daughter wanted to marry someone so far below her station, then he would let her. He had enough useless mouths to feed, useless mouths in need of dowries, and her husband had asked relatively little from him by way of a dowry.
The two had been wed less than a year when Beverly had run away the first time.
He had found her easily enough. Her husband was a hunter, and her trail had been easy to follow. He'd had his farm hands tie her up in the barn and whipped her with horsewhip he used on the colts they had been breaking in. Her skin had been covered with welts, broken and red from the lashing, and Beverly had been left in the barn overnight to think about what she'd done.
She thought, alright, but it wasn't likely the reflection her husband had been thinking. Beverly lay in the filthy hay all night, thinking about her current situation and planning her next escape attempt. She played the dutiful wife for the next three months, filling his cup, cooking his dinner, and keeping his house like he liked it until her husband grew lazy again. He stopped having the hands watch her so closely. He stopped locking the bolt every night so she couldn't escape. He stopped putting the dogs out every night so they would alert him when she left.
Then, one night, she ran, but not fast enough.
He was after her sooner than expected, and she had heard the baying of the dogs and the clomp clomp clomp of the horse hooves. She was running through the woods, the early autumn chill sending goosebumps up her skin. She hadn't gotten dressed in anything heavier than a shift. If he'd caught her getting dressed, he'd have known she meant to run, and so now she ran in the light of the late year moon, her body bathed in the golden light as she fled for her life.
When she had fallen, she had expected to be ridden down out of hand, but the hooves and the dogs went past her as she lay curled in the bow beneath a tree. The roots made a kind of cage; Beverly looking through the bars as she listened to the insects and night birds sing their song. She expected to be found, expected to be caught, but as the night deepened, she found it was only her out here in the wilderness.
The dancing light had stolen her from her worries, and that was when she noticed the candle.
Beverly had found the cabin and been trapped by the enticing cage.
There wasn't much after that. She had written a little more, but nothing as exciting as the night-long run through the forest. She read the journals and discovered she couldn't leave, but there was none of the fear or uncertainty the others had shown. She was content in this place, a place her husband couldn't find. She lived inside the cabin, updating the journal sparingly and passing away with nothing to show for it and no one the wiser.
I looked at the door again, but the next book looked so inviting.
Books became my food. I devoured them, rereading some of them and taking their stories in. The cabin had attracted many in its lifetime, and I wondered how many more had chosen not to write? How many had suffered in silence here? How many had simply wasted away with nothing to mark their passing except their memories? Those who had written had left behind everything from pages and pages of observations to short little stories about nothing at all. They wrote fantasies, westerns, slice of life stories about the people they left behind, and it all became more and more modern as time went on.
I don't know how long I sat there reading, but it was snowing again when I looked up to find a journal with my own name on it.
I opened it and found the pages as white and blank as the landscape outside my window.
The doorknob was cold when I wrapped my hand around it.
The wind was cold as it blew snow in through the open door.
My boots were still on the porch, but they looked old and weather-beaten. The backpack was gone, likely dragged off by some animal while I was reading. The boots had been tan when I'd bought them less than a year before I entered the cabin. Now, they looked bleached, the fabric thin as a mummy's cheeks. I wanted to reach out and touch them, see if my finger would go through the thin skin of the boot, but I knew I would never get close to them.
I stepped out onto the porch and found my foot coming down on the hardwood floor of the cabin.
I closed the cabin door and went back to the fire, picking up the journal with my name on it.
If you're reading this, then it's already too late.
I don't know if this place is supernatural or just some odd pocket out of time, but I do know that it's a trap.
I don't know if there's any escape from this place, but I know that no one is coming to look for me. I hope my diary is the last, but I have no doubt there will be others. The house seems to draw us to it, collecting stories as it collects lives. At least I'll be warm before I die.
I looked down at what I'd written, unsure of what else to say. It was barely a page, and the effort seemed lame. I was no writer, I'd never done more than emails or text messages, but as I struggled to find something to add to it, the futility of the exercise hit me all at once. If someone read it, they would be trapped anyway. My warning wouldn't help them, and my eyes slipped over to the fire as I thought about just burning it. Would it burn? I didn't know, but if the cabin wanted lives, then why give it what it wanted?
Then I turned back to the door and thought of something a little different.
An experiment that might bear results.
The book thumped onto the porch when I tossed it, and when I turned back to the bookshelf, it hadn't returned to its spot. The snow skittered across the pages, leaving wet runners on the paper as they marked them. They fluttered back and forth as the wind hit them, but the book was a little too heavy to be pushed by the wind. The snow seemed loath to come up on the porch, so I didn't think it would ruin it. When I closed the door, I hoped someone would see it before they opened it. I had added a little bit at the end, and as I sat shivering by the fire, I hoped they would notice the book and follow the instructions before barging in.
Knock three times and open the door. Under no circumstances come in. If the house is empty, run away as fast as you can. If I am here, hopefully you can help me escape.
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2023.05.21 17:38 DarkFlyingApparatus What is the female equivalent of the massive male housework list?
EDIT:
Thank you all for your insights! I've come to the conclusion that I was a bit too gullible when reading through this list for the first time, and should have dismissed many of the points instantly.
Most of the tasks are indeed:
- regularly outsourced to professionals
- monthly, annually or even less often occurring
- rooted in toxic masculinity
- not even really tasks anyway? like the jar opening u/screenee mentioned
So thanks again for opening my eyes on this and seeing the actual value of this list Mr. Farrell made! And also on not creating the female equivalent I was asking for, which would rightly be very toxic as said by
u/faeduster ____________________________
So there was this post on another sub about how men and women generally divide tasks around the house / the relationship. And how men do more housework than women realise. There was a list added to the post which was created by a man called Warren Farrell called the male housework list.
While reading that list I was surprised by the massive amount of things on there!
My second surprise was that I, the woman in our relationship, still do most of the relevant tasks of this list. But that's perhaps something I should talk to him about, because I feel like I'm burning up with the mental and physical load of all the housework I do. Especially since I'm the also the one with the full-time job who brings in the majority of our income... The total housework list I had in my head was way shorter than just Mr Farrell's male housework list. This was my list:
- grocery shopping
- cooking
- dishes
- house cleaning
- washing clothes
- waste management
- gardening
- property maintenance
Since this male housework list is way more extensive than I could have imagined, I was wondering what a female equivalent of this list would be. Because I must be missing something here and might be doing even more things I didn't imagine I was doing.
So my question is:
What are all the female coded (hidden) household/relationship tasks that women perform?
Here is the list that Farrell came up with:
WHAT PERCENTAGE OF THE TIME DO YOU VS. YOUR PARTNER DO THESE CHORES?
Activities most likely to break an arm, leg, or neck, or to crack a skull: In your relationship, who climbs tall ladders or checks out the roof? For example, who uses ladders to do house painting (e.g., reaching for a spot we’ve missed that’s too far away on a homemade scaffold on a windy day), or to clean outside windows; or to go into the attic? Who shovels wet snow off a roof to avoid roof damage, resulting in many men slipping off the roof every winter?
A man who falls off a roof or ladder is lucky if he breaks only an arm; some men, though, are paralyzed for life, or killed; others find shoveling snow off a roof leads to problems that get them classified in one of the next two categories.
- Activities most likely to trigger heart attacks: Shoveling snow off a driveway or sidewalk; pushing a car that’s out of gas off a crowded street into the gas station; playing tag, soccer, or basketball with the kids for a “little too long” while trying to teach the children that a parent can be a playmate too; or carrying a sleepy child from an upstairs bed to the backseat of a car and back into bed again without waking up the child, only to find Dad’s heartbeat getting erratic and pain thrusting through his arm.
- Activities most likely to cause lower back problems and hernia operations: Moving furniture or twisting his back as he juggles a heavy suitcase into the backseat of a two-door car (or behind other suitcases in a trunk); or trying to carry a IV or a computer up a down staircase; or moving the refrigerator or some file cabinets; or moving tables at a church event or picnic.
- Assembly: Mail-order products, toys, bikes, furniture, bookcases, beds; putting up kids’ plastic pools, backyard tents.
- Barbecuing: Shopping for barbecue, charcoal, propane; basting, marinating, cooking; cleaning up of grill, tongs, ashes, etc.
- Bodyguard: at home (e.g., who usually checks it out in the middle of the night when you and your partner are awakened by a noise that sounds like someone has just broken into your home, and you know they could have a gun?); in public places (who plays bodyguard when nightfall turns a beautiful park into a dangerous park or a quaint side street into a dangerous alley; or when a lonely hiking trail proves to be a rattlesnake haven; or when a ski slope becomes an avalanche?). We've all read stories of a man saving a woman from a burning house or a raging river or a crashed car. Women often save children in these situations—and even lift cars to save children. Although I’ve asked over a million people (on IV and radio) to send me a story of a woman risking her life to save an adult man, so far, no stories. Every time a woman and man walk together in a public place, he unconsciously serves as an unpaid bodyguard.
- Camping: It starts with taking psychological responsibility for avoiding disaster (checking weather predictions and safety of the location, buying correct tent and camping gear, taking responsibility for not getting lost, knowing how to use a compass, etc.), then carrying the primary backpack (often including the stove and a kerosene lamp), erecting the tent, dig¬ ging drainage trenches, gathering firewood, building the fire, hoisting food away from animals. The man is often the camping home buyer, home mover, and homemaker.
- Car buying: Price negotiation, Consumer Guide/Blue Book- type research.
- Car maintenance and repair: Checking hoses, belts, tire pressures, vacuuming inside, applying Armor All; comparisons of prices with mechanics, tire changing (see also Emergencies).
- Carpentry: From putting up shelves (in garage, basement, and closets) to repairing loose fence slats, to making bookcases, to building a doghouse.
- Christmas: Putting up lights on house and tree; tree purchase, set-up, dismantling and disposal; retrieving boxes of ornaments from dusty attic or storage area.
- “Male cleaning”: Car washing (and waxing); cleaning all painting tools for reuse (brushes, rollers, pans, guides); cleaning out the basement, attic, fireplace and gutters (the darkest, dirtiest, hottest and coldest parts of the house); cleaning filters of air conditioning and heating units; cleaning yard; bathing of dogs; and, if there’s a pool or Jacuzzi. . . . (See also: Barbecuing; Diaper Changing, Male Equivalents of; Guns and Weapons; Activities most likely to break. . . . )
- Coaching-as-child care: Baseball (1-Ball, CAP Leagues, Little League), softball (e.g., Bobby Soxers), football (Pop Warner), roller hockey, field hockey, ice hockey, soccer; more informal coaching-as-child care via "playing together” in basketball, or throwing, catching, and hitting a ball; instructions in individualized sports such as tennis; instructions in self- defense (aikido, boxing, wrestling).
- Computer buying: Researching best hardware and software; comparing prices, new vs. used markets, etc.
- Confrontations—with neighbors or strangers: “Go tell the neighbors their dogs barking too loud.” Or, you’ve just gotten into a car accident with a stranger; who approaches the other driver when everyone is emotionally off center?
- Dead animal disposal: DAD quickly comes to mean Dead Animal Disposer when the gerbil dies, the rat’s been trapped, when the mouse has been lead into temptation, or when the dog’s been run over and the street has blood all over. What’s worse for some dads, though, is having to kill the almost-dead animal—when DAD means Dying Animal Disposer.
- Decks: Building, sanding, staining, sealing.
- Diaper changing, male equivalents of: Plunging a backed-up toilet; wiping up a child's vomit when carsick on a vacation; cleaning up after dog doo from own dog and neighbors'.
- Digging: Holes and ditches, removing of boulders, tree stumps, etc.
- Dinner when company’s visiting: Meat carving, wine opening, cocktail making (careful guys, most women still do most everything else when company's visiting).
- Disciplining of kids: "Wait till Daddy comes home."
- Dragon-killing—modern version: Swatting flies, stepping on roaches, squishing spiders—all without a sword (or, for pacifist performers, removing the spider without hurting it!).
- Driving: To and from functions that both sexes go to together, especially when conditions are hazardous (e.g., when caught in rush hour in a strange city; when caught in snow on an icy mountain road; when caught in heavy rain, wind, and fog at night, or when in a foreign country), or when both are exhausted or have had a bit too much to drink; on long trips, especially late at night while the family sleeps; or on a motorcycle (have you ever seen a woman on a motorcycle with a man hanging on?). The automobile and motorcycle are the modern-day white horse. Like the man on the white horse, his role involves more accidents; the man on the white horse, though, never had to worry about a DU I citation!
- Emergency prevention: In home (e.g., noticing and repairing frayed wires, plugs, sockets, smoke detectors); in car (putting chains on tires; being certain all the cars' fluids [oil, transmission, anti-freeze] are being changed on schedule, tool kit and flares are adequate, flashlight has batteries, etc.); via nature (battening down windows, putting sand bags in the trunk before a blizzard, making sure trees aren't creating a hazard to house or people should a storm arise), on the town (making sure there’s cash in the wallet and gas in the car).
- When emergencies arise despite prevention: Sandbagging; changing a tire on a cold night in the rain on a dangerous part of the road in the bad part of town; taking the walk for five gallons of gas when the car runs out; or risking putting the battery cable on the wrong side of the battery.
- Post-emergencies: Roof repair (shingles, holes, leaks, etc.); removal of fallen trees and branches; rebuilding and repairing after damage; or arranging for, supervising and helping with rebuilding and repair.
- Fences: Building fences from stone or wood, or installing a wire fence.
- Fire building, wood chopping and carting wood indoors while not getting the carpet dirty.
- Garbage: Real men take out the garbage because, you see, it's in their genes to know how to use the garbage can cover as a shield should anything happen in that journey from the castle to the street. If he takes out the recycled items and the garden waste, it’s just because he wants to protect his turf of being the garbage man (excuse me, waste management engineer).
- Gas/electric failures: Resetting clocks and circuit switches; relighting pilot lights; troubleshooting.
- Gift-giving as a contribution to maintaining the romance: We often say men aren’t romantic, but we forget that it is men who are more likely to give the flowers she likes; the diamonds with the right 4 Cs (carat size, clarity, cut and color [then he worries about the 5th C—cost]); the earrings with the hypoallergenic studs; the perfume with the scent she prefers; the right-size ring for the correct finger with the right stone and her preferred cut; or to choose a restaurant that fits her definition of romantic, arranging the occasion, taking her there, and paying. Many a man has never had even one of these things done for him by even one woman one time (just as some women have never had a man do their laundry, cook a meal, or even make a cup of tea).
- Guns and weapon: Purchase, cleaning, usage, and safety for protecting family from thieves in city and from animals in rural areas.
- Hanging: Of heavy pictures, wall hangings, clocks, phones (especially when molly bolts, toggle bolts, or drywall or plastic anchors are necessary)
- Installation/hook-up: Of washer, dryer, computer, TV, cables, and antennas.
- Life insurance: Purchasing and choice of carrier.
- Risky investment management (stocks, joint ventures, rental property): The investments that inspire blame when they fail and induce stress even when they succeed.
- Opening: Jars, doors, big boxes, paint cans, windows that are stuck or frozen.
- Option generating: In many couples, the man generates the options, the woman generates the rejections. For example, he asks, “Where would you like to go for dinner?” She answers, “Anywhere.” “Chinese?” he offers. “We just had that,” she reminds. “Italian?” “loo heavy.” “How about that new place—what's its name?” he tries. “I hear that's expensive.” When it comes to restaurants and to movies, the man often generates the options and the woman often selects even immediately after she's said, “It makes no difference.” Option-generating often involves having one's ideas rejected, which can be emotionally taxing.
- Painting: Inside and outside of the home, and the laying down of masking tape, sheets, and other painting preparation (See also: Male cleaning and Activities most likely to break an arm . . . ).
- Patio and sidewalk making: And sealing over cracks, requiring cement mixing, building of frame, making it level, and living with every mistake because it's “laid on concrete.”
- Planting: New trees, bushes, larger plants.
- Plastering, spackling, grouting, caulking, and mortaring: And creating the plaster, spackle, grout and mortar mixtures.
- Poisons, exposure to: Use of insecticides to spray for ants and roaches; or to spray trees, flowers, garden vegies.
- Programming: The VCR (“Honey, before we leave, I can't miss the special on male housework; would you program the VCR?”), or the CD player, the telephone speed dial.
- Pumping gas, paying for gas, changing oil: When there's both a man and woman in the car, I notice men pump the gas about 80 percent of the time in Northeast 8c West Coast urban areas and university towns, and almost 100 percent of the time anywhere else.
- Reading the business and financial pages: To get a feel for business trends that may affect career decisions and information related to investment decisions (which may just look like him “goofing off reading the paper” but is the equivalent of a woman reading recipes in Better Homes & Gardens or Family Circle [still the best selling magazines to women]). On the other hand, guys, the sports pages don't count!
- Remodeling: Taking down walls, putting in windows, finishing garage or basement, and, for better men than I, building entire new rooms.
- Repairs: Toilets, faucets, plumbing, electrical, window screens, sliding glass and screen doors, problems with cabinets, doors, etc.
- Sharpening: Knives, mower blades, pruning shears.
- Shopping for: Paint, hardware, lumber, spackle, lawnmower, tools, much of the "bulk” shopping (Office Depot, Home Depot, Price Club, CostCo, etc.) (See Also: Computer buying; Car buying; Stereo aTid video buying; and Life insurance, for additional "Male Shopping” categories)
- Stereo and video buying: Hooking up, troubleshooting, repair arranging, and supervising.
- Toy and bike care: Oiling, painting, and fixing kids' bikes, swing sets, jungle gyms, merry-go-rounds, and other outdoor play equipment.
- Weather guard: Guarding a woman against exposure to rain, sleet, and snow by forfeiting his jacket to a woman who is cold even when he is also cold; walking between a woman and a street in which cars and trucks might splash water or slush onto their clothes; scraping ice and snow off a car windshield on a freezing morning; dropping the family off at a restaurant or movie when it's pouring, then parking and walking to the restaurant or theater in the rain (especially if no one has an umbrella); warming up the car before the family gets in it; bringing in the newspaper on a rainy morning; salting the driveway, sidewalk, and stairs when the rain has frozen over, so that if anyone falls, he does .‘(See Also: "Activities most likely to trigger heart attacks” and "Emergency” categories).
- Yard work: Lawn mowing, fertilizing, weeding, clipping, leaf raking, tree trimming, etc.
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