Somewhere in New York State
Jim Cavanaugh had a stone cabin that was nestled at the crest
of a ridge that looked down onto the Allegheny River. He had been coming there
for seven years to rid himself of the muck of civilization. As a public defender
in a corrupt judicial system, he had decided long ago that the world was made up
of seventy-five percent muck, and he had probably—or would probably—defend
most of them in a courtroom at one time or another.
Out in the vastness of an untamed hinterland, he felt
infinitely more connected to the wilderness than to the human race, with one
exception, and that one exception would be arriving shortly to partake of the
natural splendor of a tranquil vacation in the Allegheny National Forest; the
only other human eyes to see what he considered his part of creation.
His cabin was an eclectic mix of modern and old. Some rooms
in the six-room spread were lit only with Coleman lanterns, and others were
supplied electricity by a gasoline-powered generator. The only water was from a
well just outside the kitchen door, but the fridge and wet bar had an ample
stock of Perrier when he was there. The toilet was an outhouse—though
admittedly more sophisticated than the average hole in the ground—about a
hundred and fifty feet or so west of the cabin along the ridge. Though the cabin
had a facade of roughness, it really was plush with pile carpeting, a grand fire
place, chandeliered and vaulted ceiling, king-size bed, more-than-adequate Eddie
Bauer furnishings—the human race did have its finer points.
Jim looked out the cabin’s large bay window in the living
room at the dark purple-black shadows inching across his Oldsmobile Bravada like
the ice cold breakers of an oncoming wave in a an ever-encroaching sea of
blackness. The evening sky was only a slightly paler shade of purple-black. The
dirt road that serpentined up the steeply sloped hill side and ending at his cul-de-sac was completely engulfed in the ebony night current as well. Only the
comparatively darker silhouette of the tree line just behind the SUV was
distinguishable.
He looked at his watch. Colleen would be there anytime now,
providing that she followed his directions to a tee. Of course she would. She
was always one to follow protocol infallibly, that’s why she was a good
prosecutor. Still, he would like to have brought her up himself the first time
around, get her familiar with the terrain and landmarks, but she insisted that,
after some last minute paper work she had to catch up on before leaving the
office, she’d be on her way. “Besides,” she reminded him, “I’m a big
girl. I’m not afraid of the Big Bad Wolf; I can take care of myself.”
And so she could. That was what he liked about her. She was
not a delicate flower who boo-hooed when she broke a nail or feigned ignorance
or helplessness at the sight of a virile man. She was the kind of person that
didn’t let circumstances dictate her. She snatched you up by your balls before
you had a chance to blink and would not let go. That’s how she was. That’s
how she had to be to be a good prosecuting attorney.
They not only had their profession in common, but they
eventually found out that they also shared a mutual love for the outdoors that
bordered on obsession. Separately, every weekend seemed to be devoted to hiking
the woods outside Buffalo or cross-country skiing on the slopes of western New
York back country or camping in the vast wilderness of the Allegheny foothills
two hours south of them. It was
inevitable that at some point in time, one would mention to the other a
particularly exhilarating trek they had experienced after an exceptionally
grueling week and thus had sparked a companionship of shared passion.
It was because of their mutual love of all that is wild and
untamed that he had finally asked her to see his temple to Mother Nature. She
had enthusiastically agreed and gave him a smile that made steam roll out of his
trousers in testosterone-laden ranks. He was a desperately lonely and
over-worked man, due to the fact that his caseload at the courthouse prevented
his attempt at a social life, and Colleen was beautiful. She had a rugged,
natural countenance that seemed as though it had been sculpted out of the finest
granite. Yet at her core, she had the gentleness of a bubbling brook. Because
they were both lawyers, and being at opposing ends of a trial, he really never
got to see the softer side of Colleen much, but he instinctively knew that there
was a purely woman, purely feminine side to her. He was trained to tell when a
person was purposely concealing part of a personality trait that wasn’t
beneficial to show. Tonight, he hoped he would see more of that side of her and
maybe even a little more. A lot more, actually.
Jim downed the last swallow of brandy from his glass and set
it on the coffee table behind him. The drink didn’t warm him like it should
have. Looking up, he noticed that the fire in the cobblestone fireplace at the
other end of the room was near death. He rubbed his hands together and shivered,
then went over to the fire to stir the glowing, amber coals. He decided
it was time to replenish his fire and get more logs. If all went as planned,
he’d be too busy—and too naked—to get cordwood later in the evening. He
wanted to show Colleen that he was as prepared in his private life as he was in
the courtroom.
He went outside to get more wood for the fireplace.
Wind-swayed branches of elms and pines sung softly in a chilly, night wind and
cast nebulous moon-shadows on the ground when the lunar light wasn’t hidden
among the legions of clouds. Besides the whistling trees, the rest of the forest
seemed to have already retired for the evening.
His supply of cordwood was housed in a lean-to next to the
outhouse. He pulled the latch-peg out of the hasp on the door. Working in utter
darkness but with acute familiarity, he filled a stalwart tin hod with a several
large logs, picked for their ability to burn for a long time without rekindling.
After picking his finest pieces of wood to burn, he carried the hod outside, set
it down and re-latched the door.
As he grabbed the hod and turned to head back to the cabin,
and in the brief silence between wind songs being played by the trees, he
thought he heard some branches being broken underfoot.
He listened for a moment.
Nothing.
He shrugged off the noise and started back to the cabin.
He took only a
few more steps before hearing it again—several quick snap-crunch-crackles of
dry brush and foliage. But when he stopped, so did the rustling noise. Judging
by the sound, it was about thirty yards beyond the outhouse.
Jim listened again. He was curious, concerned even, but not
yet afraid. He had seen many times the worst beasts these woods had to offer.
Ninety-nine percent were all afraid of humans, save a rabid or extremely hungry
animal of one sort or another.
Feeling a bit uneasy, he quickened his pace a little, only in
part because of the intruder. He was also getting cold, having not put on a coat
before setting out to get the wood.
More footsteps. Closer this time. The distance between Jim
and the beast seemed to have been cut in half almost instantly. This time
something more blood-chilling accompanied the footsteps—he could hear it
breathing. Heavy, guttural, somehow vaguely human and very intense.
For the first time in seven years, Jim felt as though he was
in danger. Half tempted to just throw the hod to the side and make a mad dash
for safety, he quickened his pace to an allowable rate without spilling the
cordwood; heating the cabin was still a necessity.
The rustling of displaced brush grew louder as did the
frenetic respirations of the beast. It was moving faster than it had been. Hell,
it was in an all-out dash.
Jim followed suit, leaving his hod and cordwood in a heap
about twenty feet from the kitchen door. To hell with heat.
It wailed for the first time and produced a cacophony of
eerie sounds. At first they were viscous snarls, then they escalated into a
morbid symphony of squeals and shrieks as if tens of thousands of tortured souls
were screaming their lamentations up from the pit of Hell and out of this
creature’s mouth. It was almost at his back.
He skipped the four steps and leapt straight up to the small
porch at the back door, flung it open, rushed inside and slammed the door shut
behind him. He then engaged the deadbolt lock.
Jim then went to the front of the cabin and engaged the
deadbolt on that door, as well. Though he really wasn’t sure why, he felt
better having locked the doors. It was probably just a scavenging bear, and a
bear wasn’t going to try to enter the cabin politely through one if its two
doors and ask if he had any Gray Poupon.
But the noises the thing was making didn’t sound like a
bear. And nothing on earth wreaked as bad as whatever that thing was. That’s
what made him so uneasy. After spending seven years coming to the cabin, he knew
all his animal neighbors, and none of them smelled like that or made sounds like
that.
The light in the front room was dimming further as the life
in the remaining hot embers and small flickers of flame began their final
dances. Specters of reflected firelight capered across the walls, and conspiring
shadows hunkered down in the deep corners and crevasses of the room. He’d
thought about turning on the chandelier for light but would have had to go
outside and start up the generator. Instead he settled for a Coleman lantern
sitting on an end table next to his La Z Boy recliner. He quickly went over and
turned it up to full force, chasing away the shadow-ghosts. He felt a little
better, though was embarrassed at himself for acting like a child out on his
first camping trip. Then he proceeded to turn on the rest of the Colemans
throughout the cabin. The air was getting chillier inside, but at least he could
see.
His curiosity for what was outside compelled him back to the
large window in the front room. At first, he was a little apprehensive about
looking out, but he figured that once he saw that it was just a bear or maybe a
pair of scavenging raccoons, just as much afraid of him as he was of them,
he’d laugh to himself and be thankful that Colleen hadn’t been there to see
how irrational he was behaving and go back out for the cordwood. He would not
let some furry little forest animal sabotage his plans of a very, very toasty
cabin and an equally toasty boudoir when Colleen Frasier arrived.
To lessen the mirror affect that the window had with all the
lanterns on, Jim darkened the room by turning down the Coleman on the end table
and let his eyes adjust to the tarry nightscape beyond the window. A string of
clouds like a caravan of silver galleons sailed across night sky. With the sun
now long tucked completely under the blanket of the earth till morning, spotty
moonlight speckled the front yard, played across the windshield of Jim’s
Bravada and traced the outline of the ranks of trees that surrounded the cabin.
He studied the tree line for a while as it arced its way
around to the back of the cabin. He saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary.
He decided that the animal, realizing that he had nothing to offer, wandered
off. With a new wave of embarrassment washing over him, he started to turn away
from the window—then fleetingly noticed movement at the wood line behind the
Bravada. He squinted hard through the glass, saw no more movement, remained
watchful for a few more long minutes. Again, as he figured that he had only seen
a wind-animated bush and began to pull away from the window, he saw it again.
Something appeared out from behind the SUV. Jim put his face right to the glass
and cupped his hands over his periphery to get a better look outside.
Something was hurtling towards the cabin. The patchy
moonlight only made it more enigmatic, but it was large, upright on two legs,
explosive-fast like a bullet out of a gun. Unexpectedly—Christ Almighty!—the
thing was lunging, headfirst through the air, an outlandishness soaring straight
at the bay window through the lightless night. Jim cried out in terror, and
almost simultaneously, the thing exploded through the window. Jim screamed, but
it was cut short.
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