"Ashes of Christmas":
December 22, 1990. Three days before Christmas.
The air in the mountains near Oakley, Utah was cold enough to sting the skin, but the sky was clear—a deep winter blue you only saw at higher elevations, where the clouds seemed thinner and the stars brighter. Snow blanketed everything: the trees sagged under its weight, the wooden deck creaked beneath it, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney of our family cabin, rising into the still morning air like a beacon of warmth. It was a postcard kind of day, the kind you remember for the rest of your life. But I remember it for a different reason.
That cabin was more than just a holiday escape—it was sacred to us. Built by my grandfather in the 1960s, every beam and board was soaked in memories. My dad, Rolf, used to tell us stories by the fireplace about hunting trips and nights spent under the stars when he was a boy. The walls were lined with old photos, faded maps, and handmade Christmas decorations we’d brought up every December since I was a kid. It was a place of laughter, peace, and tradition. It felt safe.
That morning, Mom—Kaye—had suggested we make a run into town for last-minute groceries and to pick up a few surprise gifts. Trish, my sixteen-year-old sister, was buzzing with excitement, already talking about which of her gifts she'd open first. My grandma Beth, a no-nonsense woman with a dry wit and a love for hot cocoa, rode up front beside Dad. I was twenty at the time, and I remember thinking how content we all looked crammed in the old Suburban, wrapped in scarves and heavy coats, singing along to the crackling cassette tape of Bing Crosby Christmas songs that had been stuck in the deck since the late '80s.
The trip to town was uneventful, filled with typical holiday chatter and the cozy rush of a small mountain town preparing for Christmas. Strings of lights were wrapped around lamp posts, and the local grocery store smelled like pine needles and baked bread. We joked around, poked fun at each other's gift choices, and filled the backseat with colorful bags, wrapping paper, and enough snacks to last a week.
By the time we returned, the sun was dipping behind the tree line, casting long blue shadows across the snow. Everything looked just as we’d left it—except for one detail.
The front door was open.
Just barely. Just a few inches. But that was enough.
I remember the crunch of snow as we stepped out of the car, the sudden shift in atmosphere. The chatter stopped. The air felt heavier. I stood there, staring at the door. Something in my gut twisted.
“Didn’t we lock it?” I asked, glancing at Dad.
He frowned, already moving forward. “I thought we did. Maybe the wind—”
But the wind hadn’t been strong enough to turn the knob and push open the deadbolt. Not up here. Not with that old, stiff door.
We stepped inside.
At first, it felt like stepping into someone else’s house. There was an eerie silence, as though the air itself was holding its breath. The fireplace was still smoldering, the scent of burnt pine hanging in the air. Then I saw them.
Two men. Strangers. Standing in our living room.
They didn’t belong there. That was the first thing I thought—this surreal, gut-deep certainty that this was wrong. One man was tall with sharp features and cold, dark eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The other was stockier, with a thick beard and a grin that didn’t touch his eyes. They were both holding guns.
My blood turned to ice.
Trish gasped and clutched my arm so tightly her nails dug into my skin. Mom instinctively stepped forward, trying to shield us, even as her voice shook.
“Who are you?”
Von Taylor, the tall one, raised his weapon and motioned us inside with a cruel smile. “Get in. Now.”
We obeyed without question, the primal fear overriding everything else. Mom tried again, her voice steady but pleading. “We don’t have much. Just food, and maybe some cash. You can take it. Just don’t hurt us.”
Von chuckled, low and cold. “We’re not here for money,” he said. “We’re here for fun.”
It was the way he said “fun” that broke something inside me. Like this was entertainment. A game.
The bearded man, Edward Deli, was holding our family camcorder—one we used to record birthdays and Christmas mornings. He raised it to his eye, recording as though this was some twisted documentary. “Smile for the camera,” he sneered.
It felt like a nightmare.
Time warped. Seconds stretched into eternity. We stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.
Then everything shattered.
Von raised his gun and shot Mom. A single, deafening crack. Her body jerked, and she fell to the ground. Her blood spread quickly across the wooden floor, soaking into the rug I’d helped lay down last winter. My brain refused to register it.
Before we could move, Edward shot Grandma Beth. She collapsed beside Mom without a sound, her eyes open and glassy, her teacup slipping from her hand and shattering.
I screamed. I remember that. Not a word, not a cry—just raw, animal panic. Trish covered her mouth with her hands and fell to her knees, shaking uncontrollably.
Dad lunged at Von with a roar, pure rage in motion, but Edward turned and pointed his gun at him.
“Try it,” he said. “See what happens.”
Von didn’t hesitate. He walked over to us, calm, mechanical. “Strip,” he said. “Now. Everything but your underwear.”
We hesitated for half a second too long. Von raised the gun again, and I saw the fury spark in his eyes.
We did what he said.
I couldn’t look at Trish. Couldn’t bear the sight of her standing there, crying and humiliated. My hands trembled as I pulled off my coat, sweater, shirt—until I stood exposed in the freezing air. The room suddenly felt colder, the fire no longer a comfort.
Then Von left the room and came back carrying a rusted canister of gasoline.
The smell hit us first—acrid, chemical, wrong. He began pouring it over us, over the couch, the curtains, the tree we’d decorated just the night before. I felt the cold liquid soak through my clothes and hit my skin like acid.
I whispered, “Why are you doing this?”
Von didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
He turned to Dad and shot him point blank in the face.
I screamed again. Trish collapsed. For a second, I thought Dad was dead. He hit the floor, unmoving, blood pooling beneath him.
They lit the match.
The flames caught fast. The dry pine logs crackled and roared as the fire spread. Smoke filled the air. It clawed at my lungs. The tree ignited like it had been soaked in oil. Lights popped. Ornaments melted. The smell of burning flesh and wood twisted together into something I will never forget.
Von and Edward grabbed us—dragged us outside barefoot through the snow, ignoring our screams. They forced us onto our snowmobiles. Trish was too weak to hold on, so I wrapped my arms around her and held tight.
As we sped away, I looked back.
And saw movement.
Dad. Stumbling through the flames, half his face a mask of blood and soot, one eye swollen shut, but alive. Somehow, impossibly, alive.
He reached a snowmobile and started after us.
The machines roared over the snow, winding down the forest trails toward where we’d left our car. I could feel the heat from Von’s body behind me, his hand tight around my arm. Trish sobbed quietly, her face buried in my shoulder.
They shoved us into the back of our own car. Von drove. Edward filmed. I remember the windshield wipers smearing frost across the glass, the sound of tires crunching over icy gravel.
“Where are you taking us?” I managed to ask, my voice hoarse.
Von met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will find you.”
I wanted to fight. I wanted to run. But I couldn’t move. Could barely think. My entire body had shut down.
Then—sirens.
Faint at first, then louder. Flashing lights in the distance. Hope flared, fragile and fleeting.
Von cursed and slammed the gas pedal. The car skidded, fishtailed. He tried to take a sharp turn, but the tires couldn’t grip the ice. We crashed, hard, into an embankment.
The doors flew open. Guns were drawn. Officers shouting. Von and Edward didn’t go quietly, but they didn’t stand a chance.
It was over.
Sort of.
The days that followed felt like a fog. I remember warm blankets, the sterile smell of a hospital room, the pale face of my father—alive, but broken. I remember holding Trish’s hand as we cried together in silence.
The trial was hell. We faced them. Told our story. Trish shook so hard she could barely speak, but she did. I did too. We owed it to Mom. To Grandma Beth.
Von was sentenced to death. Edward to life without parole.
But no sentence could undo what happened. No verdict could bring back the warmth of our family Christmases.
We never returned to the cabin. It still stands, we’re told. But it’s a hollow shell now, a ghost filled with echoes and ash.
Every Christmas, I remember. Not just the horror, but the courage. The pain, but also the survival.
Dad saved us. Trish and I saved each other. We endured.
But the scars are permanent.
And some ghosts don’t fade with time.
"The Man by the Cabin":
It was late October, and the air in Potter County, Pennsylvania, had that unmistakable chill of the season—the kind that settled in your bones after sundown and carried the scent of damp leaves, pine needles, and distant woodsmoke. We were deep in the Black Forest Trail, miles from the nearest road, even farther from any real town. My sister Sarah, my wife Emily, her friend Lisa, and I had planned the trip months ago—a three-day backpacking loop through the rugged, hemlock-dense wilderness. We needed a break from everything: the hum of traffic, the glow of screens, the weight of schedules. The trees around us were burning in hues of gold, amber, and blood-red, and the quiet—interrupted only by the rhythmic crunch of boots on fallen leaves and the whisper of a brook—felt like a balm. It felt like peace.
Until we found the cabin.
We’d been hiking for a few hours on the first day, maybe five miles in, when the trees began to thin out into a clearing I vaguely remembered from a previous trip. A cabin sat tucked near the edge, leaning slightly to one side as if the forest were slowly reclaiming it. It was small, built of weathered logs and missing a shutter. Last time I passed through here, it was empty—probably a forgotten hunter’s shack or an old ranger outpost no longer in use. But this time, smoke curled lazily from the chimney, the scent of something greasy and burnt wafting through the air. A man stood in front of a crude fire pit, grilling meat over a grate. He was huge—broad shoulders, thick arms, easily over six feet. His red flannel shirt hung open over a stained white tank top, and his beard was tangled and matted like he hadn’t trimmed it in years. Around him, beer cans lay scattered like dead leaves. The smell of charred meat clung heavy in the cold air, more like fat dripping into fire than anything appetizing.
“Hey,” I called out, doing my best to sound casual, polite. “Didn’t expect to see anyone out here.”
He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing under thick brows. His face was sun-weathered, his skin splotched like someone who’d spent too long outdoors without caring. “Keep moving,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, more like a growl than words. Then he turned back to the grill, ignoring us.
Sarah, never one to hold her tongue, leaned in and muttered, “Charming guy.” Emily and Lisa exchanged nervous laughs, but I didn’t laugh. Something about him stuck in my gut. It wasn’t just his look or his tone—it was the feeling, like stepping into a room and sensing that something had just gone very wrong. We moved on quickly after that, continuing another mile before setting up camp. But I kept thinking about him, replaying the way he didn’t really look at us, just… watched.
The next morning, the trail looped us back near the cabin. I hadn’t realized we’d get that close again so soon. The man was still there, but this time, he was sitting on a stump near the fire pit, holding a beer even though it was barely past nine. As we approached, he stood slowly, dusting his hands on his jeans and offering a crooked smile. Something about the shift in his demeanor put me even more on edge.
“Hey there!” he called, his voice forced cheerful. “You all look like you could use a hot meal. Got plenty to go around.”
I slowed down. He was being friendly now, but his smile didn’t touch his eyes. They stayed sharp, cold. “Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral, “but we’ve got our own food. Appreciate the offer.”
He took a step forward, holding out his arms like we were old friends. “Ain’t no one else out here. No harm in being neighborly. Got venison, real fresh.”
His gaze moved over each of us slowly, pausing a little too long on Lisa and Emily. Something tightened in my chest.
“We’re good,” Sarah said firmly. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
His face flickered—just for a second. That smile slipped, jaw twitching like he wanted to say something else but swallowed it. Then he gave a slow nod and turned away, muttering under his breath.
As we hiked away, Lisa said, “Maybe he’s just lonely. Cabin in the woods and all that—it’d make anyone weird.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But something’s off.”
Emily sighed. “He’s just a weirdo. Doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”
We tried to let it go, but by late afternoon, exhaustion crept in faster than expected. The trail was steeper than it looked on the map, and our legs were dead weight. The next marked campsite was too far, and our water was running low.
“There’s that flat area near the cabin,” Sarah said hesitantly. “Not right next to it, but close enough. We could stay hidden in the trees.”
I didn’t like the idea. At all. But I also knew pushing further could lead to someone twisting an ankle in the dark or worse. After some debate—and too much rationalizing—I gave in.
We set up half a mile from the cabin, just beyond a thicket. From there, we couldn’t see the smoke anymore, but I imagined I could still smell that greasy meat. We built a small fire, cooked ramen, roasted marshmallows. For a while, things felt normal again. Lisa told a dumb joke about raccoons stealing granola, and we laughed too loud. But I kept glancing into the dark between the trees. Listening.
I woke to rustling just after midnight. Not wind, not animals. Steady movement—deliberate. I held my breath, listening as the sound circled the campsite. Then came a faint clink—metal on metal. I unzipped my tent quietly, adrenaline prickling my skin. The fire was just glowing coals now, casting weak shadows.
Then I saw him.
The man from the cabin, crouched low over our gear. His flashlight beam wobbled, his fingers rooting through Lisa’s pack. I could hear him mumbling—slurred, fragmented thoughts. He smelled like beer and sweat and smoke. My chest tightened.
“Hey!” I barked, stepping out fast and loud. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He jerked upright, and for a moment, I saw just how big he was—looming in the firelight, eyes glazed and wild. “Just… looking,” he slurred. “Thought you might’ve left something good.”
My hands were shaking, but I held the air horn tight. Sarah and Emily were up now, poking out of their tents. Lisa clutched a flashlight, her eyes wide and full of fear.
“Get out,” I said, low and firm. “Now.”
He swayed, raising his hands slightly. “Easy, man… easy…”
But he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring like he couldn’t decide what to do next. Then I hit the air horn. The blast was ear-splitting, echoing through the forest. He recoiled, stumbled back, then turned and ran, crashing through the underbrush, his flashlight beam jittering between the trees.
I didn’t hesitate. “Pack up. Now.”
Emily’s voice cracked. “He’s gone. Maybe he won’t come back.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe next time he’s not alone. We’re not waiting to find out.”
Sarah was already stuffing her sleeping bag into her pack. “Screw this trip. We’re leaving.”
We broke down the camp faster than I thought possible. No one spoke much. Every sound—the crack of a branch, the distant call of an owl—felt like another threat. We hiked under the moonlight, too spooked to stop, too wired to feel tired. We reached the trailhead just as the first light of dawn cut through the trees. The car had never looked so good.
At the ranger station, I gave the report. Described the man, what he did, where we were. The ranger took notes, nodded, said they’d check it out. But that was it. We never heard back. Maybe they didn’t find him. Maybe they did and chose not to tell us. Maybe he was just a drunk hermit living off grid. Or maybe it was something darker.
I still think about that night. The smell of meat, the way he stared. How close we were to something going very, very wrong. And I haven’t been back to Black Forest since. The woods are beautiful, sure. But they’re also deep, and old, and quiet in ways that make you realize how far you are from help. And sometimes, the most dangerous thing out there isn’t a bear or a storm.
It’s the man already watching you from the shadows.
"The Silence at Missinaibi Lake":
I’ll never forget that trip in September 2005. Jacqueline, my wife, and I wanted a quiet getaway, just the two of us. We’d both been exhausted—long hours at work, the constant thrum of city life grinding us down. Missinaibi Lake Provincial Park had always been a place we talked about. Remote, pristine, untouched. A kind of last frontier in the north of Ontario. When we found out the cabin was booked, I didn’t think twice about camping instead. It seemed simple enough. Peaceful, even. I was wrong.
The drive up felt longer than I expected. Almost eighty kilometers north of Chapleau, and most of it was along gravel logging roads, the kind where you hold your breath every time you round a bend, hoping a truck isn’t barreling down the other side. Jacqueline kept teasing me about my navigation skills. “Mark, you sure you know where we’re going?” she said, half-laughing, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. She always did that when she was nervous.
“I’ve got the map, Jackie,” I said, patting the folded-up Parks Canada map that was starting to fray at the edges from overuse. “Relax. It’s an adventure.”
“Adventure, huh?” she smiled, leaning her head against the window as pine trees whipped past in a blur. “Just don’t get us eaten by a bear or something.”
The road narrowed the farther we went, swallowed by thick forest—spruce and pine so tall they seemed to lean together at the top, turning the road into a tunnel of green. The air changed too. It smelled sharper, fresher. Pine resin and moss, damp soil and the distant, unmistakable scent of cold lakewater. When we finally reached the edge of Missinaibi Lake, the sun was hanging low on the horizon, bleeding gold and orange across the glassy surface. There were no other cars, no sounds of people. Just the wind in the trees and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. At first, that silence felt peaceful. But underneath it, there was something... off. A stillness that didn’t feel natural.
We found a spot near the lake and set up the tent under a small stand of birch and cedar. A little green dome in a sea of forest. While I got a fire going, Jacqueline strung up our food between two trees, hanging it high from a rope like we’d read about. “You think we’ll see any bears?” she asked, half-joking, but her eyes were scanning the woods.
“Nah,” I said, jabbing at the fire with a stick. “They’re more scared of us. Besides, we’re doing everything right.”
She shot me a look. “You’re the expert now?”
“I read the pamphlet. That basically makes me a ranger.”
That night, after we’d eaten and sat around the fire until it burned down to embers, Jacqueline leaned her head on my shoulder. “When we get back,” she murmured, “we should get a dog. Something big. A retriever, maybe. It’ll be our kid until we’re ready for the real thing.”
“A dog?” I asked, surprised, but smiling. “You’d spoil it rotten.”
She laughed, the sound soft and musical in the quiet night. “Damn right I would.”
I remember that moment so vividly. Her warmth against me, the firelight flickering on her face, the stars so bright above us it felt like they were close enough to touch. For a second, it felt like we were the only two people in the world. But when we crawled into the tent and zipped ourselves in, that feeling started to fade. There were no sounds outside. No crickets, no frogs, not even the hoot of an owl. Just an oppressive silence that pressed against the thin nylon walls like a held breath.
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to make Jacqueline nervous. But my skin prickled, and I lay awake long after she drifted off, listening to the heavy silence.
The next morning, mist clung low over the ground, curling between tree trunks and hovering over the lake like smoke. We ate a quick breakfast and decided to hike along the shoreline trail. The autumn colors were unreal—brilliant red maples, golden birch, deep orange undergrowth. Jacqueline kept stopping to take photos, crouching beside weird mushrooms or pointing out animal tracks in the mud. “You’re slowing us down,” I teased, watching her lean in close to some deer scat.
“You’re just jealous of my eye for detail,” she shot back, grinning as she brushed her hands on her pants.
Around noon, we found the claw marks. They were on a thick pine tree, long and deep, the bark peeled back like wet paper. “Bear?” Jacqueline asked, her voice tighter now, the playfulness gone.
“Yeah. Probably,” I said. “Just marking territory. They do that sometimes. It doesn’t mean it’s close.” But even as I said it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had passed through recently. The gouges looked fresh. The sap hadn’t even begun to dry.
The hike back to camp felt different. The light seemed colder. The forest more crowded, the shadows darker, as if something had changed in our absence. I kept glancing over my shoulder, waiting to see movement in the trees. But there was nothing. Just the weight of our footsteps and the faint crunch of fallen leaves.
At camp, everything looked untouched. The food bag still hung high in the tree, swinging slightly in the breeze. I forced a smile. “See? We’re good.”
Jacqueline nodded, but I saw her eyes scan the woods again. “Let’s stay close tonight, okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Definitely.”
Dinner was quiet. Just some canned chili and stale crackers, eaten beside a fire that didn’t feel as comforting as it had the night before. The woods were dead silent again. Jacqueline kept her flashlight in her lap, flicking it on and off nervously. “It’s creepy out here,” she whispered. “Like we’re not alone.”
I wanted to tell her it was fine, that it was just our imaginations, but I couldn’t. Because I’d felt it too. That cold awareness, that itch between my shoulder blades. The sense of something just beyond the firelight, watching.
We turned in early, zipped the tent tight, and huddled together in our sleeping bags. Jacqueline fell asleep quickly, but I couldn’t. I lay still, listening to every sound—or the lack of them. Around midnight, I heard it. A rustle. Slow. Deliberate. Not the wind. Then a low huffing breath, heavy and close.
My heart slammed into my ribs. I reached for the flashlight and the knife in the side pouch of my pack. It was all we had. “Jackie,” I whispered, touching her shoulder. “Wake up.”
She stirred, bleary-eyed. “What is it?”
“There’s something out there,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Don’t move.”
The rustling got closer. Heavy steps, crunching leaves. Then, a shadow moved across the wall of the tent. Enormous. Hunched. My throat dried up. I clicked on the flashlight and aimed it at the side of the tent just as the shadow paused. A loud sniffing sound. Wet. Animal. Close.
Jacqueline clutched my arm, her nails digging in. “Mark…”
“Don’t move,” I whispered. “Don’t speak.”
Then, all at once, the bear roared. A deafening, primal sound that tore through the stillness like a thunderclap. It tore into the side of the tent, fabric ripping like paper. The flashlight beam lit up matted black fur, gaping jaws, eyes that gleamed with something more than instinct. Jacqueline screamed, and the bear surged forward, swiping at her. She went down hard, blood blooming on her jacket like spilled paint.
“Jackie!” I shouted, lunging at the bear with the knife. I stabbed at its shoulder, its side, its neck—anywhere I could reach. The blade felt useless, barely penetrating the thick muscle. The bear turned on me, snarling, its breath foul and hot as it snapped its jaws an inch from my face. I stabbed again and again, hands slick with sweat and blood. The bear raked its claws across my leg, and pain burst through me like fire. But I didn’t stop.
Finally, with a groan, the bear collapsed, blood pouring from its neck and soaking the shredded tent beneath it.
I crawled to Jacqueline, my vision swimming. Her chest was a mess of blood and torn fabric. Her breaths were shallow, gasping. “Jackie,” I whispered, pulling her close. “Stay with me. Please.”
“Mark…” she said, her voice faint. “I’m scared…”
“I’ve got you,” I lied, tears burning hot down my face. “You’re gonna be okay.”
I carried her in my arms through the trees, down to the small aluminum boat we’d used to cross the lake. Every step sent waves of pain through my leg, but I didn’t stop. Her blood soaked into my shirt, warm and sticky. I rowed across that endless stretch of dark water, screaming for help with every stroke, though I knew no one would hear.
She died in my arms before we reached the shore.
The rest is a blur. Rangers found me hours later, half-conscious, slumped over her body at the dock. They said I was lucky to be alive. That the bear was acting strangely. Predatory. Unusual for a black bear.
I don’t remember what I said to them. I barely remember the hospital, the stitches, the reporters. All I remember is the sound of Jacqueline’s laugh around the campfire, the warmth of her hand in mine, and the hollow silence that followed her last breath.
They called it a rare attack. An anomaly. A tragedy. But none of those words matter. The woods took her from me, and no explanation can change that. I never went back. I never will.
If you’re reading this, listen to me. The wilderness isn’t just wild—it’s indifferent. Beautiful, yes, but unforgiving. It doesn’t care how careful you are, how much you love someone, how prepared you think you might be. I thought I was ready. I wasn’t. And I lost everything.
"The Silence at Cabin 28":
That spring morning in 1981 still lives somewhere just beneath my skin, like a splinter that never got pulled. You don’t forget something like that. It settles deep in you, reappearing in moments you least expect—a certain stillness in the air, the sound of gravel underfoot, or the way pine needles smell when the sun warms them just right. That’s what Keddie was like back then. A speck on the map nestled in the Sierra Nevadas, with tall, whispering trees and a quiet so complete, it almost felt sacred. The kind of place where people left their doors unlocked and kids ran barefoot between cabins until dusk. Keddie wasn’t much—just an old rail stop that turned into a makeshift community—but it was ours. It was home.
Cabin 28 stood in a clearing where the forest pulled back just enough to let in some light. The paint had long since peeled, and the wood was soft from too many winters, but to us, it was more than walls and a roof. It was warmth in the cold, laughter in the quiet, a place where our mom—Sue—did everything she could to keep the world from caving in on us. She was strong, even when things were hard. Especially then. My brothers—John, Greg, Rickey—and my little sister Tina were everything to me. We didn’t have much, but we had each other.
That night, April 11, I wasn’t home. I was next door at the Seabolts’ cabin, sleeping over with my friend Lori. The night was normal. Stupid jokes, whispered secrets, giggles under blankets. The kind of innocent stuff you don't realize you’ll never have again until it's gone. We fell asleep to the low hum of the forest, the occasional creak of wood settling, and the smell of pine smoke lingering in our hair. Outside, the wind moved through the trees in slow sighs. Inside, everything felt safe.
When I woke up the next morning, April 12, I remember the light was soft and golden, filtering through the old lace curtains. The cabin was warm, the air heavy with the scent of frying butter and percolating coffee. Zonita was already up, humming some tune as she flipped pancakes in the kitchen. Her back was to me, her hair tied up in a loose bun, sleeves rolled, like she’d been up for hours already.
“Morning, Sheila,” she said over her shoulder, her voice all sunlight and calm. “Want some breakfast?”
I sat up slowly, the quilt slipping off me. “Nah, thanks,” I said, yawning. “I should probably head back. Mom’s gonna want help with the little ones.”
Zonita smiled without turning around. “Tell Sue I said hi. And remind her we’ve still got that flour she asked about.”
I nodded, pulling on my hoodie and sneakers. Lori stirred in her sleeping bag but didn’t wake up. I slipped out the door quietly, letting it creak shut behind me.
The morning air was cold against my face, the kind that bites a little but wakes you up all the way. Birds were already chattering in the trees, and everything smelled damp and earthy. The gravel path between cabins was still wet from the frost melting off. I remember looking around at the towering pines and the silence between the birdcalls, and for a second, I just stood there, breathing it in. If I had known, if there had been even the slightest hint—anything—I would’ve run. But there was nothing. No warning. Just quiet.
Cabin 28 looked like it always did. The porch sagged a little more each year, but it still creaked the same way underfoot. Mom’s rocking chair was there, unmoved. But the curtains were still drawn, which was odd. Mom always opened them early, let the light in. I told myself maybe she was just sleeping in. John had been out late with Dana, his best friend, and maybe things had just gotten off to a slow start.
I reached for the door. It was cracked open. That was the first chill—not the morning air, but that door. Something about it felt wrong. But I didn’t think danger. Not yet. I just pushed it open slowly and stepped inside.
The air hit me like a wall. Thick. Still. And there was a smell that didn’t belong—sharp, metallic, like rust and something sour. I didn’t understand it at first. My eyes had to adjust. The living room was dim, the curtains filtering out most of the light, and everything was quiet. Too quiet. That’s when I saw it.
The first thing I saw was Mom. She was on the floor, lying weird, her hands bound behind her. Duct tape, tight, biting into her skin. There was blood everywhere—on her clothes, on the couch cushions, smeared across the floorboards. Her face was… still. Her eyes were open, glassy, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was slightly open like she’d been mid-breath when everything stopped.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. My mind went blank. Then I saw John. My big brother, my protector. His throat—Jesus. It was cut open, wide and gaping. Blood had soaked into the carpet beneath him, and his face was so pale. Dana was nearby, slumped against the wall, bruised and still, his wrists bound too. It looked like someone had beaten him badly before the end.
It felt like the world narrowed into a tunnel, like I couldn’t hear anything but the roar of my own heartbeat. I dropped to my knees without realizing. My legs just stopped working. I tried to scream but couldn’t. The air wouldn’t come. My hands went cold. I started backing away, crab-crawling across the floor, staring at the blood smeared across the rug, the couch, the walls. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.
I finally got my legs under me and bolted, running so fast I nearly tripped over the porch steps. My knees scraped the wood, but I didn’t stop. I ran like something was chasing me, like the devil himself was behind me, back across the gravel path and straight into the Seabolts’ cabin.
I burst through the door, screaming, sobbing, out of breath. “Help! Something’s wrong! Please, help!”
Zonita turned just in time to drop a plate. It shattered on the floor. Jamie stood up so fast his chair fell over.
“Sheila?” he said, eyes wide. “What happened?”
“They’re dead!” I screamed. “Mom—John—Dana! There’s blood everywhere!”
Zonita ran to me, wrapping me in her arms as I shook uncontrollably. Jamie went for the phone, dialing so fast his fingers fumbled.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “They’re calling for help. It’s gonna take time. We’re way out here.”
Zonita held me close, her hand stroking my hair. “You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re safe now. Where are the other kids? Tina? The boys?”
My heart nearly stopped. I hadn’t seen them. Hadn’t looked. I’d just run.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t know where they are.”
Jamie grabbed his coat. “We’re checking. Now.”
“I’m coming,” I said, but my voice barely sounded like mine.
The walk back felt longer this time. My legs were shaking, and the sun, so gentle earlier, now seemed harsh and wrong. The cabin looked like something else now—like a place cursed, like it didn’t belong in the world anymore. Jamie told me to stay outside, but I couldn’t. I hovered near the porch, watching him open the door again.
“Rickey? Greg? Tina?” he called out, stepping inside.
There was a long pause. Then—“Jamie?” A tiny voice, scared and thin, floated from the back.
“Don’t move!” Jamie shouted. “I’m coming to get you.”
He rushed to the back bedroom, and a moment later, he opened the window. I ran over just as Rickey, my little brother, peeked out, eyes wide and terrified. Behind him, Greg was crying, his little hands clutching Justin Smartt, another little boy who had stayed the night.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to stay strong. “We’re here. Come on, let’s go.”
One by one, Jamie helped them through the window. I hugged Greg tight, feeling his tiny heart hammering against mine. Justin didn’t say a word, just looked around like the world had shifted. But Tina—Tina wasn’t with them.
“She’s not here,” I said to Jamie, panic rising again.
He just nodded grimly. “We’ll tell the cops. They’ll find her.”
Back at the Seabolts’, everything was quiet chaos. Zonita wrapped the boys in blankets, tried to calm them. Someone made hot chocolate, though no one touched it. I sat on the couch, my hands trembling in my lap, the image of that living room burning behind my eyes. I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop seeing it. Smelling it. Hearing the silence.
The police came, eventually. Sirens slicing through the peace like a knife. They asked questions, moved carefully through the cabin, documenting everything. But there were no answers. Tina was gone. No trace. For years, nothing. Until they found her remains in 1984, scattered in another county, like someone had tossed her away and hoped no one would look.
Nobody was ever arrested. There were suspects. Rumors. Whispers of a cover-up. People said things—about who might’ve done it, about motives, about how the investigation was bungled from the start. Some folks in town acted strange after that. Like they knew more than they said. Some just left. Packed up and vanished like ghosts.
I never really went home after that. Not truly. That place—that quiet little cabin in the woods—became something else. A scar in the earth. I lost my mom. My brother. My sister. And something else, too—trust, safety, childhood. It all vanished in that one morning.
Even now, all these years later, I wake up in the middle of the night with my heart racing, thinking I hear that silence again. The kind that’s not just quiet—but empty. And waiting.