Erik

ERIK

I opened the door of my newly rented cabin and dropped my bags at the door.  This was going to be home for the next month.

Yup, I thought, Exactly like I thought it would be.

It was, essentially one big — well, small — room. Small “L” shaped kitchen area with a small table for two, a living room with a stone fireplace, a couch and two armchairs filled the space. To the left were two doors. One, I knew was for the bedroom. And the second, I prayed, was for the bathroom. The thought of having to use an outdoor privy sent shivers down my spine. There were a few things that bothered me, but top of the list was having to use a pit toilet. Eww.

I walked towards door number one, turned the knob, and pushed open the door. Bedroom. A lovely queen-sized bed stacked high with hand-made quilts and blankets, and enough pillows to serve a family of five. Dresser, armoire, and chair. Very cozy.

I walked to door number two, turned the handle and opened the door. Score! An indoor bathroom. Three pieces — three very appreciated pieces. Yay! Now I could relax knowing there would be no trips outside to do my business.

Flicker.

I looked around. Had the lights just flickered? Or was it my imagination? Had I offended the god of outhouses with my obvious joy at indoor plumbing? 

I dragged my bags into the bedroom, and quickly put all my clothes away in the dresser and armoire. I took my toiletries into the bathroom and started laying them out.

Flicker. Flicker.

That had definitely been a couple of flickers. I looked out the window. Just darkness. The other cabins were dark — not because of electrical issues, but because I was the only guest here.  

I was rural. Really, really rural, compared to my usual home in the city. But, I had thought that maybe some time in the country — a bit of solitude — would help me finish my novel. My editor had sent me increasingly strident e-mails about the impending deadlines looming for publication, so I had to get a move on.  

I had decided that a cabin in the woods would be the best way to get some work done. No internet, and really spotty cell phone reception, along with the fact that I didn’t know a soul for at least a hundred miles, made, in theory, the idea of getting my writing done more probable. Not being able to get lost in the vortex that was YouTube. No doom scrolling. 

Just get the job done, Chelsea.

That was the plan.

It took me almost an hour to unload the car, and set everything up. Clothes away, kitchen stocked, “office” set up at the kitchen table overlooking the lake.  

It was full dark, and I was just trying to decide what dinner was going to be. It was a toss up between cooking a chicken breast or making a box of Annie’s mac and cheese. Annie’s won because it had been a long day of driving, and I just wanted something easy to eat. Easy is always better.

Flicker. Flicker.

The lights again. 

What the heck? I thought.

I had definitely seen the lights flicker this time.

It was a bit disconcerting. It was full dark now, and I knew that I was the only person around for miles. I wasn’t usually a scaredy-cat. But, I was writing a book about the souls of the dead inhabiting the bodies of the living, so perhaps I was a little predisposed to being creeped out.  

I tried to convince myself that it was just the shortcomings of the rural power grid. I was, after all way, way, way out there. There were more moose per square mile out here than people. All it would take was one tree falling on a power line to plunge the whole region into darkness.  

I decided that just in case, I was going to light a fire in the fireplace. If the power went out I needed to be able to (a) see, and (b) keep warm. It was late spring, but it had been a wet and cold spring, and being this far north there was still snow on the mountains. Irony would have been to come all the way up north to finish my book, only to have the book finish me when I died from hypothermia.  

I snorted. Just my luck.

I went outside to collect the wood needed for a roaring fire. I was on my fourth load of wood (you can never have too much wood inside if it meant you wouldn’t have to go out at night for more), when I heard, what I had to describe as moaning. It was completely eerie. I looked around. Nothing. No other sounds, just the pitiful moaning that sent my skin crawling. 

For all the world, it sounded like a child moaning in pain. Could it be the wind in the trees? Could it be a trick of the land that produced that sound? Could it be the soul of a dead child looking for a new human host?

I hustled myself into the cabin, and locked the door. Not that a locked door would stop a questing soul. I knew that was true, because I wrote it in my book.

I shook off my unease. Of course there were no souls roaming the world. It was fiction — fiction I had written.  

Geez, Chelsea, get a grip!

I gave an involuntary shudder, and turned to the task at hand. I had lugged in enough wood to keep the cabin toasty all night long. 

I crumpled up some newspaper, added kindling, laid the logs in the hearth, and opened the flue. The owners had thoughtfully included one of those very handy butane barbeque lighters. I was all set. Now, if I could only shake the feeling of unease that had been growing since the first flickering of the lights.

I touched the flame to the paper and kindling, and watched the fire jump to life, the initial tendrils of smoke going up the chimney. I gently blew on the flames, encouraging them to catch and grow the fire.

Suddenly there was an ear splitting screech. My blood ran cold. I had no idea what had made that noise. It was like nothing I had ever heard before.  

Before I could try and figure out where the noise had come from the lights flickered again.  

Flicker. Flicker.

And again.

Flicker. Flicker.

My nerves were frazzled. I now understood why so many horror novels and movies were set in the woods, at a lonely cabin. I was living it, right now. And I was petrified.  

Rational brain Chelsea knew there was a reasonable explanation for what had happened. Irrational brain Chelsea was scared witless. I was literally crouching beside the fire, my back to the field stone chimney, scanning the room and the windows.

All I could think of was spectral beings surrounding the cabin, wanting to get in. Their wispy, translucent apparitions circling through the air, their tattered ends streaming behind them, as they flew through the air, seeking to gain entrance to the cabin and my soul.  

Bang!

Something hit the window. I spun around, expecting to see the lifeless black incorporeal eyes of the dead staring back at me. 

But there was nothing. Just the empty darkness beyond the windows.  

I fed more wood on the fire. Somewhere in my mind I believed that fire would be my salvation, so I stoked the flames. Suddenly a noise from the fireplace, and a ball of fire erupted, sending flames high into the flue.  

I was paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t move.  

Kuk-kuk-kuk! Kuk-kuk-kuk! Kuk-kuk-kuk!

What in God’s name was that? Goosebumps raised on my skin. I looked from window to window, seeing nothing but the dark, feeling it pressing against the cabin.

Skitter. Skitter. Skitter.

Sounds across the roof of the cabin.

The dead! They were trying to find purchase. My heart pounded in my chest so hard that it hurt.  

I needed to stop them. But I was horror-struck, immobile in my fear.

Flicker. Flicker.

The lights went out. But this time they didn’t come back on. I was alone, in a cabin in the woods, the only thing keeping the horrors that awaited me outside at bay was the fire. It was dying down. I knew that I had to break out of my fugue to save myself.

Suddenly there was a blinding light at the window. Then just blackness.

Horror and fear render the body motionless. My limbs would not obey my commands to move. It was as if the spectrals were all ready controlling my actions, holding me static, preventing movement.  

The fire was dying, almost reduced to embers. Then they would be able to come into the cabin and …

I broke free of my inertia. Fear had paralyzed me. A greater fear — for my soul — freed me. I piled wood on the fire, feeding it until it was blazing.  

I stayed by the fire the entire night, well past first light in the morning. The night had been spent huddled by the hearth, only the light from the fire keeping the darkness at bay.  

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Spectrals didn’t knock. They screamed, the skittered, they kuk-kuk-kukked, they sent the cabin into darkness, but they didn’t knock.

But still I couldn’t move. I remained crouched at beside the hearth, a sturdy log in my hand.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Did murderers knock before they came into your home and killed you, mercilessly.

I remained where I was, huddling, watching the door.

The knob started to turn slowly, creaking loudly.

Locked. Thank God!

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Miss Chelsea? Are you in there?”

I let out an audible sigh of relief. Mr. Huggins, the owner. I recognized his voice.

I started to get up, but then a disturbing though scampered unbidden across my mind — what exactly did I know about him, except that he owned the cabin. Could he have staged the terror of last night?

“Miss Chelsea? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I called out, not moving.

“Are you sure?” he said. “You don’t sound that fine.”

Pause.

“I notice that there aren’t any lights on. Did you lose power last night?”

I tried to control my fear, as I slowly rose to my feet. I walked to the door, looking through the peep hole.

I had never met Mr. Huggins. He was a lanky man, with grey hair, probably in his sixties or seventies. He wore baggy work pants, a plaid shirt and a trucker cap.

I opened the door, and forced a smile onto my face.

He stuck his hand out.

“Henry Huggins.” He smiled as I took his hand. “You must be Miss Chelsea.”

“Chelsea Winters.”

We shook.

“I noticed that the front light wasn’t on last night when I drove by. So, you don’t have any power?”

“No. It flickered off and on all night before it went out for good, around ten,” I said. “I had to feed the fire all night long to keep warm.”

“Huh,” he said, stroking his chin, looking up at the wires.

“Well, we’re still attached to the grid,” he said.

“Uh,” I started. “There were some … noises last night.”

Mr. Huggins looked at me, his brow raised.

“Really, Miss Chelsea? Like what?”

There was no way that I was going to tell him what I thought, but I could tell him what I had heard.

“Well,” he said, “The whistling sound was the trees. This here area is called Whispering Pines, but I can tell you that there’s no whispering when the wind’s up — it ’s a shriek!”

I mentally relaxed.

“About the other?” he said, again stroking his chin. “I wonder if it was Erik.”

“Erik?” I said, quizzically.

Mr. Huggins didn’t answer me. Instead he walked around the cottage. I followed.

“Ahh,” he said, looking up at the junction box.

He got a ladder out, and climbed up on the roof.

“Hmmm,” he said, then climbed down again, and continued to walk around the cottage.

“Ah, darn. It was Erik,” he said, looking down at the ground.

There lay the burnt husk of a small animal.

I toed my shoe towards the beast.

“This is Erik?” I asked.

“Yup,” he said. “Erik the Red Squirrel.”  

He took off his hat as a sign of respect.

“Erik and I have had an ongoing battle over who actually owned the cabin. Up until last night, he was winning.” He shook his head, and continued. “He must’ve been living in the chimney. When you started the fire, he panicked.” He looked down at what remained of his nemesis.

“They make a heck of a noise, you know. They chitter, and kuk, and at times, when they are really peeved, it’s almost like they’re screaming at you.”

I was dumbstruck.

“Yup,” he continued, “It looks like he’s been chewing the wires into the cabin, and his luck musta run out last night. He’s good and completely fried himself.” He shook his head. “Poor little bugger. It looks like I won in the end.”

A squirrel? A red squirrel? A red squirrel was responsible for the most terrifying night of my life?  

I was going to start writing romance novels. No more supernatural nonsense for me. After the previous night, I was done.