The Ghosts of Elephant Mountain

The cabin on Elephant Mountain had not seen occupants in three decades. Mr. and Mrs. Dillinger, a middle-aged, reclusive couple with no children, built the cabin in the late 1800s. It was said that Mr. Dillinger was sterile after a bout of the mumps during his childhood, and Mrs. Dillinger’s body was riddled with cancer.

Having no extended family, the couple retreated from society to live in the rural mountains of Maine, subsisting off gardens they’d planted themselves, game hunted by Mr. Dillinger, and without the use of modern utilities. No one knew exactly when the old couple died, only that they’d stopped taking their monthly trips into town for supplies. After a prolonged absence, the rangers discovered their bodies lying side by side in the living room, cold and decomposing. The most peculiar detail, however, was the embers of a recent fire, still burning in the hearth beside the bodies.

Even more peculiar was the disappearance of their corpses. Lacking the proper resources, the ranger was forced to leave them where they lay and return to town to activate forensics and a medical examiner. Upon returning to the cabin, the bodies were gone, and the hearth had gone cold. The ranger was reassigned to another office, his story refuted by many who refused to believe that two decaying bodies had vanished on their own. No evidence indicating a crime was ever recovered, and no foot traffic seen or reported. It seemed the ranger was superstitious, or the unfortunate mark of a cruel joke. Though their bodies were never found, the Dillingers remained missing. Until Mrs. Dillinger was spotted.

“I know what I saw,” Sam said.

The clock on the wall of the ranger station read a quarter past five in the evening. The sun set early this time of year, and the air outside was frigid. Sam regretted calling the rangers in the first place; he’d done so out of civic duty, but he was being treated like a criminal. Or a crazy person.

“Just- let’s go over it one more time,” Detective Katy coaxed.

Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed and his legs sprawled out in front of him. He knew there was a camera recording the interview, and he hated being watched. Sam read enough crime documentaries to know some body language expert would review the footage later and decide if he’d been lying or not.

“I started hiking two days ago,” Sam reiterated. “I camped in the forest, and yesterday afternoon I sprained my ankle as I was climbing a steep area. There’s no cell phone reception around those parts, so I knew I’d have to make it on my own. I walked for another half mile or so until I stumbled upon the cabin and knocked on the door. There was an old green pickup parked in front, and a wind chime hanging from the eaves. I remember it because it kept chiming, but there was no breeze to speak of.”

Detective Katy rubbed his beard stubble and tapped his meaty fingers on the table.

“Go on.”

“I knocked on the door, hoping that whoever lived inside would give me a ride back to town. A nice older woman answered the door.”

“Describe her.”

“We’ve been through this!”

“Listen, son, you’re going to answer my questions one way or another. I think it’s best for both of us if you just cooperate.”

“The woman was in her mid-sixties. Heavier set, petite, maybe five foot three. She had dark gray hair wrapped up in a bun. She wore glasses. She walked with a hunch.”

“Did she tell you what her name was?”

“Yes. She said her name was Deborah Dillinger.”

Detective Katy scribbled on his notepad.

“Are you a local, Sam?”

“No. I’m just here for the hiking. I live in Georgetown.”

“A city man.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been out this way before?”

“No.”

“Are you familiar with anyone here?”

“No. All my relatives live in Maryland. What’s this about?”

Detective Katy smoothed down the tie his wife had gifted him that Christmas and pushed the nicotine gum around in his mouth. A lifelong smoker, George had been trying to kick the habit for several months. His wife hated cigarettes, and George’s doctor cautioned him about his blood pressure. Every once in a while, Detective Katy snuck a cigarette from the pack he kept in his work locker.

“I’ll tell you what this is about, Sam. My office has been all over those mountains. That cabin burned down twenty years ago. Before that, it was owned by a Mr. Kenneth Dillinger and his wife, Deborah. They disappeared, and while they were alleged to be dead, no proof was ever found. Then some city kid shows up claiming to have spoken to Mrs. Dillinger herself, in the cabin she lived in thirty years ago, describing her as she was then. You can see where there might be a problem, can’t you?”

“What is it you suspect me of?”

George Katy was growing impatient. He needed a cigarette.

“At the very least, I suspect you of wasting my time. At most, you’re an accessory to a disappearance.”

“Accessory!?”

Sam shot to his feet, knocking down the chair he’d been sitting in. The Detective glared at him from where he sat, refusing to follow suit.

“As near as I can tell, you’re the only person with any actual information regarding the Dillingers. I’ve sent my rangers up there to investigate, but if what you’re telling me is true, you and I are going to have more to discuss.”

Sam eyed the door, contemplating his chances of leaving without arrest. Though he’d committed no crimes, and reported the incident as a good Samaritan, Detective Katy had decided he was the suspect in a mystery he’d never heard of. The phone rang in the Detective’s pocket, and he held up a finger and answered it. He eyed Sam while he listened and then hung up.

“The cabin isn’t there. Just the burned remnants of an old log cabin and a stone hearth.”

“I- how? There’s no-“

“Get the hell out of my office, son. And the next time you decide to play your little tricks, be prepared to hire yourself an excellent lawyer. I don’t have time for that nonsense.”

Sam gaped at the Detective, speechless.

That couldn’t be right. The rangers must have gone to the wrong location. Sam knew what he had seen. He’d been inside of that cabin, drank the tea Mrs. Dillinger had prepared. Though the truck parked at the house was inoperable, Mrs. Dillinger had allowed him to stay the night there and recover his ankle. He’d set out for town the following day.

Sam nodded mutely and left as quickly as he could. Something about this story didn’t sit well, though he couldn’t determine what it was.

Upon reaching town, Sam had repaid her kindness by buying the part for her broken-down pickup. He’d learned a few things about auto mechanics from his uncle, and he thought it would be nice to surprise the old widow with a working truck. Only when he’d explained his situation to the associate at the auto parts store, they’d retreated into the back rooms and phoned Detective Katy.

“They must have gone to the wrong place,” he murmured.

Sam had rented a compact car before beginning his hiking trip. The walk to the auto parts store wasn’t a long one, and the drive to his hotel from there would only take twenty minutes. The sky grew overcast and bursts of lightning lit up the eastern sky. His sat in his car, peering out the windshield at Elephant Mountain.

He wasn’t crazy.

The woman he’d met told him her name was Deborah Dillinger. The cabin was not burned down. On an impulse, Sam made a detour, stopping by the library on his way back to the Elevation Inn. He searched the history section and the old newspaper archives with a little help from Catrina, the young librarian. When he’d told her what he was looking for, she’d given him a strange look, but they’d located the old news articles within minutes.

The rain fell in a deluge, streaking down the hotel window and casting the small town below in a sparkling haze. Dusk was becoming dark, and the heater hummed inside the room as he poured himself a tumbler of scotch. The newspaper article lay out on the desk, a black-and-white photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Dillinger smiling up at him. Sam stared at it while he sipped his scotch. The photo of Mrs. Dillinger was identical to the woman he’d seen at the cabin. The cabin pictured in the news article matched the cabin he’d stumbled upon on Elephant Mountain.

Sam paced, finishing the scotch. According to his itinerary, he was scheduled to leave tomorrow and begin the drive back down to Maryland. It was better to leave this strange little town behind, but the inconsistencies nagged at him. If the town believed Mrs. Dillinger to be dead, then who was the woman living in her cabin? Could it be that someone had assumed her identity? For what purpose? The real Dillingers lived off the grid, only going into town for their monthly supply runs.

And what about the cabin? The news article pictured it in its original form and then the burned-out remnants after the fire, which had occurred years after their disappearances. Brief mention was made about the ranger who claimed to have found their bodies, and his statement had been discredited by the local authorities.

Sam poured himself another glass of the scotch. He could delay his return home for another day. He needed to confirm his suspicions, and the only way to do that was to go back up to Elephant Mountain himself.

Reaching the cabin by midday the following day, Sam stood a hundred feet away from it and snapped a photograph. He logged his coordinates for good measure. The wind chime jingled in the still afternoon air, and Mrs. Dillinger’s truck had gone, to his surprise. Perhaps the old lady had repaired the damage, or maybe it had never been broken. Sam knocked on the door, but no answer came. Mrs. Dillinger- or whomever she was- had probably driven into town. Sam looked at the photograph he’d taken, satisfied that he had proof. Though he would have preferred speaking with the owner himself, he felt vindicated. He had half a mind to return to Detective Katy’s office and slam the damn thing down in front of him. Evidently, their officers had gone to the wrong location.

Sam hiked down the mountain, and the next morning, he developed the film at the drug store near the Inn. Thanking the woman at the counter, he waved at a couple of patrons and climbed into his rented car with an air of triumph. He’d been right all along.

Pulling the photos from the envelope, he smiled as he sifted through them. There were twenty-four in all. The first twenty-three were nature shots, which he would add to his nature blog when he returned home to Maryland. The last one was of an empty plot of land in the mountains and a burned-out cabin with its hearth intact. Sam stared at it in disbelief, trying and failing to make sense of it. He recalled snapping every picture in the envelope except for this one. He’d never encountered a burned-up cabin. He squinted at it, noting the angles of the burnt logs and the scorched stone hearth, still erect in the remnants of the living area. A small portion of the front patio remained, a wind chime still attached, and an empty dirt lot just to the right of it, where an old, green pickup was parked.