Something Like Desire

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The cabin in the woods has been abandoned for years. Unexpectedly, tonight there is a candle burning in the window.

I see myself reacting: I shake my head in disbelief. The candle is sitting atop a plain wooden table, no other furnishings are visible. The flame is feeble, noncommittal. It’s pissing me off. I’ve been observing the cabin every day and night for the past three months and haven’t seen anything. Suddenly, this candle is flickering audaciously in the window like it’s always been there. The cabin is creepy enough when ostensibly deserted; the indication of a presence within is conspicuously unsettling.

The cabin sits on a relatively small lot, but I’m unable to enter due to the razor wire. To be fair, I could pretty easily cut the wire. The true deterrent from entering is that I can feel the place, even from my shelter across the road. I can feel it; a chasmic churning that makes me break into a nervous sweat. I swear I hear it sometimes too, in the night, when everything is quiet. It hums and rumbles; a soliloquy of solitude. Solitude and yearning. It might seem odd, describing a cabin as desirous, but this cabin yearns in a way that is palpable.

Ok, this is it, I tell myself as I gear up and head outside with my penlight. This is what I’ve been waiting for: some kind of sign. I start the walk from my station to the cabin, using my light sparingly; I don’t want to be seen. I know the path rather well, but there are a couple of jutting roots and rocks that could land me on my face if I’m not careful. The night air pricks at my skin. A strange smell permeates the air around the cabin, and I swear it’s increasingly humid the closer I get. It’s almost as if the place is festering. I don’t know why, but that’s the word that comes to mind. Something is putrid and festering in there. Or maybe it’s the cabin itself, festering with something like desire. What a miserable existence, I conclude as I make my way down the trail.

As I approach the razor wire, I realize I’m holding my breath. There’s a weird vibration. Do I hear humming? Is the razor wire electrified? How could that be? There shouldn’t even be electricity here. It doesn't make sense. I contemplate my options and decide to take my chances. I locate the easiest point of ingress, a place where the fence is losing battles with time and gravity; where it’s sunken and will be easier to cut and climb. Salty, stinging beads of sweat drip from the furrowed landscape of my brow into my eyes. Nothing about this feels right.

I pull out my wire cutters and am arrested by a scuttling sound. I nearly jump out of my skin. My heart is hammering furiously in my chest. Take a deep breath, stay focused! I tell myself. My hands are shaking almost comically. Just. Cut. The. Wire! I berate myself. I inhale the fetid air and steady my hand. I touch the cutters to the razor wire and immediately catch a shock that nearly doubles me over. I’m wearing rubber gloves, per protocol, but apparently they aren't thick enough. Now what? I stand, shaken, breathing heavily. I survey the wire: I have to make at least two more incisions in order to clear the fence. There’s no other way. I steel myself.

Second snip: Zap! The current rockets through my body; this time the sensation is nearly orgasmic. Despite the fear, the risk is intoxicating. Opening myself to death makes me feel more alive. I clench my jaw and snip the final wire. My body is pulsating. I feel emboldened. I feel alive. I step over the fence triumphantly. I fleetingly wonder if this an act of unparalleled brevity, or supreme stupidity. Either way, I’m wholly committed to it; I am a provocateur, a catalyst.

Gingerly, I begin picking my way through the yard, head down, concentrating on the ground, mindful of the alleged graves. I pause, look up from the ground, and realize I’m more than halfway to the cabin. Feeling accomplished and impressed with my own prowess, I take an unguarded step and abruptly lose my footing. I’m startled, but recover quickly. It’s merely a small depression in the uneven terrain. Feeling increasingly confident, I pivot slightly and the ground slides away beneath me.

Before I can make sense of it, I plummet straight down into a pit of liquid that rapidly immerses me. It happens so quickly I can’t immediately process the imminent danger. As a child who could swim before I could walk, my instincts are to expel the air from my lungs, wait for my feet to hit the bottom,  then use my legs to push myself back to the surface. I am over six feet tall, and I can’t find my footing. The depths of this trench are seemingly fathomless. Trying to stay calm, I use my upper body strength, rotating my arms in wide circles. I begin kicking my feet furiously in a desperate attempt to reach the surface.

I manage to get my head above water and gasp for air. I reach for the edge of the trench but I am unable to locate it. I feel myself sliding under again. I inadvertently swallow a mouthful of rancid water and true terror sets in. I’m a strong swimmer, I never imagined I’d die by drowning. I kick my right leg forward and my boot makes contact with the edge of the pit. I manage to gain enough footing to launch myself toward the surface once more. This time, I am able to find the edge of the pit and dig in with my nails. The land is slick and I’m having a hard time getting a solid grasp.

I can feel my strength waning. I realize my best bet is to find better footing against the edge and use the last of my leg strength to propel myself above the surface with more force. I just need to stay calm and find my footing.

Suddenly, a hand wraps around my wrist and heaves me up with inhuman strength.

I am suspended, midair, feet dangling over the pit. I turn my head to discover that I am being held by a tiny woman, perhaps a child, half my size and stature. She's looking at me with her head tilted, quizzically, regarding me as if I am an insect. She turns and dumps me unceremoniously onto my head. Disorientated, I can’t tell how far I am from the pit of inky black water. I can see now that my savior is inarguably a child, but not a living one. Her face is almost completely decomposed. Putrid; rotten. She is festering, much like the cabin. I understand, in dreamlike logic, that she is a part of the cabin. Or the embodiment of it. My pulse quickens. The terror swelling within defies me.

I try to speak but cough up inky black grave water instead. I attempt to crawl backwards, away from the dead girl. I look up at the cabin and realize, miraculously, I'm only a few feet away. The flame of the candle in the cabin window is now little more than a suggestion. I suspect the cabin itself may simply vanish into the oppressively humid air. The cabin flickers before me but doesn’t disappear. That's encouraging, I insist. As I stand, shakily, I notice there are two figures seated, one on either side of the table, the candle between them.

I feel lightheaded. I hear a sound like the ocean rushing in my head. The air is like plasma; thick and soupy. I can taste it. It tastes like grave water. It tastes like death. I realize the soupy air is not only filling me, but changing me. I am indelibly a part of this now; this cabin, this festering. Reality starts to bend around the edges and I wonder if I will catch a glimpse of the Man Behind the Curtain. Nothing seems real.

My legs are weighted with lead; I am immobilized, anchored by terror as much as fate. I was never sure if I believed in fate, but I now believe in terror. Both figures seated at the table have their backs to me. One is the dead girl who pulled me from the watery grave. But the other? A dreadful, sinking feeling fills the pit of my stomach. It’s more than nausea, it’s existential dread. I know her. I’ve always known her. My heart is beating in my throat, I can’t swallow. I can’t remember how to breathe.

The second figure stands, dripping inky black water onto the floor. She is eerily still. Finally, she turns her face toward the window. I open my mouth and try to scream, but can’t. I open my mouth wider, and inky black grave water teaming with beetles erupts onto the ground in a massive torrent. I hit the ground on my hands and knees, watching in horror as the beetles swirl around me, forming a dense black portal; a cosmic womb. I feel it beckoning; it wants me to enter.

In an attempt to withstand the void, I focus intently on the candle flame flickering hypnotically before my eyes. I cough up a final spurt of inky black water. The terror subsides and a quiet acceptance washes over me. I am hollowed out, relieved of self. The flicker of the candle flame illuminates the sylphlike portal in the fabric of timespace, and I realize I am ready to surrender.

I see myself reacting: I am sitting at a plain wooden table in the cabin. The dead girl is seated across from me, the candle flame flickering woefully between us. She cocks her head, as if regarding me as an insect. She slowly leans over and blows out the candle flame. Once extinguished, we are immediately enveloped in an impenetrable, all-consuming darkness. 

A darkness more absolute than the inky black water in which I drowned.