Chapter 1: Best Laid Plans
The thought of life without him had never crossed my mind. Of course, I worried, more than a healthy amount, due to his dangerous lifestyle and poor choices. But I never actually thought about it. Even when the cancer was confirmed, we always assumed his stubbornness would get him through it. But now here I am in a stuffy, poorly lit room, organizing the pamphlets for his funeral service just a few moments away, while the staff members walk by as if one wrong move could break my fragile porcelain self.
The small green squares had a photo of him sitting on the dock of our hunting camp, a rare moment when he smiled for the camera. "Allen C. Anderson 04/19/1965 - 09/30/2019," it read underneath. The guests would be arriving soon. Glancing in the mirror next to the coat rack, I pulled my hair in front of my shoulders, dusted the front of my dress, and faked a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. Dad was never one for group occasions, especially family ones, and I was fortunate enough to have that trait gifted to me. “Lucky man,” I mumbled under my breath. He finally gets to avoid all those comments from Aunt Jenn. I, however, was not as lucky.
The preacher’s words were just white noise under the memory of Dad’s gruff voice: “Just a bunch of horseshit. Chuck me in the ground and call it done.” He hated funerals, especially the thought of his own. But families have their own ideas, and Aunt Jennifer wouldn’t have it any other way.
I tried to insist on a small gathering, just close friends and family, but Jennifer had steamrolled that into a full-blown memorial. So there I was. I stood and nodded politely as guests offered condolences, each cold, clammy handshake another tick on the clock toward my Irish Goodbye. Thank God Jennifer was handling most of the arrangements.
“He truly was an amazing man.” The words brought me back to the eucalyptus-smelling room. Aunt Julie, Dad’s middle sister, stood in front of me, her eyes so much like his that my throat tightened; I'd never realized the resemblance before. “He was,” I said, and meant it.
“Do you want to step outside?” she whispered, gesturing toward the door. Knowing she always had something up her sleeve to ‘Shoo away those bad thoughts,’ I gladly followed.
We walked to the back of the graveyard, where only God and the birds could judge us, and sat down on a memorial bench under a large Magnolia. ‘For Papa Jo,’ it read. The sweet smell hung for miles in the humid Texas air, and the busy beetles pollinating the dripping flowers made a comforting hum. Julie pulled out that oh-so-familiar red-and-white box I had managed to step away from for quite some time. She handed me the cigarette and lit hers. The smoke from her first puff slowly crawled through the stones, hanging on to each drop of humidity.
“The weather here is as temperamental as my mother,” I tittered, wiping away the sweat forming on my upper lip and forehead. I began removing the layer that was needed for the chill in the church this morning. Julie chuckled as she did the same.
“How are ya, kid? Truly?” she asked, glancing at me, staring at the unlit cig I was rolling between my fingers. I handed it back and thanked her, thinking now wasn’t the right time to pick it up again. More money spent and more anxiety, no thank you. “Third time’s the charm,” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m okay, I think… to be honest, Ju Ju, I don’t know what to feel. “I think that's the best way I’ve heard it, me either, kid,” she said, placing her arm around me.
“They all keep saying, he’s not in pain anymore, he’s in a better place. But is he? Fuck if I know.” She flinched a little; apparently, the F bomb in the presence of God was where she drew the line. “I’m sorry, JuJu, this whole thing from the very beginning has had me questioning everything I thought I knew. My whole world, my best friend, taken by a stupid disease created by the same guy who’s offering eternal love… It just all seems backward!” At this point, the tears I had been holding back broke loose, and I began to sob.
Julie rubbed my back and hushed me. “Let’s go,” she said, helping me up. “You’re staying at my house tonight, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.” “Yes, ma’am,” I replied through sniffles. Julie was on board with the quiet departure, so we set off along the wrought-iron fence toward the parking lot. We knew leaving would only feed the family drama vampires, but honestly, Julie was all the family I needed anymore.
The drive was short, but just enough to let the engine warm up and the cold air start blowing. I pulled down the sun visor, twisted my hair into a knot on top of my head, took out the dangling earrings, shut the visor, and leaned back. “What would I do without you, JuJu?” “Who knows! I am the only sane one in the family!” She said, laughing as she pulled the car into the driveway and placed it in park. It was the same as always. Her small blue home was tucked neatly in the corner of her acre lot; not a speck of birdseed, flower petal, or frog turd was out of place, as she would say. “Beautiful,” I remarked. She grabbed my hand, and we made our way down the stone path lined with small cement fairies and garden gnomes, and up the couple of stairs into the cinnamon-smelling bungalow.
We changed into comfier clothes and curled up on the porch chairs with our Diet Cokes, sitting for a while and watching the chipmunks and squirrels give chase. The willow tree and wind chimes hanging from its branches swayed as if they were in some choreographed routine. “So now what?” Her question broke the silence. “I’m not sure,” I sighed and took a drink. “Well, it seems you have some thinking to do, missy,” she huffed as she climbed out of the Adirondack chair and walked inside. “Touché,” I said as the screen door slammed behind her.
Ever since Dad’s diagnosis, I had put my life on hold. He knew before I finished my undergrad but thought it best to wait until later to tell me. Thanks to Jenn’s inability to keep her mouth shut, I found out on graduation day. Luckily, my business management degree allowed me to move home and earn a decent income, though my dreams of epic adventures were put on hold. Still, I was grateful to be beside him every day toward the end. His wits remained sharp, and he was just as stubborn as ever, still unbeatable at Cribbage, even when his aging hands needed me to move the pin.
Julie walked back out onto the porch and sat in front of me, criss-cross applesauce, and began pulling something from her cardigan pocket. She had pulled her hair out of the chopsticks that were holding it up, and it now blew wildly in the wind. “What do you have, Medusa?” I laughed, watching her. She pulled out a small white tube, and I heard a familiar “pop.” She giggled as she poured out a small brown paper roll. RAW, it said on the filter. “Your dad can’t yell at us now,” she said, bringing it to her lips and flicking the lighter. As I smelled the skunky, lemony smoke, my body relaxed immediately. I leaned forward and took the cone for myself.
“I think you should do it!” Juju said excitedly. “Do what?” I said, sitting up. “That hunting trip!” She was now excitedly sitting on her butt, leaning forward, with her legs in a wide V and her hands braced on her thighs. “What are you talking about?” Confused, I set the cone in the blue glass tray on the small table beside us and grabbed my Coke. “Come on! You and Allen always talked about doing that ‘solo’ trip; why don’t you do it!” “I don’t know… that seems a bit impulsive, don’t you think?” My stomach began to churn with anxiety, or was it excitement? She shrugged, now leaning back with her eyes closed so the last of the setting sun’s rays rested on her forehead. “What do I know?” She said it in a tone I couldn’t quite make out, but I assumed it was sarcasm. “I’ll sleep on it,” I said, grabbing the cone and the lighter from the tray.
The memory of the cabin settled somewhere deep in my chest, and the porch dissolved.
I was eight, maybe nine. The truck smelled like sawdust and black coffee even with the windows cracked. I’d sit wedged between coolers and canvas duffels, holding his green thermos in my lap like it was something sacred; he’d always let me pour the first cup when we parked.
The cabin would rise out of the trees slowly and quietly; it wasn’t impressive, but to me it was a fortress—a world with its own rules. No phones, no clocks. Back then it was never just us. Uncle Mark came most years with his two sons, and Dad's cousin Jerry would always be there, “running from the woman,” he would always say. Sometimes Mr. Delaney from down the gravel road - the one who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and told the same exaggerated buck story every season like it was gospel.
Mornings started in the dark. Dad would nudge my foot with his boot and whisper, “Hunter’s hour.” He taught me how to shoulder a rifle without flinching. How to steady my breath. How to wait. Always wait.
And with that I was back on the porch. We talked for what felt like hours about anything and everything. How old the trees may be on her land, baking powder versus baking soda, how many scoops in the coffee percolator, are nutria rats related to beavers… It seemed like anything except for Dad. Maybe we both needed a break. Is that selfish? Maybe. But it was definitely needed.
Curling up on the daybed in the back sunroom later that night, I listened as the cool breeze carried the peepers' song through the open windows, gently rustling the sheet music resting on the upright piano in the corner. I imagined the notes jumping from the pages to dance along with the frogs, twirling with the curtains and using the moonbeams as their spotlight. Watching the imaginary performance in my head quieted my racing thoughts until, eventually, my eyes closed and I drifted to sleep.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, Merlin, the stone-gray, long-haired cat, was kneading away at my stomach. The amber-eyed feline met my gaze as he settled in to make a bed of my abdomen.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
Prrrrr.
Apparently, he was feeling safe and comfortable. Satisfied with his answer, I closed my eyes again.
About an hour later, JuJu's banging and clanging in the kitchen forced me to open them again.
Coffee, I thought.
I repeated the one-word mantra until I finally made it out of bed, slipped on my slippers, and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. Shuffling into the small, sunflower-yellow kitchen, I sank into the corner of the bay window and rested my head against the warm glass. A smudge left behind by my unwashed face caught my eye just as Julie handed me a large, round mug. Deep green, with lily pads carved into the clay and a tiny frog perched on the rim just above the handle, it drew a chuckle from me.
I took a deep sip, breathing in the aroma of vanilla-bean creamer and dark-roast coffee. Then I settled the mug in my lap, letting it warm my fingers while I waited for the coffee to cool enough to drink.
"I'm gonna do it," I said.
Julie stopped mid-motion. Her back was still turned as she cut fruit for breakfast, but I could tell I'd stunned her. She knew exactly what I meant.
“Really?” She asked as she turned around, wiping her hands on her bumblebee apron. “Really, really,” I replied. “Well,” she hesitated. “We'd better make a list!” She said with a hint of what sounded like hesitation. Odd. “What? This was your idea!” I laughed. “I know, I know, but thinking of it now, it’s just, well, I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be worried.” She sat beside me on the cushion and grabbed my hand. “You’re a strong girl,” she squeezed. “Go live your adventure.” I could tell she had more on her mind than she was letting on. “I just think it will give me a fresh start. A chance to carve my own trail! Or some cheesy inspirational line like that,” I trailed off.
I stayed with Julie for a couple of days. It was much needed as I wasn’t quite ready to return to Dad and my house, not just yet. Quitting my job may have been a rash decision, but it was too late to change it now. Dad’s ventures had left me with a decent inheritance, not enough to bum off forever, but enough to survive, and the house, being the same one my father grew up in, was paid off, so I’d be fine at least financially. And just like that, it was decided: I was going.
Chapter 2: Not What I Packed For
After breakfast, I said goodbye to Merlin, and the bees swarming the dandelions sprinkling the front yard. Wrapping Julie in my arms, I promised her that I would swing back through before I hit the road. I don’t think either of us wanted to make a big thing of it, but the strength of her hug and lack of eye contact told me otherwise.
The drive to the house was shorter than I wanted. Something about Julie’s world felt comforting, like time moved more slowly there, softer. My tires crunched down the gravel driveway, and as the house came into view, my stomach did a slow, familiar turn. I parked in the same place I had since I was 16, turned off the ignition, and let my head fall back onto the rest. “If you don’t do this now, you’re never going to,” I said aloud, and with that, I made my way to the door.
The porch steps creaked as always, and the leaf-filled gutters made small water droplets that fell noisily onto the rocks below. Pausing with my hand on the doorknob and looking out at the yard - the grass was a little too long, especially for Dad’s liking, the tomato plants had started to climb over their cages without permission, and the rusting deer stand leaned slightly to the left, like it was listening to something just out of earshot. Inside, though, it was just the same as always. The faint smell of wood polish, the kind he always used on Sundays, and the clock in the dining room ticked loudly; otherwise, it was silent. The air felt… still like it had been waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and made a beeline for the garage. I couldn’t linger; if I stayed too long, I’d lose the momentum, and once it was gone, that would be it. I rushed past his chair in the living room, down the hallway where pictures of our family through the generations hung, then down the two small stairs past his work boots, which still carried a tinge of diesel. The gear was mostly where we left it after the last trip, so finding everything would be easy. However, the plan was to stay for two weeks, so making sure I had everything in this state of mind would be nearly impossible. I hopped up on the chest freezer, grabbed the marker off the bench next to me, and laid out the list Julie and I had prepared earlier.
The cabin had the basics, the non-valuables, and the non-edibles for mice. Plus, the small general store was only about a half hour from the cabin; I could pick up any forgotten items there. Loading up the necessities- everything but the kitchen sink, it felt like- my bow and trusty Ruger 1911 just in case, and snagged a few essentials from the kitchen: the coffee percolator and thermos that still smelled like our last cup together.
Once the truck was packed, I made one last loop around the house. Everything should still be locked up, but it never hurts to check, and just as I thought, it was. “You’re stalling,” I said to my reflection in the hallway mirror. The front door locked with a loud “CHKKK,” and standing on the porch, the silence buzzed in my ears. This house wasn’t a home anymore - it was a container for memories. A time capsule, and I didn’t belong in it, at least, not now.
I drove back to Julie’s in time for an early lunch- it was on my way out of town anyway. She was waiting on the steps with a mason jar full of sweet tea. She squinted, pulled her hand away from shading her eyes, and lifted it high to wave at me. “You ready?” she asked, offering me the dark bronze drink. The tightness in her voice was apparent, as if she were trying to pretend this was no big thing. “As I’ll ever be, I suppose.” Julie pulled me into a long hug, tighter than expected. She didn’t say anything right away, just held on like she could transfer every ounce of strength she had into me. Then, pulling back, she looked me in the eyes. “Call me if you even think something’s weird.” “Isn’t weird the whole point?” I chuckled. “I mean it,” she said. “People forget the woods have rules. They’re not our rules. You-you just be careful.” I nodded; something in her tone lingered with me longer than I wanted to admit. I promised to keep her posted along the way. She cried when I left. She tried to hide it- turned quickly, said something was in her eye, and busied herself with rearranging the gnome that had always leaned just a little to the right. I didn’t push. We both knew it was better that way.
The truck - Dad’s old beater with the busted front bumper and one wiper blade that never quite touched the glass -was packed to the brim. Julie had packed my passenger seat with a cooler, turkey sandwiches, Diet Cokes, and M&M’s, the essentials. It looked like I would be set for months.
It’s about a seven-hour drive to the cabin, so I figured I would drive most of the way and then stop for the night, maybe somewhere around Sonora. This rest stop would give me a bit of a buffer, some time alone still in society to make sure I haven’t truly lost it. I would much rather wake up regretting in a hotel room than all the way out there.
The drive was nice, and it gave me plenty of time to plan in my head how I wanted to do things once I arrived. Sure, I could wing it… But probably best, once in my life, not to do it this time. I was thankful I'd downloaded plenty of entertainment for the trip; not only for the nights out there, but because trying to find a solid radio station or service long enough for any train of thought to come through the speakers was like trying to pick fleas off a buffalo.
With the help of some Twisted Sister, ZZ Top, and the like, I bopped in and out of the small towns, watching the scenery change every so often from lush green forests, golden fields filled with cattle and corn, to rugged and dusty, and back again, and eventually pulled into the parking lot of a steakhouse just off the service road. I figured I could sit here, have a drink, my last big dinner, then find a hotel for the night.
I parked near the front of the restaurant and sat for a minute, looking through the big glass windows, trying to scope out how busy the place was. Luckily, the place looked dead, not many people out and about on a Thursday night. As I walked through the first set of double doors, the hostess came into view, leaning against one of the booths and picking at her nails. As I opened the second set of doors, I nodded toward the bar to let her know I wasn’t going to interrupt her self-manicure. I sat in the back corner, with a good view of the door, the few patrons seated, and the one TV showing the PBR.
“Whatcha having?” The bartender said with a mouse's bravado. I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrows a bit because I didn't expect a ditzy blonde who could barely see over the bar to be my server. Not judging, but honestly, I had hoped for a grandma type or some old cowboy. You know, to give me the stereotypical “the people who go out there don’t come back the same” talk, so I could take their advice, follow their crooked finger point, and head home the next morning. But instead I got “Oh my Gawd, that sounds so cool! Are you doing it for TikTok?!”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Can I get another, please?” I lifted my copper mug and took the last drink of my Moscow Mule. I had just found my room for the night at a Motel 6 across the street when she set the next one down in front of me. I boxed up the rest of my meal and set it aside, leaning back to enjoy my beverage and watch the last of the rodeo.
The room was fine; it smelled like most fair-priced hotel rooms, damp A/C, and lemon cleaner. My duffel hit the floor with a ‘thud’ at the end of the bed, and I popped my leftovers in the fridge, kicked off my boots, and sat on the edge of the stiff mattress. ‘TsssssK’ my Diet Coke echoed off the walls, emphasizing the quiet, but the “hmmmmmmm” of the TV clicking on ended that abruptly.
I checked the local weather and figured it would be smart to watch while I changed into my comfier clothes and crawled into bed. I stood next to the sink when the news changed tone. Dun dun the music jolted. “No new information today on the hiker who went missing earlier this month near Lake Amisted. Sources say the search efforts may be coming to an end as resources and leads are running out.” “Ohhhhhh that’s the crooked finger point I was looking for earlier!” I laughed and said to myself in the mirror through my toothpaste. Good thing I’m not really hiking, I thought.
I settled into bed and decided to find something a little more uplifting to watch. Forrest Gump, a classic that was bound to put me right to sleep. That, however, was wishful thinking. I tossed and turned and could not get comfortable, turning the TV off because it was too bright, then too quiet, and then too dark. Is this anxiety, the drinks, or paranoia? I got up, checked the deadbolt one last time, shoved the chair under the handle just to be safe, pulled the curtains closed extra tight, and lay back down.
“Sleep, please,” I said out loud. Then I remembered, JuJu packed my cooler! I shot up, turned on the lamp, and went over to the blue cooler bag, unzipping the side pocket. “My sweet angel,” I said, pulling out a small, green-painted tin. I popped it open, and there lay three of the most beautiful joints I had ever seen, along with about 10 of her homemade gummies. I grabbed a small purple bear, chewed it up, enjoying the burst of cherry flavor, and in about 30 minutes, I was off into dreamland.
Chapter 3: Nature Calls
The morning came and almost passed. I had way overslept if I wanted any of the continental breakfast, but at least I still had time for a shower before check-out. I could figure out food at the gas station, and it was always better than the hotels anyway. I packed up the truck, filled my mug with coffee thick enough to pave a driveway, just the way I like it. I grabbed some fresh produce, eggs, coffee cream, a few odds and ends, and powdered doughnuts for breakfast.
Fully loaded with goodies and gas, I hit the road just before noon. The sun was already high and bouncing off the bright red hood, causing the road to give off whispering tendrils of visible heat. The truck rattled at the higher speeds, but as the roads grew narrower and more filled with potholes the further west I drove, the rattle slowly turned into a not-so-subtle hum - a “I should turn the radio up, because I’m almost there, and I wouldn’t even begin to know what to do anyway” kind of noise. The cell service had faded by this point anyway, so what would I do, stand there and look at it? I slowed down almost to a crawl and took the last mile as carefully as I could. Once I made it to the cabin, I could try to get someone to come out. There’s no point in worrying about it now.
As I slowed down, I noticed the woods in a way I never had before; they seemed thicker than usual, darker, more… ancient. The shadows grew thicker; even the sunlight filtering through the trees felt diluted. Turning down the familiar gravel path, the echo of tires crunching on stone welcomed me like an old friend. As a kid, this sound had always been my cue to pull on my shoes and rub the sleep from my eyes. Nostalgia wrapped itself around my shoulders like a soft blanket, and I began to feel at ease.
I stopped the truck at the gate and dug into the glove box for the padlock key. My boots hit the ground with a thud, and a cloud of dust curled up and around my ankles. That’s when I realized the gate was already unlocked, and the ease I'd felt began to fade quickly. "Huh," I muttered. No recent tire tracks, no notes left on the gate. Someone must have come and forgotten to relock it, but no one had mentioned stopping by. I considered calling Julie, but it was still early, and I didn’t want to cause a fuss over something that could be perfectly benign.
I climbed back in the truck and slowly drove to the top of the driveway, parking just before the clearing came into full view. I watched, waited, listened—no movement inside, no figures, no silhouettes. Only trees swaying faintly in the breeze and the faint tap of a woodpecker somewhere deeper in the forest. I pulled up closer, still cautious, and turned off the engine. The silence grew louder.
Grabbing my Ruger from under the seat and quietly racking a round into the chamber, I stepped out of the truck, the door shutting with a deliberate, muffled thunk. My boots creaked up the three cabin steps, and the boards beneath me groaned, warping under my weight like they were stretching after a long sleep. I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Stillness. Not even dust dancing in the sunbeams. Just unmoving air. That was a good sign, I told myself. No movement meant no one had been here in a while. Still, I walked the perimeter, checked the single bedroom, and peered under the bunk beds.
"Stop working yourself up," I said aloud, my voice slicing through the hush like a blade. "Just gotta get to it." I grabbed my phone from my pocket and turned on my “Happy” playlist, set it on the windowsill, and let the music put me in gear. I flung open every window and door, the hinges protesting loudly. A breeze rolled in, warm and full of pine and soil.
I brought in the first load of firewood from the shed, swept the place top to bottom, and wiped away what looked like a decade’s worth of dust. The cupboards still held their usual gear—cast iron, mismatched mugs, a chipped enamel kettle. I rinsed them all off and laid them out to dry. It struck me that I wasn’t sure this place had ever truly been cleaned, maintained, sure. But not cleaned. I grabbed the twin mattress off the cot and dragged it outside, then took the broom handle and beat it. I watched the dust swirl and sparkle, letting my apparently pent-up emotion come through the broom with every WHACK! I set the broom down, dragged the mattress back in, and admired the change.
The dusty hobbit-hole of a cabin now had bright afternoon light streaming in through every window, and the air smelled faintly of lemon soap and cedar. I set the mattress back in place, and the wood's scent took me back to mornings in the deer blind with Dad. He'd taught me to hunt the way he approached everything else: patiently, practically, and without making a big production out of it. He showed me how to read tracks in the dirt, recognize broken branches, and notice the places where animals were more likely to move through. He taught me to watch the wind and pay attention to what the woods were telling me before I ever thought about picking up a rifle.
Some mornings we'd sit for hours without seeing anything. Dad never seemed to mind. He'd sip his coffee from his battered thermos while I tried to keep my eyes open, and occasionally he'd point out something I'd missed— a squirrel sounding an alarm, the faint movement of brush where the wind wasn't reaching. I used to think the point was to bring something home. It took growing up to understand that Dad had been teaching me how to be out there on my own. A small shiver ran through my bones, so I began hauling in the rest of my gear.
I popped down the tailgate and slid the first tote toward me. As I braced to lift it —one, two, three—a whistle cut through the air. Short. Sharp. Two seconds long. I froze. My entire body tensed like a deer mid-step. The whistle was full-bodied, distinct. Familiar. Dad’s whistle. The tote slipped from my hands and landed with a dull thud in the dust. My breath caught. Slowly, I turned toward the trees at the edge of the clearing. Nothing. No birds, no rustle of squirrels. The breeze had died, as if the entire forest had paused. I stepped forward instinctively, my hand tightening around the Ruger handle even as nervous sweat built in my palms. My boots crunched softly on gravel.
"Dad?" The word escaped before I could reel it back. I felt foolish immediately, the sound of my voice, alien and too loud. But I couldn’t help it. My heart thudded in my chest, and I scanned the treeline for movement—still nothing. I took a deep breath and shook myself back to task. "You're spiraling," I muttered. "You're tired. Stressed. Your brain is filling in gaps."
I opened the cab door and grabbed my bow case; the black plastic held the day's heat, and it felt like a warm, comforting shield. Carved into the side were “A.C.A.” and a worn, Sharpie-written phone number for our old landline; I couldn’t help filling in the gaps in my mind, and the pattern recognition calmed my racing thoughts and grounded me.
Back inside the cabin, I shut the door behind me and locked it; the “click” felt like reassurance in my hand. My phone buzzed faintly—a low-battery warning —and then the music resumed. Light from the setting sun slanted across the floor, illuminating floating dust like golden snowflakes. The whistle replayed in my head on a loop. I told myself it was a bird. Or wind. Or memory. I didn’t believe it. But I unpacked anyway.
Chapter 4: Alone, Mostly
I slept surprisingly well. I’m unsure whether it was exhaustion or dissociation; either way, I wasn’t complaining. I had a long day ahead of me and had a feeling tonight wouldn’t be as easy. Needing to do a bit of scouting, if I wanted any sort of successful hunt, I would need to get my eyes on the game trails, see if the creeks had shifted at all, set up trail cameras, and most importantly, find a hill tall enough to call into town for the mechanic.
It’s funny how we get excited to do things we hated as kids. I remember my first fall away from home. As most of my classmates were out at Halloween parties held by one of the Alpha, Beta, Chad houses, I usually tucked myself into bed with a sad, watered-down hot chocolate and rewatched a classic Halloween DVD, wanting nothing more than to be home splitting firewood, with a hot pot of chili waiting for us when we got back inside. Fall here wasn’t quite like the movies; there's no fire colored forests; they just kind of turn brown and fall, but it was still my favorite time of year. Dad and I always spent a lot of time together, but I always had a job to do. Helping haul corn, checking the batteries in the cameras, clearing saplings for a shooting lane- always Dad's little helper.
I let the memories hang a little longer in my mind before I grabbed the percolator from the stack of now-dry dishes on the counter, filled it with water, scooped in the grounds, and set it to boil. It didn’t take long for the gas stove to start popping and pinging. I lowered the heat, grabbed my mug, and watched the water at the top turn from light amber to dark brown.
I took the steaming cup out to the front porch and stood surveying the surrounding forest. Still, calming, and beautiful, just as I always remembered it. I sipped and let the warmth run through me, taking my tension with it. I took a deep breath, cracked my neck, and set my now-empty mug down to do an exaggerated Sun Salutation and a few joking calf stretches on the porch railing. “Let's do it!” I shouted. “Man, I really need a dog or something,” I added in a more mumbled, embarrassed tone.
I packed my backpack with a few snacks for the day, a small first aid kit, the cameras and batteries, sunscreen, water, and a knife- just a few basics; no bow was needed today as hunting wasn’t yet the priority. I tucked my pants into my socks before tying my boots. A flashback from about 20 years earlier hit me immediately. I was fighting with Dad because I looked so silly. “Are you trying to impress the birds? We’ll see how silly you look when you have spiders in your pants,” I heard my dad's voice echo through the walls of the cabin. He was right, though; there were indeed spiders in my pants later that day, and I never again worried about my ladylike image in the wild. I giggled, I said “I love you” back to the echo in my head, swung my bag onto my shoulders, and skipped off the porch. It was safe to say my spirits were lifted.
By noon, I had covered a couple of miles, walking alongside a small feeder stream and following a narrow game trail that eventually led me to a wide, open grassy clearing. The area was dotted with low shrubs and small clusters of cacti—quiet, sun-soaked, and promising. I set up one of my four cameras there, aiming it toward a well-worn path at the clearing's edge. Then backtracked the way I came, not wanting to stir up too much scent or noise.
A few hundred yards down the trail, I found a spot where two heavily traveled paths crossed and mounted another camera there. Dad and I had hunted this area a handful of times over the years, so I felt pretty confident in the lay of the land. I was hoping to figure out what time the animals were moving through. White-tailed deer are crepuscular creatures—most active in the low light of dawn and dusk. Call me a lazy hunter, but if I don’t have to be up before sunrise, I won’t be. That’s what the cameras are for anyway.
I turned back toward the cabin and eventually found the fork in the path. Right led home, and left led to the top of a glute-shattering hill, where my phone service awaited. I sat down on a large flat rock, pulled my backpack between my legs, and began munching on my trail mix and digging for the Chewy Granola Bar that I swore was in here. As my treasure hunt finally ended successfully, with my bag contents now scattered on the earth around me, I realized the birds I'd been impressing all those years ago… didn’t seem to be around anymore. I sat for what felt like another fifteen minutes and never heard a single bird. Come to think of it, I hadn’t heard or seen any wildlife all morning. Dad always told me when in need to follow the birds - no fish? Look for the birds. Took a bad shot and can’t find your downed deer? Look for the birds. Can’t find your way? Look for flocks moving north or south. But I don’t think he ever mentioned what happens when there are no birds.
I gulped down the peanut butter bar, slugged some water, and decided it was time to get to the top of the hill, make the phone call, lie to JuJu that everything was fine, and get home before the fear started to set in again.
It was a hike, for sure, and I definitely needed to catch my breath before I tried to have any sort of conversation. I pulled the water from my bag and took a couple of gulps, then raised my arms above my head and breathed in deeply. I pulled my phone out of my front pocket, and missed notifications already began rolling in. Luckily, I was never very popular, so I didn’t have to wait long to make an interrupted call. I texted Julie to let her know I was settled in and all was well, then scrolled through my contacts, found Burt’s Auto, and hit send. The ringing was eardrum-shattering compared to the silence I had been used to all day. Just as I pulled the phone away from my ear, I heard a deep, phlegmy cough, and “Yeah, this is Burt’s,” followed.
“Hey, Burt.. This is Rebecca… Anderson,” I tried to get out my last name, but Burt was already laughing excitedly. “Well, hey Bec! How are ya?” I chuckled, hearing the warmth in his voice. “Not so hot. I’m up here at the cabin and need to have you come take a look at Dad's old truck.” “
Well, sure!” The cheery voice sounded booming compared to the silence that had been surrounding me lately. “What day works for ya?” I hesitated. “As soon as possible, if you don’t mind.” Nervous, his response would be, ‘about a month.’ “Hmmmm,” I could hear him scratching his long beard through the speaker, and a rustling of paperwork. “Well, I could probably get up there by Monday Evening or early in the morning?” “Perfect!” I almost shouted, “That sounds perfect.” I repeated in a calmer tone. “Well, alrighty! I’ll see you then, kid!” I heard the phone click into the receiver before I could get out my goodbye. “Alrighty then,” I said into the empty speaker, “He’ll be here by Monday evening!” I said to the crow watching me from across the clearing.
“Huh,” I realized this was the first bird I had seen all day, the first animal at all, actually. I studied him, and he seemed to be studying me right back, his coal-black eyes fixed on mine. The hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. I turned toward the west and noticed the sun was starting to set. Part of me wanted to stay, check my texts, and maybe even doom scroll for a bit of normalcy, but comfy clothes and a drink sounded nicer. I gathered my things, zipping my phone in the front pocket, slung my bag over my shoulders, and started on the knee-shattering decline.
About halfway home, the rock in my boot had become enough of an annoyance that I decided it was time for an eviction. I found a fallen log, sat, and began untying my boot. From above, I heard a “grrr-uh grr-uh,” like one of those wooden Guiro frogs Ju Ju had, where you stroke the wooden dowel down the spine. I know it should have sounded like a crow, as I could see the culprit. The same coal-black eyes as before. “Grrrr-uhhh,” it said again, this time more demanding. “Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs!” I said aloud as I tucked the loose strings into my boots.
Chapter 5: Room With a View
Arriving back at the cabin around 4:00, my newfound friend followed, never too far behind. I didn’t mind, though; the lingering presence was nice and began to feel comforting, knowing a small, odd security beacon was watching above. Deciding on my walk back, I told myself that while this was a hunting trip, I honestly had nowhere else to be; it was time to slow down, and tonight the dust-smelling cabin would turn into a luxury spa.
The old galvanized wash bin came from under the counter with a screech, and I filled it about halfway with water, then set it on the wood stove's flat top. Soon enough, the fire would do its work as the dry kindling caught with a hiss. The scent of resin and smoke filled the small room. I sat for a bit and let the heat warm my face; it wasn’t cold outside, but something about the heat and the crackling of the logs settling carried a sense of comfort.
The bourbon bottle was covered in dust, clearly untouched for years. I had no idea how old the amber liquid inside was, but it would pair nicely with the last Diet Coke standing guard in the fridge. The first drink straight from the muted brown bottle hit the back of my throat like jet fuel, and the warmth quickly spread, leaving my cheeks flush and forcing my foot down in a STOMP. “Woooeee.” I wiggled as I poured two fingers into the clean, sparkling glass, then crowned it with the caramel-colored lifeblood of millennial women. The concoction bubbled and spewed like the insides of a sorcerer's cauldron. A slow sip this time let the sweetness mellow out the burn, and the warmth slowly spread throughout the rest of my body.
The fizz settled, and after another sip, the kitchen felt warmer than the fire could claim. Hunger began to creep in, so I pulled a dented can of soup from the shelf and slopped the contents into the old tin pot with the loose handle. I set it beside the washtub, and the fire hissed, almost acknowledging its double task. While I waited for both to heat, I swapped my trail-dusty clothes for loose sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, the soft cotton carrying its own kind of comfort.
The wash bin rippled with steam, and the beef and barley bubbled and popped in a calm, rhythmic way. I carried the wash bin out to the bottom step of the porch, then retraced my steps into the kitchen, grabbing the wobbly pot, slipping a spoon into my pocket along with two jars labeled sea salt and dried rosemary, and lastly the small tin packed with love from Aunt Ju Ju. She knew lots about anything natural. Before Mom left, I remember Ju Ju tried her best to mend things. She brought over clusters of herbs and pine bows and hung them above the front door. The fighting stopped for a while, but I assume the botanical bundle could only take so much negativity. Night was starting to settle in, and the day's hot sun began to sag low, bleeding rust and purple into the horizon. While I poured the salt and dried twigs into the water and watched the crystals melt away, I made little ripples with my toes, testing the temperature. Deciding to let the tub cool a bit, I took the opportunity to inhale the chunky soup, scarfing as if I hadn’t eaten in days. It seemed the scouting trip and the stress were finally catching up.
I scraped the sides of the pot clean and followed it with a long sip of my witch's brew, the cool liquid shocking my now burnt tongue. I pulled the green tin out of my pocket and popped the lid, lifting out the smooth tan cylinder. A strike of the match later, after a few long puffs, the cone burned smoothly. My feet slid into the now warm water and the tendrils of steam and smoke reached to the sky like a squid wrapping around its prey; long, slow, methodical. Worry, stress, and maybe a tiny bit of grief began to slip away as I lay back on the porch, my feet splashing in the tub.
The stars danced and flickered, and the wind rustled the tops of the trees, creating a tranquilizing environment that, if I didn’t break it now, would leave me covered in mosquito bites and who knows what else in the morning. I sat up, and the brisk movement, coupled with the cola still in my belly, produced a floor-shaking belch that quickly disrupted the serenity. I covered my mouth and giggled. “Well, if anyone’s out there, that definitely scared them away!” Pouring out the wash bucket, the sand surrounding the porch whispered like a sponge as it sucked in the much-needed water that had obviously been avoiding the area for some time.
The bolt on the main heavy door slid shut with a metal clank, and the silence that followed made the room feel smaller, safer, almost womb-like after the endless night sky. The fire had burned down into a steady glow, shadows swaying across the floor with each lick of the one persistent flame. My sweatpants clung softly to my tired legs, and the quilt on the bed gave an open-armed welcome.
I propped my phone against the old lamp base and clicked play on a movie I'd already downloaded. The familiar chatter spilled into the room, filling the quiet corners with something bright and human. Pulling the blankets high, I let my head sink into the pillow, cheeks still warm from bourbon and soup. The blue-white glow painted calm waves across the ceiling, and for the first time in days, real rest felt possible.
My eyes grew heavier with each line of dialogue, lids drooping as the tension in my shoulders melted into the mattress. My breath slowed, and the little cabin seemed to exhale with me. Peace hovered, fragile and full, like the last bubble clinging to the rim of glass. Sleep was not far away.
Tap Tap Tap
I shot upright, heart tripping over itself as my eyes snapped to the window. A crow sat on the sill, coal-black eyes fixed on me in the faint moonlight. For a moment, neither of us moved, locked in a stare that felt far too sharp, far too knowing. Then its wings spread wide, a dark sweep against the glass as it vanished into the night. The silence it left behind pressed heavier than before, and I realized sleep might not be coming after all.
Chapter 6: Not in the Brochure
The next morning came with a surprising ease. I woke as the sun was beginning to move in front of the window - the same one my visitor had graced the night before. It felt familiar now, thinking of the figure in the safety of daylight.
Moving slowly to the kitchen, the blanket wrapped around me like a shawl, I filled the percolator for my morning cup of “nightmare relief,” as Grammy called it. With the coals in the woodstove still smoldering from the night before, it only took a scrap of newspaper, a chunk of kindling, and a few puffs of air to get the flame roaring again, and like magic, the cabin began to fill with familiar noises and the deep aroma of dark roast and hazelnut.
The journal Dad had given me a few years ago to “fill with my adventures” peeked out of my bag, almost as if it was reaching out its pages to me. Now half-filled with to-dos, doctor's appointments, and grocery lists, why not fill the other half with this “adventure”? The sass that came forward with my thought spilled out as an eye roll, a head sway, and an audible “adventuuureee”. Regretting how mouthy I'd been, the pen drifted across the page, stuttering at first as if it couldn’t find the right words. What started as a retelling of the day's events turned into a rage-fueled torrent of regret, grief, anger, and sorrow. The pen now flew across the tan waterproof pages, not with grace but with a purpose.
The hissing of the coffee now boiling over onto the hot iron stove pulled me out of the trance. “Shit!” I grabbed a towel, pulled the hot kettle to the cooler side of the stove to let the brewing begin, and decided steak and eggs were a much better way to pass the time. I chewed a red special gummy bear, splashed water on my face, and put on a podcast episode. The familiar hum of voices blended with the low crackle of the stove, and my body began to feel lighter. The racing thoughts slowed. Breakfast came together easily, the pan hissing and popping as if it were having its own conversation. By the time the eggs were just runny enough and the steak reheated, I was already on cup two of my homemade latte.
I brought both to the porch, as I had the night before, and sank down onto the step. The wood creaked in rhythm with the trees clacking together, lazy and slow with the breeze. Steam curled up from the mug, but the morning humidity quickly snuffed it out. With the smell of coffee lingering in the air, everything seemed calm, but something felt off. I couldn’t put my finger on it; something was out there, and it was keeping me from peace. Or was this just grief?
After finishing the dishes, I decided a walk was necessary, not a long one, just a little wander around the yard. I’m sure my quests as a child had already plucked away any treasures, but roadrunner feathers and other natural wonders often made good souvenirs. After about two laps, the quiet settled in. The ground was dry, and with each step, dust twisted up, coating my jeans in a thin, soft layer. Near the fence line, a flash of color caught my eye, a small piece of worn blue glass wedged against a rock. I bent to pick it up, and a few feet further, a piece of flint glinted dull gray, its edge as sharp as memory. I slipped them both into my pocket, along with a smooth bit of petrified wood I’d found half buried by the mesquite roots.
By the time I reached the porch, the air had grown heavy and thick, my clothes clinging to me. I lined up the trinkets on the porch railing and decided a shower would do some good. The water sputtered before running clear, and as I waited for it to warm, the smell of rust made my nose wrinkle, but it faded quickly as the steam began to rise. Watching the dirt slither down the drain and the warm stream pounding on my back, peace finally began to surround me. My thoughts set out on a quest of their own, and they landed at a bizarre dead end. What if I just stayed here, sold the house and everything inside, and stayed here? I’d never have to work again, and I was starting to enjoy the simplicity of it all.
I stepped out onto the cold tile, the air still heavy with shower steam. One towel twisted around my hair, another tucked tight around me as I padded into the kitchen. The refrigerator hum filled the silence, low and steady. I grabbed a bottle of water, cracked the cap, and took a long drink. The first cool gulp hit my stomach when I saw it, just beyond the window. The trinkets I’d placed on the porch rail earlier had shifted—only a little, but enough to catch the light differently, as if someone had brushed past them.
At first, I brushed it off. Probably a squirrel, maybe the wind. Still, something about it tugged at me. I slipped on my sandals, opened the door, and stepped out. The air outside was thick, the kind that clings to your skin, and the porch boards groaned softly beneath my feet. The trinkets were where I’d left them, more or less. I rolled them in my hand, turning them over and admiring their shapes. The faint scent of sage drifted in from the woods. It should have felt peaceful; it was, only a moment ago.
Then something shifted inside me—instinct, maybe. The kind that doesn’t need explaining. My body knew before my mind did. My chest went tight. Knees locked. The calm drained away as fast as it had come. That’s when I saw them. Footprints. Bare footprints pressed into the sand, leading from the porch to the edge of the trees.
For what felt like a long moment, I couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to pull back, silent. The prints were large, not giant- sized but large, too clear, too fresh. No one in their right mind would be walking out here barefoot. They weren’t mine. And if they started at the porch… then where the hell had they come from?
Something primal took over before thought could catch up. The door flew open, then slammed shut again with a hollow echo that seemed to ripple through the cabin’s stillness. The bolt slid into place with a sharp, metallic click. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of my breathing and my pulse pounding in my skull, my shoulders pressed hard against the wood, as though holding the world outside at bay.
Movement came in fragments. My hands shook, but I managed to lock the back door, then the windows, each one latched with deliberate force. I drew the curtains until no trace of the woods remained. The air inside felt heavier now, thick with that strange, electric quiet that comes after panic. Leaving wasn’t just an idea anymore—it was a promise. Morning couldn’t come fast enough.
The bourbon was close at hand—a generous pour. The burn steadied something deep in the chest, though the tremor in the fingers remained. The cabin seemed smaller now, the shadows deeper, as if the walls themselves were listening. A low, humorless laugh escaped. This trip was going to turn into a drinking problem before it turned into a spiritual awakening. Then the stillness broke again, not with sound, but with sight. The journal lay open on the table where it had been left. Only now, a new line curved across the page in a stranger’s hand.
Hello.
Come back for part two!