The Cabin in the Woods

Holden drank most of his cup of beer in one swig. He’d already had two when he was filling the others, and was feeling a pleasant buzz. He didn’t usually drink so quickly. It was weird. But then again, so was what he felt happening here.

He had never, ever been so attracted to a girl whom he didn’t want to instantly fuck.

Oh, he did want to, at some stage. Without a doubt. Dana was gorgeous-beautiful brunette hair he could get lost in, blue eyes, soft skin, and a scintillating, gentle smile that didn’t say, Look at how beautiful I am. She was nothing like the girls he usually went for, and she was suddenly everything he wanted. So there was the sex thing, yes… but there was also something else. There was a need to know her, unlike anything he had ever felt before.

And they were off together for a weekend in the wilds.

“So what is this place exactly?” he asked.

“Country home my cousin bought,” Curt said. “He’s crazy for real estate, found this place in the middle of nowhere, it’s like Civil War era, really. Said it was such a good deal he couldn’t let it pass.”

“There’s a lake, and woods everywhere,” Jules said. “We saw some beautiful pictures.” She turned in her seat and looked at Dana. “You will be doing some serious drawing. No portraits of pedophiles…”

Holden glanced at Dana just in time to see the end of the “shut up” frown she’d given Jules. He’d heard a bit about her from Curt, about how some slimy bastard shithead had used and dumped her. He didn’t understand how someone could do that to a girl like this. Taking a chance, heart thumping, he sat down on the seat next to her, holding his breath just a little when their legs pressed against each other. A silence fell then, not intentional but awkward nonetheless.

Across the table the guy they called Marty hummed some nameless tune as he packed his rolled joints. Curt and Jules looked ahead along the tree-lined road. Holden wondered whether he was the only one who could feel the atmosphere thickening, though he wasn’t quite sure what it carried.

“You’re an art major?” he asked, breaking the silence and using the question as an excuse to turn to Dana.

“Art and political science,” she said. Those eyes…

“Oooh, triple threat,” he muttered.

A frown, a smile. He liked both.

“That’s only two things,” she said quizzically.

“Yes, a double… threat. That sounds weird. Let’s just say I find you threatening.”

“I thought you were dropping art?” Curt asked.

“Uh, no, never mind…” Jules said, slapping Curt’s thigh and glaring at him.

“I’m switching a few courses,” Dana said coolly.

“How come?” Holden asked, and then he twigged it. Oh, so slimy bastard shithead had been a lecturer?

“For no reason!” Curt blurted. “For very good reasons that don’t exist.” Then he pointed. “Hey look, trees!”

“We have patterns,” Marty said, and Holden felt the pressure lift. He’d only known him for a couple of hours, but he liked Marty already. A chilled dude. “Societally. The beautimous Dana fell into one of the oldest patterns and we are here to burn it away and pour ash into the grooves it has etched in her brain. Cover the tracks and set her feet on new ground.” Holden leaned sideways in his seat until his and Dana’s shoulders were touching, and he felt her hair on his cheek and neck. “Is it okay if I don’t follow that?” And she actually leaned back into him before saying, “I’d take it as a favor.”

“Gas!” Curt shouted. Through the windscreen, Holden caught sight of a ramshackle building beside the road. “Gas,” Curt repeated, quieter, “and maybe someone who knows where we actually are.”

The five friends fell silent as he brought them to a standstill beside two ancient fuel pumps. The red, rusting hulks stood on a crumbling concrete pedestal, a bucket of sand sitting between them, a rickety-looking tin sheet canopy above supported by weathered timber posts. It looked as if the slightest breeze would knock the whole thing over, and Holden thought vibrations from the Rambler might just do the job.

“Does anyone have a banjo I can borrow?” Marty asked. “In fact, I see one bald kid, and I’m outta here.” “It’s just a bit run down,” Holden said, but his observation was so far off the mark that no one even challenged him. “A bit run down” might mean something that needed a lick of paint, or a bit of reorganizing, or the attention of someone used to calmness and order. This place-the pumps, the building beyond them, and the surrounding area- looked as if it had been blown up and put back together again by a blind man. With no tools. Or hands. “Shit,” he whispered to himself.