The Cabin in the Woods

Beyond the pumps, the main building appeared to have been assembled from the tumbled remains of several others. Timber boarding didn’t quite meet flush, no corner was quite ninety degrees, and the patterns of fading the sun had left on the wall were uneven and haphazard. Many of the boards had nail holes where there were no longer nails, and in some places the bent, rusted remains of a nail still protruded, as if someone had tried to fix the boards from within. The corrugated roof covering was uneven and rusting, holes punched in two places for small chimneys.

Windows were out of true, dusty glass hiding any view of the inside. Even in several panes where the glass had been smashed out there was nothing to be seen. Holden thought perhaps the building had been plucked from the ground by a tornado and dumped here from several miles away, and ever since it had been preparing for collapse.

Scattered around the building, like the detritus of that same tornado strike, were all manner of objects, whole and in parts. Oil or gasoline barrels, rubber pipes twisted like long snakes in the grass, a chopping block with piles of splintered timber and a rusted axe buried in its top surface, an old cement mixer, and the carcasses of furniture now devoid of upholstery, their springs and metal bracing joining the rest of the surroundings in rot.

“Well,” Curt said, stretching in his driver’s seat. “We still need gas. And directions.” “And I need to take a leak,” Jules said. She opened the door and stepped out, glancing back nervously as she did so.

Holden looked at Dana and smiled, pleased to see that her nervousness lifted as she smiled back.

“Maybe they’ll sell home-made jerky,” Holden said, and propelled by groans of disgust he followed Jules outside.

They stood close to the fuel pumps. The smell of fuel was almost reassuring, because it meant that they were still working even though they looked like they hadn’t been used in years. Holden scraped the dusty ground and shifted aside sand that had been scattered on places where fuel had spilled. Despite all appearances to the contrary, he thought perhaps this was actually a working fuel stop.

He just wondered what the insides of the building contained.

“Billa bing, bing-bing, bing-bing, bing-bing,” Marty said, playing an imaginary banjo.

“I’m thinking this place won’t take credit cards,” Curt said, touching a pump delicately as if afraid it would fall apart.

“I don’t think it knows about money,” Marty said. “I think it’s barter gas.”

Curt leaned left and right, stretching up on his toes, trying to see if anyone was around.

“Well, I need to pee,” Jules said again, heading around the side of the building.

“I’ll see if anyone’s home,” Holden said, looking across at Curt. His friend nodded, then glanced back at the Rambler. I’ll keep watch, his look said, and Holden nodded once. He was on edge… but not quite nervous enough to not watch Dana as she followed Jules around the side of the dilapidated building. She was wearing a fitted blue jacket, but it only came down just past her hips, and he could still admire the way her butt moved in her jeans.

As they disappeared around the corner he headed for the front door. It stood ajar, and looked as if it could never close all the way. The door didn’t quite seem to fit the frame.

It scraped across grit on the floor as he forced it open. He saw curved scrape-scars in the timber floor boarding.

“Anyone here?” he asked. But the building’s insides swallowed his voice, offering no echoes at all. He left the door open behind him to provide more light, and because he didn’t want to hear that pained scraping again, ventured inside.

“Hello?” Curt called outside. There was no answer from anywhere, inside or out. And as Holden’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, his sense of unease only increased.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. It seemed as if he’d landed in redneck heaven.

He thought that perhaps it had once been a shop, but he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to buy anything from this place anymore. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stand in here, for more than a couple of minutes. The smell was rank, a spiced blend of fusty age and progressing rot, and flies buzzed here and there. Why are the flies in here? he wondered, and he had a sudden image of finding the proprietor dead and decaying on the floor somewhere, maggots crawling in his eye sockets and rats gnawing at-

“Hey!” he called, looking for movement, listening for acknowledgment. There was neither.