A Cabin Divided

You found the place on <a href="http://www.facebook.com" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. You'd been talking about where to honeymoon during a pandemic, and the next day, the cabin popped up on your feed. You say it's convenient; your wife says it's creepy. She drives. In the passenger seat, you watch the <a href="https://biology.appstate.edu/fall-colors/will-global-climate-change-affect-fall-colors" target="_blank">trees</a> and [[billboards]] rush past. Soon, she turns down a twisting dirt road that eventually ends at a large, misshapen cabin. [[You step out of the car.]]

An ad for a politician you hate. A man and woman, laughing and drinking Coke. And a giant’s face with coiffed blond hair, crows’ feet clutching pale blue eyes, and a sparkling white smile—he looks [[familiar->Begin]].

Gravel crunches beneath your feet, and the car door slams behind you. The trees swallow the sound. They surround you, bone pale bark and rusty leaves, making you feel closed in. Trapped. “You gonna [[help]], or are you just gonna [[stand there]]?”

You turn to see your wife, one hand on her hip and the other holding the trunk open. You walk over to help her unload. “We’re really out in the middle of nowhere,” you say. She nods. “We’re like, thirty minutes from the closest gas station. Probably even farther from a grocery store.” You smile as you lug your suitcase out of the car. “I guess we’re really roughing it.” She takes a deep breath as she lifts her own bag from the trunk, then wrinkles her nose. “I miss the city already. It smells like trees out here.” You laugh. “You’ve never smelled fresh air before?” “Not all of us had parents who sent us to summer camp.” You open your mouth to respond when a twig snaps behind you. Footsteps crush fallen leaves. You whip around, heart racing in your chest. There’s a [[man]] standing there, carrying an armful of firewood.

You turn to see your wife, one hand on her hip and the other holding the trunk open. “Give me a minute to look, would you?” you say, gesturing to the forest. She rolls her eyes. “You’d think you’d never seen a tree in your life. I thought you said your parents took you camping when you were a kid?” “Yeah, they did. It wasn’t like this, though. This place is so...” “Far from civilization?” You nod. “It is kind of weird,” she continues. “This whole place smells like trees.” You laugh. “I think that’s just the lack of smog and concrete.” A breeze, like a whisper, rustles the leaves. You look into the forest. Suddenly, you can’t breathe. “There’s something in there,” you whisper, but the wind takes your words. In the distance, a shadow slinks through the trees. The late afternoon sun that dapples the parking lot doesn’t penetrate the deep recesses of the forest, so the figure is dark, shapeless. You can’t make it out. But it’s coming closer. You step back rapidly. When you hit the car, you search blindly for your wife. She smiles and squeezes your hand. “I guess it *is* kind of romantic…” she starts, but she trails off when she sees your face. “What’s wrong?” “There’s someone in the woods.” Her face hardens. She moves swiftly around the car and takes a defensive stance. Her hand finds yours again. You stand together, tense, in front of the car. Your heart beats frantically. You watch the figure advance—slowly, with a shuffling gait—through the dim forest. The hulking specter approaches the tree line. It steps into the light. It’s a [[man]], carrying an armful of firewood.

He wears a faded burgundy baseball cap and worn denim overalls. His eyes dart from your dyed blue hair to your wife’s long, dark braids, then down to both of your clasped hands. He sneers. “Who’re you?” your wife demands. “I’m the groundskeeper,” he grunts. “Don’t needa ask who you are. *He* already told me.” He’s got an accent you don’t usually hear in the city, one with drawn out vowels and hard r’s. “Who’s he?” your wife asks. The groundskeeper scoffs. “*Him*. Mr. Page.” Your wife glances to you for confirmation, and you nod. Mr. Page is the realtor who leased you the place for the week. You both relax infinitesimally. He adjusts his grip on the firewood, then digs into his pocket. There’s a sheen of sweat over his ruddy complexion. He pulls a key from his jeans and tosses it carelessly. Your wife catches it. “Gotta bring this to the fire pit,” he says, gesturing to the firewood. He starts to shuffle away, then pauses. “I live there”—he jerks his head toward a lean-to shed on the right side of the cabin. “Don’t—just, don’t come in there.” You watch him leave. “Did he seem—" “Weird?” your wife finishes. She holds up the keys he tossed at her. “Let’s just go [[check out the cabin]].”

“It looked nicer online,” you say defensively. Your wife, who crossed the threshold first, raises her eyebrows. The faux wood paneled walls and discolored carpet seem to be mocking you. The place looked like a luxury vacation spot when you booked it; you pull out your phone to show her the original ad. “No service,” you groan. “Do you have a signal?” She checks her phone, then shakes her head. “Should we take a [[look around]]?” she asks.

You scan the interior. The [[kitchen]]’s to your right, and the [[living room]]’s on the left. Towards the cabin's center, there's a [[back room]] just beyond the [[stairs]].

You walk across the yellowed linoleum floor; your eyes sweep over the dull laminate counters, the plywood cabinets, the blocky white fridge. You grimace at the contents of the fridge: a few cans of cheap beer and a gallon jug of mayonnaise, about two thirds full. You find some dusty cans of nonperishables in the cabinets and nickel plated silverware in the drawers. An ancient coffee maker sits atop the counter, next to a full set of knives buried in a wooden block. You leave the kitchen and continue to [[look around]] the cabin.

The carpet is packed and faded, like hundreds of people have tread on it before you. You laugh in disbelief at the TV, which looks like it’s from last century. The router’s on the floor under the TV stand, but the WiFi password taped to the side of it is no good. You stare longingly at your phone, willing the network signals to appear. They don’t. You flick through the channels. The TV’s broken; there’s this weird blue flickering effect over the screen. You feel lightheaded when you watch for too long. You try to fix it, but four years of studying computer science didn’t prepare you to repair such outdated tech. It’s the only entertainment you’ve got, though, so you just deal with the dizzying blue light and the limited [[channels]]. You leave the living room and continue to [[look around]] the cabin.

You climb the turning stairs. They’re steep, and the scuffed pine creaks beneath your feet. You reach the top, frowning at the hallway; the second floor is as bad as the first. Your eyes scan the trampled, periwinkle runner rug and land on the splattered bleach stain at the far end, in front of the bedroom. Though the ends of the hallway are shrouded in shadow, the center of it is brighter; a circline fluorescent bulb buzzes overhead, casting an eerie glow over the yellowed wallpaper. To your right, a cork dartboard, marred by dozens of tiny holes, hangs on the wall—it wouldn’t be out of place in a dive bar. The landing is the widest part of the hallway, but there’s still not much space to throw darts. You amuse yourself for a moment, imagining the out of touch interior decorator who put it there—someone who’s never visited a place that didn’t serve tapas, but who’s also vaguely aware that rustic, working class people enjoy playing darts and drinking beer in their downtime. Your wife’s voice interrupts your musings. “That’s weird.” “What?” you ask. “There should be more space.” You shake your head. “Seems right to me. The ad said it was just one bedroom and one bathroom.” “No, I mean—the outside looked a lot bigger. There must be more rooms up here.” You glance back into the hallway. The humming light doesn’t quite reach either end, but in the shadows, you can just make out the only two doors, leading to the [[bathroom]] and the [[bedroom]].

In the back of the cabin, you find a dimly lit mudroom. Paltry sunlight filters in from the window on the [[back door]], enough so you can just make out a soiled navy carpet, cluttered shelves, and a [[closed mahogany door]]. You leave the back room and continue to [[look around]] the cabin.

You flip through a few channels: <a href="https://youtu.be/E8_ARd4oKiI" target="_blank">Lin-Manuel Miranda’s *Hamilton*</a>, <a href="https://youtu.be/Shw2-7uazc0" target="_blank">HBO's *Watchmen*</a>, and a report on <a href="https://www.cnn.com/videos/politics/2020/10/09/michigan-governor-gretchen-whitmer-kidnap-plot-prokupecz-ebof-vpx.cnn" target="_blank">CNN</a>. You leave the [[living room]] and continue to [[look around]] the cabin.

You step into the backyard, listening to dead leaves crunch beneath your feet. The forest is haunting in the day’s dying light. You avert your eyes from the shadowed depths of endless trees and look instead at the burnt ash of the fire pit. Next to it sits the groundskeeper’s pile of fresh chopped wood, and—leaning against the neat stack—an axe, glinting in the golden sunlight. You return to the [[back room]] and continue to [[look around]] the cabin.

“This is weird,” your wife says. You agree. The stiff, pink carpet is somehow less strange than the bathroom’s architectural design. Two tall pony walls, perpendicular to the room’s entrance, separate it into three sections: a sink on the left, a shower stall to the right, and the toilet in the center. The dusty fixtures above the sink are the only light source, so the shower’s hidden in shadows. While your wife peeks her head through the frosted glass doors that lead from one section to the next, you look behind you at the tiny flatscreen TV above the entranceway. It’s higher than both pony walls, and it’s positioned directly across from the toilet. You point it out to your wife, and she laughs in disbelief. “Who the hell designed this place?” she asks. You shrug. “Someone incredibly out of touch with the rest of humanity. Do you think it was the groundskeeper?” “God, I hope not. I don’t want to imagine why he’d put the TV there. Do you want to [[look around]] more [[upstairs->stairs]]?

When you enter the bedroom, you realize your wife was right; this can’t be the only room upstairs. The queen sized bed takes up most of the floor, which is covered by a musty shag carpet. Maybe it’s just the dark, faux wood paneled walls that make the room feel so claustrophobic. Not even the open closet—empty except for a few wire hangers and a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide—helps to widen the space. “Should we go to [[sleep]]?” your wife asks. “Or did you want to [[look around]] more [[upstairs->stairs]]?” “Well, we are on our [[honeymoon]],” you respond.

You wake to darkness. Your wife breathes rhythmically next to you, and the tiny red light of the smoke detector still blinks steadily. From the hallway, you hear a regular pattern of a muffled *thunk*, then footsteps, then the *thunk* again. You bolt upright. You stare into the darkness, waiting for your eyes to adjust. The sounds—the *thunk* of something hitting a wall, the *creak* of footsteps over floorboards—don’t stop. There’s someone outside your bedroom. You hardly dare to breathe as you weigh your options: you can [[go back to sleep]] and pretend it’s all in your head, or you can [[investigate]].

“We could test out the bed,” you say innocently. Your wife grins. It makes your heart flutter, like you’re seeing her gap-toothed smile and magnetic brown eyes for the first time. She pulls you onto the bed—the springs shriek, and for a moment you fear the groundskeeper, holed away in his lean-to, will hear them creaking. But then you forget everything that’s not your dazzling wife. She narrows your world to soft hands brushing your skin, warm breath tickling your neck, the smell of coconut in her hair. By the time you lie back on the bed, breathless and warm, night has fallen. The room is dark, lit only by the blinking red smoke detector directly above the bed. You watch it flash steadily, like a recording button, until you sink into [[sleep]].

Quietly, you lie back down. The bedsprings shriek. You wince, hardly daring to breathe. Outside the bedroom door, the sounds continue: *thunk*—something hitting the wall. *Creak, creak, creak*—old floorboards groaning under heavy footsteps. You pull the sheets over your head, cowering like a child. *It’s not real, it’s not real*, you whisper like a prayer, your eyes screwed shut. You attempt to block out the sounds, try to focus on your wife’s steady breaths. She’s warm and solid, but when you reach for her, she grumbles sleepily and turns away. The springs screech. Your heart beats louder. Whatever’s out there is going to hear it. You take deep, slow, shaky breaths. *It’s not real, it’s not real.* You drift into an uneasy sleep. You dream of footsteps on old floorboards and the thunk of a knife against the wall. A blade flashes as it leaves a dark figure’s hand. You can’t see the shadow’s face. But it wears a baseball cap. You wake alone. Early morning sunlight spills through the half closed curtains, but your wife’s side of the bed is empty and cold. Panicked, you fling out a hand, searching as though you’ll find her under the fitted sheet. You throw off the covers, breathing heavily. You should’ve woken her last night. You sit in silence for a moment, ears pricked. You hear no creaks or thunks. Carefully, you rise out of bed, grateful for the shag carpet that muffles sound. You take a silent step. Then another. Soon, you’re at the door. The brass knob is cold under your trembling hand. Gently, you twist it. Take a shaky breath. Then, steeling yourself, you push. The door opens a crack. The hallway is dim, lit only by the window at the top of the stairs. Taking a deep breath, your inch into the corridor, treading lightly on the tips of your bare toes. The floor creaks. You pause, listen. Nothing. Letting out a shaky breath, you walk forward towards the stairs. There’s the [[dartboard]], next to the window. You continue past it, hugging the railing as you walk down the stairs. You stay to the side, hoping to prevent the pale pine from groaning. When you near the bottom, you hear footsteps. The fridge door opens. There’s someone in the kitchen. Heart in your throat, you peer around the corner. The fridge is open wide, blocking your view of the bent person rifling around inside it. The figure straightens. You let out a breath—it’s your wife. You don’t mention last night. Instead, you [[join her]] at the [[fridge]] and grab some oat milk for the fair trade coffee she brewed for you. The machine is burbling on the countertop, next to the wooden block holding an almost-full set of knives.

You take a few deep breaths, willing the sound to fade. It doesn’t. With shaking hands, you lift the covers. You slide your feet over the side of the bed. It creaks. You stop breathing. You listen. *Thunk. Creak.* Carefully, you rise out of bed, grateful for the shag carpet that muffles sound. You take a silent step. Then another. You keep your eyes wide, and your hands grope blindly in front of you. *Creak creak. Thunk.* A few more steps. You’re at the door. The brass knob is cold under your trembling hand. Gently, you twist it. Take another shaky breath. Then, steeling yourself, you push. The door opens a crack. The hallway is dark, lit only by the window at the top of the stairs. You stand, frozen, trying to comprehend what you’re seeing. A dark figure, pacing away from the dartboard. *Creak creak creak.* A flash of silver in the moonlight. It flies from the figure to the opposite wall. It hits the target. *Thunk.* Panicked, you slam the door shut. A series of loud, rapid thuds echoes in the hallway. You desperately fumble with the lock. Finally, it clicks. You stand stock still and listen. The thuds fade away. “Honey, what…?” you wife grumbles sleepily, rubbing her face. “There’s someone in the hall,” you choke out. She sits upright. “What do you mean?” Her voice is loud, like a tree crashing to the forest floor. You flinch. Blindly, you reach behind you, check to make sure the door’s still locked. Your wife gets out of bed. She grabs your shoulders, then gently pushes you aside. Her eyes are wide and alert. They glitter strangely in the red light of the smoke detector. Her hand doesn’t tremble when she reaches for the knob. Still, she’s careful. The click when she unlocks the door is nearly silent, but it’s like a gunshot against your pricked ears. She makes eye contact with you, deliberately, before she opens the door. You wait behind her, mouth dry and heart pounding. She stands there for a moment, her face pressed to the crack of the door. Then, she pushes it fully open. You follow her into the hallway. The floor groans under your feet, but you only hear two sets of footsteps. The hall is empty. Your wife methodically checks each room in the house. Nothing. The back door is unlocked, so she locks the deadbolt. But the cabin’s empty. You drift into an uneasy sleep. Your wife, warm and soft, is with you. Her strong arms hold you to her chest; you listen to her heart beating. You try to focus on the rhythmic sound, but all you can think about is the *creak* of footsteps on old floorboards and the *thunk* of a knife against the wall. When you close your eyes, you see a blade flash as it leaves a dark figure’s hand. You couldn’t see the shadow’s face, but before you drift off to sleep, you remember something about him. He was wearing a baseball cap. When you wake the next morning, you’re still curled around your wife. She smiles and runs her fingers through your mussed hair. You [[join her]] in the shower—the steam fogs up all the frosted doors in the oddly shaped bathroom. Then, you head down to breakfast, grabbing some oat milk from the [[refrigerator]] while your wife brews fair trade coffee. The machine burbles on the countertop, next to the wooden block holding an almost-full set of knives.

After breakfast, you spend a sunlit day in each other’s company. There’s a winding trail among the trees, so you stroll together under a rustling canopy of red and gold. You laugh when a squirrel startles your wife, and she gives you her scarf when she notices you’re shivering. Back at the cabin, you fiddle with the TV again, but everything you watch still flickers with a dizzying blue light. At night, you squeeze together on a log by the fire pit. The warmth of the flame flushes your cheeks—or maybe it’s the wine. While you drink, your wife roasts vegan marshmallows, and you playfully scold her for letting them burn. Your wife can’t handle her wine—she goes to bed early. Before you follow her, you decide to [[shower]] to get the smell of smoke out of your hair.

You grimace at the contents of the fridge. In addition to the food you brought to get you through the trip, there’s some food that was already there when you arrived: a few cans of cheap beer and a gallon jug of mayonnaise, about half full. You [[close the fridge door->investigate]].

Something about the dartboard, so out of place at the [[top of the landing->go back to sleep]], makes you uneasy. You want to walk past it. But the blaring red target draws your eye. The cork along the outer edges is marred by dozens of pin sized holes, but at its center lie a few long, deep slits. You brush your finger over one of the deeper tears, wondering how it appeared. It’s too big to have been caused by a dart, or even by normal wear and tear. Desperately, you try to remember if it was there yesterday. You can’t. But you think it’s the perfect size for a knife.

The light above the bathroom sink strains to reach the shower stall on the far side of the room, and the two tall pony walls cast long shadows over the carpeted floor. You consider turning on the tiny TV—the one in the center of the room, right across from the toilet—as an extra light source, but you can’t find the remote. You stand on tiptoes to try to press the power button; you can’t quite reach. So you shower in near darkness. The ceiling is awash in a weak yellow glow, but inside the shower, it’s dim. There’s a waterproof radio hanging from the shower head. A red light blinks steadily once you turn it on, providing a meager light source. You sing along to staticky, upbeat <a href="https://youtu.be/Dkk9gvTmCXY" target="_blank">pop songs</a>. Still feeling pleasantly flushed from the fire, you lose track of time. In the silence between songs, you hear a strange sound—something slick and rhythmic. Frowning, you lower the radio’s volume. You listen. The hard water spray beats against the ceramic floor. There’s something else, too, on the other side of the pony wall. Straining your ears, you can just make it out. Harsh, heavy panting. Despite the hot water pouring over you, you suddenly feel cold. Your wife’s name nearly escapes your lips, but then you stop—think. She’s already in bed. Your mind flashes to the figure from your dreams. There’s someone else here. Your phone’s on the sink, separated from you by two walls. There’s no service, anyway. You swallow, eyes darting from the blinking red radio to your refillable metal bottle of color-safe shampoo. You pick up the latter, then weigh it in your palm. With a trembling hand, you turn off the shower. The water ceases with a screech. The panting is suddenly deafening—it cuts short with a grunt. There’s a frantic rustling. You suck in a breath, then step out of the shower. You yank the limp, pink bath towel from the rack and wrap it tightly over your naked body. With one hand, you clutch the towel protectively over your chest. With the other, you brandish the shampoo bottle like a weapon. On the other side of the wall, the floor creaks, but your bare feet are quiet as they sink into the moist carpet. Too soon, you reach the translucent door at the front of the pony wall. It’s coated with condensation. The light from the fixture over the sink, so far away, is dim. But you can still make out a blurred shadow, brushing past the frosted door. Then, there’s the fumbling sound of the bathroom door opening. Rapid footsteps race out into the hall. The stairs groan. And then it’s quiet again. Trembling, you open the foggy glass door. The bathroom’s empty, but the main door is ajar. You check all three sections of the room. Nothing. You stand shivering in the center section, staring at the entranceway directly across from the toilet. Though the heat is leaking out through the cracked door, the room is still stifling. You feel sticky with sweat. The steam from the shower settles into the damp, squishy carpet. You choke back a gag—the air is fetid. You drag your eyes upwards—past the brass doorknob, then over the top of the wooden frame. A red light blinks at the bottom of the TV. The small screen is alight for the first time since you arrived. The flickering image makes your blood run cold. It’s an empty shower stall—the same one you just [[fled]].

You burst into the bedroom and drag your wife out of bed. You flick on the circline light in the hall. It buzzes while you babble an explanation. When you reach the bathroom, you point madly to the tiny TV with the blinking red light. But the screen is black. Your wife looks concerned. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?” she asks gently. “I—I don’t…” tears blur your vision. You feel sick. Your wife leads you back to the queen bed. She helps you dry off and gives you one of her old t-shirts to wear to sleep. You curl up next to her under the covers, where you rest your head on her chest until [[morning]].

“Why are you doing this, again?” your wife asks, clutching a steaming mug of coffee. You look down from your step ladder. You dug it out of the mudroom and propped it beneath the tiny bathroom TV, whose settings you’re currently fiddling with. “I already told you,” you huff. “Yeah, I know, I just—are you sure about what you saw? We, um, both had a lot of wine last night.” “Since when does wine make you hallucinate?” you snap. Your wife looks hurt. Head pounding, you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I just—something’s weird about this place. I know it.” Your wife still looks unsure, but she nods. She sips her coffee in silence while you mutter to yourself under your breath. After a few more moments of fiddling, you finally triumph. Your wife catches sight of your jubilant face and shoots you a questioning look. “I figured out how to disable all the remote controls,” you explain. “I think—I think the groundskeeper must have the remote. That’s how he turned it on and off last night.” “Right,” your wife says, unconvinced. “Now I just need to figure out what channel he had it on…” you trail off, concentrating on the TV. With the click of a button, the screen flickers to life, displaying an establishing shot—brilliant fall foliage along a long, winding country road—from some show that feels familiar. You click again to change the channel. Another forest—filled with thin, bone-white birch trees—appears onscreen. *Click*. A car—the same make and model as your wife’s—in a long gravel driveway. *Click*. A fire pit of burnt ash and an axe leaning on a pile of wood. *Click*. A living room with an ancient TV. *Click*. Kitchen. *Click*. Mudroom. *Click*. Dartboard. *Click*. A woman spilling coffee on a stiff pink carpet. “No,” your wife moans. The woman on the screen echoes her cry. "No, no, no, no, no, no—" The audio feedback reaches a screeching pitch. Your wife covers her ears. The woman on screen does, too. You slam the button to switch the channel. Silence. Your wife lowers her hands. You both stare at the new image. There, framed squarely in the tiny flatscreen, is an overhead view of a [[queen sized bed]].

You hastily shove your clothes into your suitcase, then drag it down the stairs and out of the cabin. You throw the bags into the car while your wife starts the engine. As you slam the trunk shut, you pull out your phone—still no service. In the driver’s seat, your wife is repeatedly turning the key. “No, no, no—” she moans. The engine whines, sputters, then dies. She slams her palm against the steering wheel. “C’mon!” she shouts, sounding hysterical. “I just got an inspection!” Something heavy settles in your stomach. “He—he must’ve done something to the car,” you whisper. Your wife looks at you with despair. She starts to turn back toward the ignition, but something out the front windshield catches her eye. She freezes. Her eyes widen. It’s getting harder to breathe. “What is it?” you whimper. You don’t want to look, but your wife won’t answer. Feeling sick with dread, you follow her gaze. Coming around the corner of the cabin, with a stiff, shuffling gait, is the groundskeeper. He’s wearing his red baseball cap and muddy work boots, and in his right hand, he holds a gleaming, silver [[knife]].

Your wife turns the key with renewed fervor. The groundskeeper keeps lurching forward. The engine whines, then turns, but doesn’t catch. *Thump*. You startle violently. The man is slamming his hands on the driver's side window, inches from your wife. She screams. He shouts over her—some insane rant about *you people* ruining everything. His face is an angry red, and spittle flies from his lips. He’s deranged. *Thump. Thump. Crack.* He pounds the butt of the knife against the window. Hands shaking, you pull your wife over the center console and out the passenger side door. You both race away from the car—a breeze whispers through the forest as it blows back your hair. The groundskeeper follows you. His heavy footsteps crush the fallen leaves. When you reach the cabin, the doorknob won’t turn. Your wife curses. “I locked it before we left.” You groan. Your wife looks behind you—then, she pulls you into a crouch. Above your heads, a knife lodges into the unfinished oak door. You rise, pulling her around the side of the cabin. The groundskeeper’s lean-to is locked, so you keep running. Behind you, shuffling footsteps rustle the dead leaves on the forest floor. When you reach the tree line past the fire pit, you pause—resting one hand on your wife’s shoulder—to catch your breath. Then, you glance behind you. He’s on the opposite side of the fire pit. He lifts his arm over his baseball cap, pulls it back behind his head, and flicks his wrist. Glinting silver sails over burnt ash. You shove your wife, hard. She stumbles to the dead leaves. You scream. Blinding, white hot pain. Staggering to your knees, you clutch your shoulder. Viscous warmth wets your palm. You drag your eyes to your wife—still down in the fallen leaves from when you pushed her. She stares at you with horror, then looks away. You follow her gaze. A brick-red face fills your field of vision. Your back slams to the ground. The movement jostles the blade—you scream. The sound is cut short when rough hands wrap around your neck. The man mutters under his breath, but you don’t understand. “He *told* me what you’re doing…can’t let you get away with it…” Rustling leaves drown out his voice. Then that sound fades, too. Blackness creeps into the edge of your vision. Weakly, you scrabble at the hands around your throat. Suddenly, a shower of red, hot blood drenches your face. The grip on your neck slackens. You suck in a ragged breath, then cough and sputter at the overwhelming taste of iron. The groundskeeper falls to the side. You stare, uncomprehending, at his slumped body. Your wife stands behind him, her eyes wide and her shell-shocked face splattered with blood. Her hands clutch the wooden handle of the wood-chopping axe. The [[blade]]—now soiled with blood and brain matter—is lodged in the back of the groundskeeper’s skull.

“Can’t we take this thing out?” you ask. Your wife, dabbing at your shoulder with a warm washcloth, pauses. “I don’t know,” she says, voice trembling, “aren’t you supposed to keep it in? Because of blood loss or something?” Stupidly, you shrug. You bite back a scream; even the softest touch to the blade embedded in your shoulder causes waves of agony. Your wife takes a steadying breath. “We need to find a phone. We need to find a phone that gets service in this backwoods *hell hole* so we can call you a goddamn ambulance.” You stare morosely at the kitchen counter, where, a few moments earlier, your wife furiously slammed her useless smartphone against the laminate. Even the emergency service isn’t working this far into the forest. “But people—people *live* here, don’t they?” you ask. Your brain is sluggish; it’s hard to think past the pain. “They must have *some* way to…” “Yeah, the—the groundskeeper lives—*lived*—out here. He—he must’ve had contact with…” “With Mr. Page,” you finish. “The relator guy? Yeah.” Your wife bites her lip. “Do you… Do you think—?” “He has a phone in the shed. He’s got to, right?” Your wife looks confused for a moment, like she’d been thinking something else. Her face clears, though, and she nods. “[[Stay here]]. I’ll [[go look]].”

“Be careful,” you whisper. When your wife leaves, the agony in your arm grows unbearable. Her footsteps fade, and silence falls in the kitchen. The back door slams. You startle, then whine as the movement sends another spike of pain through your shoulder. Your own heavy breathing fills the empty room. Unconsciously, you prick your ears, straining to hear the sounds of the cabin and the woods beyond. Somewhere above you, wood groans. Is there someone still here? Your breaths grow shallow. *Just the house settling*, you think. Outside, a door bursts open—tears burn your eyes. *It’s just your wife*, you tell yourself. *She’s opening the lean-to*. Thoughts of what she’ll find inside overwhelm you. The man was disturbed. What was so important in that little shack that he warned you against ever entering it? What sick relics did he keep locked away in that pathetic home? A door slams shut. Then, silence. Your wife must be inside. Will she be safe alone? Silence stretches on. You struggle not to spiral, but your breath comes in short, shallow pants. It feels like hours before you hear a door open, then shut, followed by leaves crunching under steady feet. Your eyes dart around the kitchen, searching for a weapon. Wildly, you wonder how much blood you’d lose if you pulled the knife from your shoulder. The back door opens. Floorboards groan under footsteps. A figure appears in the doorway. “Nothing,” your wife says. “Just a bunch of junk and an old TV playing Fox News.” You sigh in relief, feeling faintly ridiculous. “What are we going to do?” Your wife hesitates. “There is one more room we haven’t checked.” “The locked door,” you mutter. “The one in the mudroom.” She nods, looking tense. “I’ll go check it out.” You grab her wrist. “I just—I want to come too. I don’t—I don’t want to be alone.” Her face softens. She crouches so you can wrap your good arm over her shoulders. The first few steps forward are agony, but your wife is warm and steady by your side, and you reach the [[mudroom]] more quickly than you expected.

You grab her wrist. “I just—I want to come too. I don’t—I don’t want to be alone.” Your wife’s face softens. She crouches so you can wrap your good arm over her shoulders. The first few steps forward are agony, but your wife is warm and steady by your side, and you reach the lean-to more quickly than you expected. A breeze glides through the thin white trees, cooling the sweat on your brow. You wince while your wife shoves the key into the shed’s creaking door. When it opens, you sink heavily into an uncomfortable chair near the entrance. Your wife begins methodically checking every corner of the dim, cramped space. You look around while she works. There’s a tiny window near the ceiling, letting in meager light that illuminates a maroon carpet—cluttered with crumpled clothes—and an old TV against one wall. Like the one in your cabin, it’s ancient, but you’re oddly mesmerized by the image onscreen: some Fox News pundit, interrupted occasionally by a staticky red flickering effect. “Nothing,” your wife says. “Just a bunch of junk.” You drag your eyes away from the TV. “What are we going to do?” Your wife hesitates. “There is one more room we haven’t checked.” “The locked door,” you mutter. “The one in the [[mudroom]].”

You stand, supported by your wife, and stare at the closed door before you. It makes you feel uneasy. Though the room is silent, the door seems to buzz with a malignant energy. Like the mahogany is hiding something repugnant. Your wife lifts the master key, the one she dug out of the stiff overalls of the groundskeeper’s corpse. With a wince, you disentangle yourself from her and stagger back to lean against the wall. Free to move forward, she shoves the key into the lock. It doesn’t turn. She looks to you with despair. “It won’t open,” she whispers, teary eyed. “What do we do?” The door looms above her, immutable. Feeling hopeless, you glance around the room. Your eyes catch near the ceiling, where a dusty shelf holds a tiny digital clock. Its gleaming face blinks steadily red. Like a recording button. Suddenly, [[you’re afraid]] to [[find out what’s behind the door]].

With effort, you push yourself off the wall. “We’ll just have to walk,” you say flippantly. The effect is ruined when you stumble forward; your wife catches you, and you moan in pain. “Are you sure you can handle that?” your wife asks, pulling your arm around her shoulder. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” you snap. “I could leave. Go find help.” You glance back to the mahogany door. “I—I don’t—” you stammer, then look down at the floor. “Please don’t leave me alone.” She softens. “Okay.” Tenderly, she wraps an arm around your waist. Together, you set off into the forest, stumbling over fallen leaves. You stop often to lean against the birch trees, smearing copper on the ash white bark. Your wife grimaces. “You need to rest,” she says. You glance back. The cabin is obscured by a forest of bone pale trees and crimson leaves. “Go on without me,” you croak. “I can—I can wait for you here.” She frowns, but doesn’t argue. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises. She walks away, leaves crunching beneath her feet. Her loping figure disappears into the trees. You lean against a bony trunk and try not to move your shoulder; the throbbing pain is constant—overwhelming. The sounds of the forest swell as your wife’s footsteps fade. Paper leaves rustle above you. Invisible insects whine and buzz. A twig snaps. You close your eyes. On the backs of your eyelids, an image blooms of what you left behind. Not the cabin, or the car, or the bloodied axe, but the dark mahogany door, opening to an elevated plane of indulgence that you’ll never reach now. THE END

You look to your wife. “We can still get in,” you say. “ We just need…” You trail off, glance out the window. Your wife follows your gaze. Her face pales, but she nods. Then, she walks out the back door. Through the window, you watch as she passes the wood pile and the fire pit. She stops at the corpse. You look away. A moment later, your wife re-enters the room with the bloodied axe in her hands. She adjusts her grip on the handle. She steps toward the door. The blade crashes into the solid wood. Blood stains mahogany. With effort, she dislodges the axe from the splintering lumber. Her eyes are wild. Revolutionary. She roars as she swings the blade again. And again. And again. And again. The axe clatters to the floor. Your wife wipes the sweat off her brow, then kicks down the few remaining splinters. You both stare through the empty doorframe. It leads to a stairwell, covered in a plush, emerald carpet and illuminated by a soft golden glow. You exchange glances. Your wife holds out her hand. With effort, you push yourself off the wall and take it while she tenderly wraps an arm around your waist. You steel yourself, then set off together [[up the stairs]].

By the time you reach the top, you’re drenched in sweat and panting heavily. A drop of blood lands on the pristine rug near your feet. You watch it soak into the soft fibers. It takes you a moment to realize your wife is frozen beside you. A sudden swell of muttering voices pierces the haze of your pain. You drag your eyes upwards to search for their source. A hallway stretches out ahead of you. It’s a glamorous mirror of the one in your section of the cabin: the runner rug is lush and pristine instead of trampled and bleach stained, and the walls are decorated with intricate crowning and abstract paintings instead of peeling paper and cork dartboards. There are a few more glaring differences, like the giant flatscreen TV at the far end, and the gleaming mahogany doors lining the walls. On the ceiling, instead of a buzzing, fluorescent circline bulb, there’s a glittering chandelier, filling the hall with a soft, warm glow. The light bounces off crystal champagne flutes and sleek, lustrous hairstyles, while scandalized whispers from clusters of well dressed men and women bounce off your sluggish brain. “What—who are these people?” you mumble, feeling dazed. One of them—hastily replacing his shocked countenance with a charming smile—steps forward. “Congratulations!” he exclaims. “Most people don’t make it up here.” Your wife asks him a question, but you can’t concentrate on her words. Something about this man—with his coiffed blond hair, crinkling blue eyes, and unnaturally white smile—feels familiar. He starts to respond to your wife. “Well, you two have stumbled into—” “You’re—you’re [[Mr. Page]],” you interrupt in a slightly slurred voice. Your wife stares, concerned, but the man’s smile widens. “Well done!” he says, an excited glint in his eye. “You two have it all figured out, don’t you?” “Mr. Page,” your wife says, slowly. “That’s—so you’re the relator. The one who rented out the cabin.” She looks around the hall, from the sparkling chandelier to the women in Armani, until her eyes land on the TV. The screen displays a bloodied axe and a splintered wooden door. She tightens her grip on your waist. “You’ve been watching us,” she says. “And you’ve been quite entertaining,” says Mr. Page. He gestures to the crowd behind him. “I don’t think any of us expected you to make it this far.” “I thought for sure that hick would kill them,” interjects a man in a Tom Ford suit. Then, he turns to address you. “You two lost me a lot of money by winning!” He says it flippantly, with a playful smirk. Like he’s letting you in on a joke. The crowd chuckles. “You’ve been betting on us?” you wife asks hysterically. Her face is ashen beneath the drying flecks of blood. “Betting on which one of us would—would kill the other one first?” “That’s right,” says Mr. Page calmly. “It’s quite a lucrative business.” He gestures to the doors lining the hallway. Some of them, you notice, open into lavish bedrooms with their own glowing flatscreens. He smiles. “People pay top dollar to get front row seats.” “You can’t—” you croak. You lick your lips. Your throat feels swollen and dry. “You can’t *do* this,” you finish weakly. He laughs, loud and gleeful. “My dear, with enough money, you can do anything.” Despair settles over your shoulders. You lean heavily on your wife, and she staggers to support your weight. Page’s countenance grows solemn. “I don’t normally hand out prizes to the winners, but—well, most contestants don’t discover the secret second floor. Why don’t I offer you a ride to the hospital, and—oh, what the heck—a free room at our next showing.” “Your next… showing?” your wife asks. “Of course. I can’t make promises on when it’ll be, but don’t worry! It won’t take too long to find another groundskeeper, and I’ve got tons of renters lined up—a cabin in the woods is one of the only places people can travel these days.” He flashes a sparkling smile. “<a href="https://time.com/5870826/amazon-coronavirus-jeff-bezos-congress/" target="_blank">The pandemic has been great for business</a>.” “You want us to—to watch you do this to somebody else?” you rasp. “It’s a generous offer. Very few people can afford a room in this cabin"—he laughs—"or, at least, in this part of the cabin. Obviously, the rooms you stayed in are fairly, uh, economical.” Your wife gapes at him. He shrugs. “Well, if you’re not interested, you're free to go.” “You’d let us leave, just like that?” you wife asks skeptically. “You’re not afraid we’ll tell anyone about this—this fucked up *Hunger Games* shit?” “Well, obviously, if you try to tell anyone, I’ll have you both <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/oct/16/malta-car-bomb-kills-panama-papers-journalist" target="_blank">killed</a>.” He says it with a smile, like it’s a joke. But his eyes are ice. “You can either [[leave and keep quiet]] or [[join us]] at the next showing. There is no [[other option]].”

Suddenly, you recall the billboard you passed on the drive to the cabin. An ad for a politician you hate. A man and woman, laughing and drinking Coke. And a [[giant->up the stairs]]'s face with coiffed blond hair, crows’ feet clutching pale blue eyes, and a sparkling white smile—an ad for Page Realty.

Together, you and your wife set off into the forest, stumbling over fallen leaves. You stop often to lean against the birch trees, smearing copper on the ash white bark. Your wife grimaces. “You need to rest,” she says. You glance back. The cabin is obscured by a forest of bone pale trees and crimson leaves. “Go on without me,” you croak. “I can—I can wait for you here.” She frowns, but doesn’t argue. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises. She walks away, leaves crunching beneath her feet. Her loping figure disappears into the trees. You lean against a bony trunk and try not to move your shoulder; the throbbing pain is constant—overwhelming. The sounds of the forest swell as your wife’s footsteps fade. Paper leaves rustle above you. Invisible insects whine and buzz. A twig snaps. You close your eyes. On the backs of your eyelids, an image blooms of what you left behind. Not the cabin, or the car, or the bloodied axe, but the splintered mahogany door, opening to an elevated plane of indulgence that you’ll never attain again. THE END

“Okay,” you say, “we’ll <a href="https://clickhole.com/7-female-ceos-who-inspire-us-all-to-be-cogs-in-the-capi-1825121158/" target="_blank">join you</a>. Just”—you grimace in pain—“please, take me to the hospital.” Your wife looks at you in shock. You think you see disgust mar her beautiful features, but you must be mistaken. Mr. Page snaps his fingers, and a hunched man—dressed as waitstaff—rushes forward. He extricates you from your wife’s arms. You cry as the movement pulls at the blade in your shoulder. Unlike your wife, he’s not gentle. Each step is another wave of agony. Blackness crowds your vision. When the world fades back into place, you’re supine on a stretcher. Harried medical professionals obscure your view of the sky. You lift your head, searching for your wife. You find her on the outskirts of the crowd. She’s standing beneath the rustling saffron leaves, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face, as ashen as the pale birch trees, looks stricken. She tenses when your eyes land on her; she knows you’re watching. But she won’t meet your gaze. THE END

Your eyes meet your wife’s. You read the silent messages in her stricken face: *I love you*, and *I’m sorry*, and, *It has to be done*. Or maybe those thoughts are yours; you hope, desperately, your wife will recognize them in the movement of your eyes. You kiss her—one last time. Then, you pull the knife from your pulsing shoulder and slit the rich man’s throat. THE END

Your wife turns the brass doorknob. It’s locked. She digs through her pocket, then pulls out the cabin's key. You grab her arm. “I think that’s the groundskeeper's shed,” you whisper, your eyes darting from the locked door to the pair of muddy work boots on the floor in front of it. “You probably shouldn’t try to open it.” She shakes her head. “No, that’s farther up, closer to the front of the cabin.” You shrug, releasing her arm. “You’re the architect. Just know I’m blaming you if that creep finds out we tried getting into his shack.” She rolls her eyes, then jams the key into the lock. It doesn’t turn. You leave the [[back room]] and continue to [[look around]] the cabin.