Silenced

J. M. McAllister

The first light of the morning brought with it a day full of potential and hope. The sun sparkled on the chain of peaks that formed the cirque, high above the cabin. A near spotless sky hovered over a canopy of evergreen with white highlights from the last snow of the winter. Sloped mountain faces watched one another with a quiet content and critiqued each others beards of frost and foliage. Light peaked over the snow covered horns and reflected off the lake at the base of the undulating terrain. Its calm waters glistened at the serene surroundings, static and oblivious to the events that shaped them. The winters have an appeal all to themselves: snow falling gently, smoke from chimneys and the smell of fire burning day and night. The first few weeks of the season are always enjoyable, despite the leafless trees, the cold weather and the lack of sunshine. It is a peaceful sleep, a nap for nature, the cannibalistic mother of all life. It is the head of the eternally selfconsuming serpent. But the cold always outstays its welcome; room must be made for growth. The crop must be harvested, the buds must break and the blooms must follow to celebrate the death of winter, the death of death, and an end to the dormant stage of life. A diesel generator hummed a lonely tune in the old cellar. Upstairs the scent of burned wick remained from the extinguished candles. The bed was unmade and, as always, the grandfather clock in the den had out-tocked the cabins most recent resident. A book was on the floor next to a couch. It had no physical memory of the last page read. No crease remained; the reader hadnt had time for a dog-ear or a bookmark. The pages of the night before had been turned. The chapter was over. The gentlemen buried alive next to the generator breathed his last while the engine shuddered and slept beside him.

When Bernard arrived he was confused. As a critic for the Digslund News hed been sent to all sorts of restaurants, movie theatres and sad excuses for resorts but never anything like this. It was, well, indescribably indescribable. He was speechless. Maybe all those years of hard work were finally paying off. He never expected any rewards but something other than a bottom-of-the-barrel health plan would have been nice. He counted his blessing and imagined what he would be doing at home on that Saturday afternoon, alone in his apartment, if he hadnt taken this trek into the Rockies. The cable had

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been cancelled the prior month, seventy-five dollars was just too much to justify, so he most likely would've been watching "Death with a Curse V" or whatever 70's action-thriller movie featuring a moustache-wielding cop on the edge was on. Whoever's idea it was to send him to this charming and secluded little getaway in the mountains, he definitely owed them a favor. But what if it was an excuse to get him out of the office so they could interview potential replacements for his job? Or what if this was a substitution for a paycheck or this year's Christmas bonus? What if hed signed away his rent money by coming here? He searched for memories of paperwork he might have signed. None came to mind. The only thing hed received was a letter in the mail from his boss. Take some time off, head up to the cabin at this address on Mount Hesperus and write a small piece on it. And get some rest. Hed been too eager to accept. The hustle and bustle of work had ruffled his focus lately and the frustration was reflected in his work through the abnormal amount of lower-thanaverage reviews hed given. But it wasnt impossible that every movie hed seen that year was a C- or worse, it wasn't inconceivable that every restaurant hed eaten at had served him dogfood, and it was definitely more than likely that the resort hed been sent to had broken down, dilapidated buildings with a unique and foul smell in each room. This cabin was different. How could they afford this? Thanks to the Internet, newspaper reviews were in little demand. His bank account could attest to that. Hed been behind on rent the last four months and had opted to skip lunch, rather than settle for the cup of dehydrated noodles and vegetables he could afford. As unhappy as he was hed rather be in his position than someone higher up the ladder, faced with decisions like whether or not to close shop and/or declare bankruptcy. Or worse, he could be the man swinging the axe. The first set of layoffs had taken a heavy toll on the entire office. By the third go-around his supervisor was so calloused he sent out a template letter to each employee getting canned. Dear [employee name]: We regret to inform you that [you are about to hit rock bottom]. Thank you for your hard work, [but no thanks]. Times like these can be difficult but people often end up with higher paying positions [or settling for unemployment checks and

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eating casseroles made from potato chips, ranch dressing and hot dogs]. We wish you all the best in your next career path. Every ending is a new beginning. Please sign below [to ensure that you wont sue us]. The letters Bernard received were different, but no less facsimiled. Due to your superior quality of work and record of professionalism, you are offered the opportunity to take on the responsibilities of [the poor schmuck on the other side of the cubicle]. This promotion comes with the possibility of [zero pay increase] and [longer hours]. Please sign below if you wish to [continue to waste your life at a dead end job, but what are your other options?] His original position, strictly as a restaurant critic, had now expanded to include reviews of other venues. He was one of the few to survive the layoffs, even though sometimes he wished he hadn't been. The last resort he'd reviewed had mismatched tile in the bathroom, peeling wallpaper and water damage on the ceiling and walls. Hed heard shuffling noises at night but was too afraid of what hed see if he turned on the light. His boss had strictly warned him about reporting on infestations. "You write opinion articles, you are not an inspector. You can say theyre dirty, but not infested. Youre not qualified for that." He hadnt been sure he would be able to keep that promise, had he turned on the light. If it was in or next to a strip mall or had a parking meter in front, he'd been assigned to review it. If you could write a review just by smelling the place in question, he'd written 750 words about it. If it was an all-expenses-included weekend getaway to a resort or restaurant higher than three stars he was more likely to win the lottery than get assigned to it. The scratchers in the floor of his 1995 Neon could attest to that. The sad thing was that the annual cost of the scratchers could've paid for a week at Vegas or a months rent. He knew this for a fact, but the bitter pill he swallowed every day of returning to a job he loathed required some sort of wishful thinking. Lottery tickets were his faith in the unknown, his light at the end of a dark tunnel, a leap of faith, a brief belief in the god of the First Church of Scratchers. The fact is that criticizing is all he'd ever been good at. Hed grown up with an overbearing mother and her husband, Jacob. Jacob hadnt abused Bernard, but he had an unfortunate disability that required him to attend the race track weekly and lose every dime on

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a sure thing. His spending habits had forced them into a nomadic lifestyle and left Bernard with bitter childhood memories of evictions and moving from one sketchy neighborhood to another. Hed learned that if it was too good to be true, give it time. Nothing lasts forever. Even his boss Mike, of all people, would ask him to tone it down every once in a while. "I know it's what you're paid for but for the love of God, pull the stick out," Mike would say. Tension at work had gotten so bad that he'd seen a job advertisement for his position on an online career site and for less money. Bernard begrudgingly changed his tone and bit his lip for a few weeks until things calmed down but he made himself a promise to get out of that dump as soon as he had time to put together a decent portfolio. In the meantime hed flooded their resume folder with false identities inspired by his favorite musicians. He wondered if Mike had ever called the number for the Regal and asked for Travis Wilderberry, or if theyd ever mailed a letter to a Mr. Bachman in the town of Turner, Kansas, on Overdrive Road. So why would Mike send him to this beautiful cabin in the Rockies? It wasn't normal for Mike to just give away vacations, especially paid ones, even if he was expected to write a piece on the place. Small patches of dark clouds perched on the distant mountaintops and threatened a late winter storm. His mother used to tell him that clouds were Gods mops and sponges and a little rain, thunder and lightning were nothing to be afraid of. The thunder came when an angel spilled a bucket and the lightning was... well he couldn't remember what the lightning was supposed to be. She'd passed over two decades ago and he hadn't heard any of her tales in even longer. But a place never looks better than after a slow, steady rain, so maybe his mother had the right of things and the clouds aren't so different from mops after all. It was a conflicting day; bright but shadows draped every feature, warm and pleasant but unseasonal for early March. Cloudy remnants of winter sat on the jagged horizon and threatened a frigid return. The sun hung between the two hemispheres. The clouds to the west sopped up the rich, golden flow while the eastern half basked in light. The diving rays cast through the vernal canopy camouflaged the cabin and its surroundings in a dappled canvas of sun and shade. A porch in front, with wooden rails and finished with a dark stain, wrapped to the right along the western side of the house. Dual-pane windows in the front, similar to the ones recently installed at his office, balanced the cabin's look somewhere between a classic and

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modern style. That would definitely go in his review. A first draft of his work began to form in his mind: Looking for a beautiful, quiet place to spend the weekend and reduce your carbon footprint while being murdered by inbred mountain men? The trouble with giving reviews was it was too easy to write about the bad. Finding flaws, it was Bernards blessing and curse. The editors always sent his first few drafts back, asking for more balance. He fought it at first but realized they were right. A review shouldnt be a hit-piece. It shouldnt sound like it was written by a competitor. It should be about the experience as a whole. He exited the car to see the space in the back. Tall spruces, firs and pines stood watch at the corners of the cabin and a row of them lined the back side of the house for shade in warm summer days. Scattered around were more firs, grand cottonwoods and bushy junipers. He almost hoped for the roads and bridges wash out, it would mean more time for him in paradise, then his instincts kicked in and he wondered what horrors waited for him inside. If he was assigned to it, there had to be something wrong. A grandfather clock chimed twelve as he entered and set his bags down. It had been years since he'd seen one and the tolling startled him at first but he found it appealing in a nostalgic way. The darkness of the exterior made the cabin seem smaller than it was which set Bernard up for a pleasant surprise once inside. Eggshell walls, light wooden panes and ceilingto-floor windows filled the interior. He'd expected cobwebs, vermin and possibly a cannibal or two, torturing their latest victim in the den. But no, everything inside was just as pleasant as the outside. Directly in front of him was the main dividing wall of the house, decorated with pictureless frames and featured by a stained brick fireplace and mantle. Modern styled candelabras and candlesticks were scattered around every room he could see from the entry. These remote locations, while lulling, always carried an intrinsic and passive sense of danger. If a storm were to come he could be isolated from food, power, water, anything, for weeks. He knew this was too good to be true. Odds were that the first decent gust of wind would snap the only power line for dozens of square miles and he'd spend the rest of the week drinking bottled water and

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using a bucket as a toilet. Within his mind the quaint little cottage became a Thomas Kinkade torture chamber. He couldn't stop imagining himself groping around in the dark for matches or a can of gasoline to start the generator, if there was one. It was easier to imagine the den full of guests sipping beverages and laughing than it was to see it empty. A single step on all four sides of a recessed space led down to couches, a loveseat and two recliners that surrounded a glass-top table. It looked like a wonderful spot for a game of charades with friends, the type he'd always imagined having as a child until life had taken an unexpected and unwanted direction. He wanted nothing more than to share it with his closest friends. God he missed them. It had been, what, six years? Six years since he'd moved away for a job he wanted so much then but so little now. But no one else was coming. He didn't doubt they'd love to join him but all his friends lived too far away to travel the distance on such a late notice. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to write a review of something designed for a group without being part of one. A 52 flat-panel hung on the northern wall behind one of the couches. To either side of the television were the ceiling-to-floor windows which looked out the front. On the opposing wall, behind the other couch, was the fireplace. At the western side, where he stood, were the recliners. Opposing them was a loveseat and beyond that was a dining room and chairs around a table too large to fit in the bedroom of Bernards apartment. Past the dining area was an entrance to a hallway that led to the bedrooms and two bathrooms, one at the end of each side, perfect for a Bed and Breakfast. But if this was a Bed and Breakfast, how was he supposed to write a review of it without service? Were they in their off-season? Was he to write a piece on the location, the architecture, cleanliness, all of the above? He continued down the hallway to inspect each room and discovered which beds were too big, too small or just right. The kitchen itself was fully equipped with black and stainless steel appliances: a refrigerator with ice dispenser, sink with detachable hose, gas oven and range and an island in the center. The cookware hung above the island, untouched for who knows how long, but not a speck of dust to be seen. The windows, on the same wall as the back door, offered a view of the lake behind the cabin. It was the perfect place to spend the morning with a cup of coffee or

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a late evening watching the sky dim from cyan to the midnight blues that end every day. He took a ladle down and tapped a wok, then a sauce pan and let them ring into silence. He'd always loved the quiet; things that made noise were annoying, more often than not, including people, including people he knew, especially coworkers. After enjoying the silence for another minute he went to familiarize himself with the light switches, remotes and thermostat. To his annoyance, few of the switches turned on lights in the rooms which they were installed. Instead, the two-gang in the living room operated the kitchen fluorescents and the one-gangs in the kitchen turned on the back and side porch lights. He wondered what madman had substituted the traditional way of wiring a building with this. He himself had never once felt agitated because the switches were in the same room as the lights they operated; and if he hadn't complained about it that said something. The most annoying part was, if you were to come into the living room or kitchen from the wrong entrance you had to go all the way to the opposite side to turn on a light. It was as if each room in the cabin was designed for someone to enter but not exit. The inanity of it lingered in his mind as he returned to the kitchen. To his delight, the fridge was fully stocked. Tenderloins, sirloins, pork loins, all the loins a straight man could ever ask for were there for the taking. The crisper was full of vegetables he had no idea what to do with but luckily there were a few frozen meals for the culinary-impaired. And, in case he did feel the need to experiment, a copy of Cooking for Nitwits sat in the pantry. But first thing was first, he needed a shower and shave. He'd been up before dawn and skipped some of his usual morning prep-work to allow more time for the drive. Most of the highways were two-lane and hed spent more time staring at the license plates of 18 wheelers than the scenery. He appreciated the shapely silhouettes on the mud-flaps, but even an hourglass figure can get old after thirty-five miles of winding mountain road. The shower was too good to be true. Large enough for a queen-sized bed, covered with cinnamon and cream swirled tile and the floor was clean enough to eat off, it made his apartment's pale in comparison. His had a creaky base and an inconsistent temperature that would chill, then scald, then chill him again every morning.

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The only complaint he had here was the lack of ventilation, which caused the glass doors to fog before he even entered the shower. No matter how much he wiped the mirror it wouldnt stay clear. He went to open the door and air the room out but found it ajar already. Did he leave it open? How did it get so clouded if the door was open the entire time? He swung it back and forth a few times until the room had somewhat cleared then gave the mirror another wipe. It wiped clean this time but it bounced open to reveal a medicine cabinet with a comb and straight razor shaving kit inside. He'd just added one to his online shopping wish list the week before, the one he had no one to share with and kept in vain. He'd always wanted to experience an old fashioned shave, the kind with a hot towel wrapped around your face and a cigar poking out. The kitchen, the lake, the furniture and now this; it was like the cabin had been designed specifically for him. Why not? Whats the worst that could happen, a little nick on the cheek? He frothed the soap and dabbed the lather on his cheeks, chin and neck with the brush and took a moment to admire his old fashioned handiwork in the mirror. He shouldve been a barber. He wouldve enjoyed that, as long as he didnt have to work in a salon full of gossip, perms and hairspray. Cautiously he scraped his face with the cold steel. Each pass of the blade gave a sense of hair-raising danger but left a smooth satisfaction. He took the last swipe and stared at his scruff-less face. It was refreshing but something about the thought of it all upset him. Something about the reaping, the removal of the old to make way for the new, it felt condemning. The grandfather clock in the den chimed twice. Was it already two oclock? Time passed so fast in these mountains. He wiped his face clean and rinsed the razor, then saw a deep red stain on the blade. Apparently he had cut himself, but couldnt find a mark on his face. He rinsed the blade more and the blood began to chip. It had already dried, it couldn't have been his. The thought of someone elses DNA touching his skin filled him with disgust as he packed up the kit and dressed. With only a few hours of daylight left Bernard decided to take a tour of the property. On his way to the lake he spotted a trail to the west and detoured. It wasnt a smooth path but

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it was clear. The birds provided a pleasant ambience as he went. He mocked their songs with a whistle as he trod along the path. One of them, which sounded like another person, returned his whistle several times. The path took him to a precipice which provided a picturesque view of the lake. He walked to the edge of the protrusion to see a rocky shoreline below. With the sun still out he could see the shallow rocks under the waves but at night it could be a fatal plunge for any gambling cliff diver. He breathed a deep farewell to the precipice and let the fresh air settle in his lungs before he returned to the path. A little further, Bernard convinced himself, is all he would go. The day had turned into quite a nice one but could be ruined by an ankle rolled in the dark. The path descended to the shore where a bird pecked at something: a shoe wedged between the rocks. It was large enough for a full-grown man, not an expensive brand, and cleaner than it shouldve been considering the elements it was exposed to. He de-wedged the shoe and courteously placed it on top of a tall rock, visible to anyone in the immediate area, in the event the owner returned to retrieve it. Satisfied with his good deed for the day, he decided to let his inner child out and play a little. He walked closer to the water, picked up a smooth, oval stone and skimmed it with a side-arm. Bernard paced down the rocky shore and back up again several times as he searched for more elliptical projectiles, molded by the kneading waves of the lake and returned them to their aquatic home one toss at a time. He could have continued all night but for the soreness in his shoulder. As he rotated his arm and stretched out the underused muscles dj vu hit Bernard. That shore, that exact spot, it looked so familiar but he was sure hed never been there. The shape of the shore line, the color of the rocks and the profile of the tree lines, even the color of the sky itself, hed seen it before. It had to be a coincidence, some memory from his childhood assimilated to his current surroundings. As he spun in a slow circle to observe the landscape behind him he saw the reason why. The precipice hed been on earlier was just above him. The path had looped back towards the cabin as it dropped. By line of sight, the crag was only three, maybe four-hundred yards away from the cabins clearing. He couldnt believe he hadnt seen

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it while he was up there. He wanted to return to the precipice and take another look for consistency's sake but the light was fading and his stomach growled, he still hadn't eaten lunch. He checked his phone for the time, which, because of the lack of coverage, was little more than a digital clock at this point, as he entered through the back door but he was beaten to the punch by the first of six chimes that came from the grandfather clock in the den. He couldnt believe it was so late already. Had he really spent the last three hours outside? It was dusk, so it made sense, but it was still hard to believe. As his Manly-Meal frozen dinner rotated in the microwave Bernard peeled an apple over the sink with a butchers knife and attempted to get all the skin off in one piece. He could hear his mother in his head, "You'll cut your finger off with that! Use a butter knife!" His mother cut everything; meat, vegetables, bread, if it was softer than metal and edible she'd given it a slice with a butter-knife. Bernard overcompensated for this in his own life by using the sharpest knife available, no matter what he was cutting. He'd nicked himself a few times, but four stitches on his left index finger was the most damage he'd ever done. Thirty seconds into peeling the fuji he'd already failed. He dropped the peels in the sink and flipped what he thought was the garbage disposal switch but instead turned on the light above the sink to reveal a figure, a dark figure, just on the other side of the glass, caught in mid motion as it ran from the exposure and back into the early night. It had been looking right at him, inches away and separated by millimeters of glass, watching his every move, intrigued by the knife he used to peel the skin off the apple, possibly wishing to do the same to Bernard. His heart sank into his stomach and his skin tingled with cold chills. Beads of sweat formed on his face as heat rapidly returned to his body. He didnt dare move. He wasnt sure he could. He held his breath, trying to make as little noise as possible. His heart skipped beats. It, along with every other part of him, was stunned beyond response. He exhaled when his cardio-vascular system kicked in to overdrive and his chest pumped solid, heavy thuds. Every ounce of blood in his system surged with each beat. He wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs as he heard the sound of boots digging into gravel at a rapid pace. CRUNCH, CRUNCH, Crunch, Crunch, crunch, crunch....

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The microwave beeped as he stood there, terrified by what had just happened. What was he doing out there? The conspicuous entity was gone before he could commit a definite shape to memory. All he had was a flash of grey, like a mouse caught in the middle of the night. A mouse that was larger than Bernard, watching him from the shadows. A big, hairy rat with claws longer than Bernard's fingers and teeth as sharp as the knife used to peel the apple. If giant mice liked apples this one could've taken it from him by force. If giant mice didn't like apples, if they liked flesh, what good would a knife do him if he couldn't even peel an apple with it? He looked to the kitchen door and saw it was unlocked. The stranger could've entered at any time, Bernard realized as he fell backwards against the island. He watched the doors and windows to make sure the thudding noise was his heart and not the pounding of a madman trying to get in. He picked the knife up off the floor - he didnt even remember dropping it - and side-shuffled to the unlocked kitchen door, steel tip first, with a front foot sliding ahead to block the door in the event it unexpectedly flew open and a homicidal lunatic lunged at him. His hand shook so badly the knife nearly vibrated out of his grip. He locked the door and looked back to the window but saw nothing. The front door was closed and locked. As far as he knew those were the only two entrances. He hoped to God that was the truth. He tried to remember exactly what it was he'd seen. He was sure-pretty sure-it was a person. It had to be; nothing else that size wouldve reacted that way to a light. No skin had been visible, not that he could tell. The clothes, they were long and dark and had a dusty layer, like the stuff cowboys wear in movies. The head was misshaped like it wore a hood or a hat. He hadn't seen a face, he was positive of that much but his mind imagined a face for the stranger: dark, bushy brows over big bloodshot eyes, opened so wide they betrayed thoughts of violent fantasies. Something else came to him. A stick- whoever it was had a stick... or a rifle. A lump formed in his throat and his mouth dried. He tried to swallow but it was difficult, like the time he was in the cracker eating contest as a teenager. What if they did have a gun? Why hadn't they used it? Wouldn't they have used it if they were going to? The thought did little to ease his mind. Bernard was stout but not a large person. If he were attacked he didn't believe his size would be enough to save him. And hed been so shaken by

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the surprise that even if hed been given a chance to fight back he wouldnt have been able to muster the courage for it. The snowflake covered cardigan and khakis he wore wouldnt have exactly put the fear of god into the mind of his attacker either. His adrenaline faded. The pots and pans swayed above the island as if theyd been startled themselves and were attempting to flee. He mustve hit them when he backed up. Bernard leaned back on the refrigerator; the coolness shocked but comforted his nerves. He pressed the back of his neck against it and allowed more heat to dissipate then slid down to the floor as the cookware continued its disorderly dance.

An hour later the local sheriff spoke with Bernard inside as his deputy explored the exterior. The 511, brown-haired, green-eyed sheriff had one of those faces you've seen a thousand times, a face more symmetrical than most and memorable because of how indistinguishable it was. Bernard tried to recall who it was he reminded him of. "Well, they didn't stay long, whoever it was," the sheriff said. "Looks like they made one trip to the side of the house then doubled back." "How can you tell?" Bernard asked. "Foot prints over by the side. Martin's making an extra lap to make sure there's nobody in the bushes." Martin, the deputy, was not one for acquaintances. The two had arrived in the same car, but the sheriff was the only one to come to the door. Martin exited the vehicle and immediately began to inspect the property, pacing back and forth with his face to the ground like a bloodhound. "I was over there earlier today. What if they're mine? And what if they come back? He asked. "My guess is once they saw someone was here they tried to get away unnoticed. Then you turned the light on." "But what if they come back?" "You're not too good at reading between the lines, are you? You scared them off, you called us, and Martin's got to spend the rest of the night patrolling the area."

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I hate when people have to do their job, Bernard thought. "Why were they standing outside the window?" Bernard asked after taking a moment to swallow his pride. "Hard to say." "Do you have a guess?" The sheriff took another look around the cabin. "That flat screen is pretty nice. It may have drawn someone's attention, may have been someone trying to siphon gas from the generator." "They would walk this far to steal gas? Wait, there's a generator?" "Yeah, in a basement underneath the house. Owners got tired of using kerosene and candles I suppose." Its a cellar, they heard Martin say from outside. The sheriff shook his head. "Owners? So people usually live here?" Bernard asked. "People stay here, sometimes." "Like a timeshare? I'm sorry, I wasn't given much information about this place before I got here," Bernard said. "I was just given an address and told to do my thing." "Haha, a timeshare, you could call it that but this is more of a home away from home. It's where people go sometimes to get some rest, or where they're sent." "Sent?" "Yeah." "Sent for what?" "Never bothered to ask, none of my business," the sheriff said as he pushed the screen door open and walked out. "Its none of your business? Bernard asked as the sheriff he crossed the threshold. You have people lurking around other people's property at night. These are Peeping Toms, at best, and you can't be bothered to know what it is that people are sent here for?" The sheriff stopped and turned his head. "Okay," the sheriff said as he rotated his shoulders towards Bernard. "What are you here for, Bernard?"

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"I write for the Digslund paper." "What?" "I write... reviews." He answered with a less than confident tone. The sheriffs lip curled. "You're a critic," the sheriff said. Bernard couldn't believe, after the night hed had, that he was now being insulted by law enforcement. "Yeah, and people read my articles. There aren't many people that want to spend their vacation in a place full of creeps and a sheriff that cant be bothered to make it his business." It was over the line, Bernard knew before the sheriff about-faced and stepped back up onto the porch. The lawmans right foot, a size 12 waffle stomper, dropped solidly on one of the porchs 2x8s. The impact traveled to Bernard, who happened to be standing on the same board, and he felt its quake from toe to head. The sheriff placed his right forearm on the hiked leg and stared for a moment, then pushed off his thigh and straightened. His back heel lifted and moved forward, as if for another step, but instead he leaned towards Bernard, close enough to shake hands. "Maybe he was watching because he wants to write a review," he whispered as Bernard literally waited for the other shoe to drop. Bernard swallowed the dry insult and broke eye contact with the sheriff. He watched with indignation as the badged man returned to his Crown Victoria. "My recommendation, Bernard, the sheriff said as he opened his door, is you go back inside, take a nice hot shower and calm down. I know youre scared but we take care of the troublemakers around here, dont worry about it. And remember to keep the generator fueled, just in case," he added with a smile that was so stooped it went beyond condescending. Why would the sheriff patronize him? This wouldn't go unnoticed. Not by him or the paper he worked for. Sheriffs have to be elected, and he was going to use every bit of influence he had to make sure this hillbilly spent his retirement warning his grandchildren about the consequences of being an inconsiderate turd. The sheriff hollered for his deputy to return and Bernard could hear Martin begin his heavy-footed sprint from the back yard. His eyes squinted when the headlights turned on and

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he returned inside as the brightness passed through the cabins open front door. It transformed the interior into a demarcated landscape of shadow and light. A clear line of sight allowed the light passage into the kitchen and out the kitchens windows, including the window near the sink as Martin passed by and Bernard recognized a dark and familiar form. It was the same, but smaller and the brim of his hat, his figure as a whole, they were more apparent. The shape of the body, the movement of the arms, within his memory they unlocked a clearer version of what it was he'd seen earlier that night. The plot lines of a hundred movies hed reviewed ran through his head. Every one of them involved a small town and a psychopathic killer with a badge. But in those movies the twist isnt revealed until the end. Surely if these two were killers he wouldnt have found out already. Then again, this wasnt a movie. The idea of being precognitive of his fate was more than unsettling. If it were true, hed rather not know than spend the next few hours as a mouse in the paws of a cat. Bernard watched them idle all the way down the gravel road to the highway. Once they were gone he turned on every light inside and outside the cabin. Could it have been Martin, a deputy, an officer of the law, spying on him? Are deputies officers? Tangent. Was the sheriff involved? Is that why he was so quick to dismiss everything? Were they just toying with him or did they really want to harm him? But if they wanted to harm him why hadnt they gone ahead and done it? Because, you called their station and now there's a paper trail. They were obliged to come, and it would've looked suspicious even though they could've just said you were dead on arrival but they couldn't do that because... because... Because you're acting like a lunatic, you're new in town and you're fine. A stranger shows up, screams at them over the phone that a man is outside his cabin, then accuses them of not doing their job because they aren't having panic attacks like you were-like you are. And the shadow looked familiar because all shadows look the same, especially ones that wear hats. If you don't want to stay, leave... but you need the money. His inner critic continued to banter him into submission, reminding him of his financial setbacks. But if he was going to stay he couldn't just go to bed.

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Bernard woke the next morning to the wreck his fear had fabricated the night before. As he held the knife in his right hand and a cordless phone in his left he lifted himself off the floor of the hallway hed slept in. Thankfully he hadn't flinched in his sleep and accidentally opened an artery or hit redial. The sheriff wouldn't have enjoyed making another trip in the middle of the night to find Bernard bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. The doors and windows were barricaded with furniture. He'd left one of the floor-to-ceiling windows partially unobstructed so he could see outside from the hallway. The dining chairs and television blocked the other one. Bernard felt refreshed but absurd. He was relieved that hed made it through the night, but ashamed of the mess he faced; admissible evidence of severe paranoia and possible schizophrenia. He'd stayed so he could write his review and get paid for his 1500 words, it hadn't occurred to him he could've left and written the piece based on his first impression, which wasn't bad comparatively speaking. But there was a slim chance he'd be able to write anything without the words "butcher knife" or "911" making their way into the piece. Then again, he was fine. It was an odd sensation, like when you jump into the pool for the first time as a child and realize there's nothing to fear, unless you can't swim, of course. Bernard spent the early a.m. hours repositioning the furniture but something on the front porch caught his eye as he walked past the windows. He nearly retreated back into a state of hyper-paranoia but mentally stopped himself before he got to that point. He walked out the front door, scanned the perimeter and saw nothing but tranquility, then reached down to grab the package. It was addressed to him, from the sheriff. The shape, weight and flexibility of the package gave away its contents; a paperback. It seemed safe, what harm could a book do? So he unwrapped it to reveal Dickens' The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain, a quick read, not one to last more than an afternoon, perfect for the remainder of his stay. After breakfast he went down to the shore where a slight movement caught his peripheral vision, just enough to hook the corner of his eye. There, out on the water, a boat drifted. Had it been there the yesterday? Who wouldve taken a boat out onto the water at this time of year? It had to be near freezing temperatures in the lake. And it held its place, drifting only a few feet in any direction as if it was anchored. Then he saw the rope, bobbing in

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and out of the water as the boat tugged at its leash, which was tied to a tree by the shore. He wandered down to the tree and ran his hand along the droop as he continued closer to the water. He grabbed the wet portion of the rope to test the temperature of the water and found it, like the air temperature, absurdly warm for the time of year and this time of day. It was comforting, it was nice. He boarded the boat with Dickens in hand and mulled over the word nice as he drifted and read about the tortured chemist. It was a generic term, one he usually avoided in his work, but at the moment he found it, like the book, the weather, and the water, nice. The boat drifted but the rope tethered him to shore. Hours later he neared completion of the story. The morning had come and gone, that page of the day had been turned; it was time to get some work done. While he pulled himself back to shore the ropes slack slipped from his fingers and, on impulse, Bernard reached for it, which caused the boat to tip and him to tumble head over heels into the lake. The warm water hed felt earlier had been replaced by a bitter cold. He screamed a lung-full of bubbles as a cluster of ice-cold fingers pinched his arms and legs. His lungs seized and his heart bobbed up into his throat as he lost his orientation. Bernard held his breath. He feared a single inhalation could drown him but he desperately wanted to extinguish the fire that burned in his lungs with the icy water. He sealed his eyes, afraid that if he opened them he would see only a dark, abysmal death. He abandoned the idea of swimming and curled up into a ball. Buoyancy was the only thing that could save him. Just as he felt he couldnt bear it anymore a cold creeped from the middle of his spine to the rest of his back. He craned his neck and felt his head emerge. Hed floated to the surface, thank goodness. To his relief, the boat and rope were inches from his face. He gripped the rope as he tried to find a way to get back in the boat without tipping it over, but nothing came to mind, so instead he used the rope to pull himself back to shallow water. The height of the waves went over his head and warmed his face with each crest but it was a taunting relief. With every trough the wind tortured his freshly wettened face with a biting chill.

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Once out of the water he shook uncontrollably. His perfect day had been ruined by a clumsy slip. To add to the disaster, the book was gone. It was in his hand when he reached for the rope and when he'd gone heels over head it had literally scared the Dickens out of him. Clouds had covered the sun while he was in the lake, which didn't help his hypothermic situation. He returned to the cabin at the fastest pace he could manage, barefoot over the rough terrain the lake had claimed his sandals, and disrobed when he entered the kitchen. The morning's sour turn embittered him, but a hot bath put his mind back in the comfort zone. He was determined to remedy the day by pampering himself. The water was hot, nearly scalding, and the greatest thing hed ever felt. His clothes washed while he soaked and tried to push what had just happened out of his mind. After the bath he searched the cupboards for something fast and filling. He wanted to be comforted. He wanted to be catered to. But there was no personal chef available, there was no waiter or staff to make his meal for him and the thought of preparing his own food knotted his stomach even more than it already was. He would have to settle for something prepackaged and manufactured, which he found in the pantry on the third shelf from the bottom. The beef and vegetable soup was hot, hearty, and surprisingly good. The empty can sat on the counter with broth running down the side as a monument to his lethargy. He lay on the couch and started a movie about a cowboy that returns to kill a gang of outlaws for murdering his wife. His eyes closed before she was avenged.

He woke in darkness. The television, the clocks; all of them were dead except the grandfather which continued to tick away. Dim halos of moonlight rimmed the edges of furniture. He felt his way across the room to the switches. None worked. After he found a flashlight and lit some candles Bernard made his way outside and to the plywood double-doors, which were padlocked and prevented access to the generator. Not long afterwards his bags were packed. This straw had broken the camel's proverbial back. Not a storm within sight, yet somehow the power had gone out. Generator or no, he was done. He gave the cabin one last angry stare as he got in the driver's seat then shook his head in disgust when the engine refused to turn over. Stuck there, in the dark, alone with no power

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or transportation, he took several deep breaths and evaluated the options that remained: stay until the power is restored or walk to the gas station down the road and find help. It wasn't that far, but would take at least an hour to get there. One of those choices meant he would sit and stew in his own frustration. The other at least gave him something to do and would keep him warm as the temperature dropped. His anger gave him a short-lived sense of invincibility as he made his way down the graveled corridor of firs, pines and redwoods. The driveway was not nearly as enticing in the dark, and the night was not nearly as warm. In daylight it looked like the road to grandmother's house. Now it was the same road, but after the big bad wolf had arrived. What big shadows it had. He could clearly envision Ichabod Crane running ahead in a panic, desperate to get across the bridge before the horseman caught up. Headless horsemen and big bad wolves might be fake but bears and mountain lions are real, too real for Bernard's liking (come to think of it, so are wolves). Bernard approached the double yellow lines but kept a safe distance from the right of way. He didn't want to end up as a corpse in a ditch, courtesy of a careless or night-blind motorist. Before hed finished the first mile a car approached from ahead. He tucked in his chin and put his hands in his pockets to suggest that he wasn't interested in a ride. The rest of the walk wasnt long and the station, hopefully, would be open to service late night travelers. The car slowed as it approached but passed. His back and neck were rigid as he moved at a lathering pace and thought of how funny he must've looked hustling down the road with his hands in his pockets. He pulled out his hands and wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Why was it so warm? A bend in the road, the halfway point between the turnoff and the station, came into view. Another fifteen, twenty minutes at most and he should be at the station. He checked, for the fourth time, to make sure he had his wallet. It was full of Visa, Mastercard, personal checks, and ten twenty dollar bills. At least he was prepared for something. He was within spitting distance of the bend when more headlights shone from behind. Was it the same car? He wouldn't find out, he decided as he moved off the shoulder of the road and into the skirt of weeds.

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The brakes lightly squeaked, the vehicle idled and he heard the window roll down. Need a lift? The driver asked from the dim interior. No thanks, Bernard answered without looking. Out of gas? Something like that. I really dont need any help. The Crown Victoria stopped in front of him and the door swung open. Get in Bernard," the sheriff said. Why had it taken him so long to recognize the voice? The two rode back in silence. It was a much longer, much more uncomfortable ride than it should have been. A dim light signaled the gravel road that led to the cabin. "It's not an easy road to see. Most people would miss it in the dark," Bernard said. "Yeah," the sheriff agreed. "People like to be left alone some times." "Ah, yes I can definitely understand that," Bernard said. "Yeah, I bet," the sheriff chuckled. Bernard didn't ask for an explanation. After they arrived at the cabin the sheriff led the way towards the cellar doors and pulled a key out from under the back porch. That wouldve been useful earlier, Bernard said. I tried to get down to the generator before I left. "Well, its tricky even if you can get to it. Plus I hear the owners keep it low on fuel," the sheriff said. "Why?" Bernard played along. He wasn't sure if it was a smart thing to ask, he couldn't get over the idea that the sheriff was playing with him, setting him up for some kind of practical joke. The sheriff looked at him with a cocked eyebrow and a crooked grin. "Make sure folks don't overstay their welcome." He watched the expression of confusion on Bernard's face, then laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "You're not so bad, Bernard. Better than the last one we had here."

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He was more than eager to accept the compliment as he followed. He needed the ice breaker. "Thanks. So I guess the last guy must've been a real tool, huh?" "Oh, you wouldn't believe the attitude on that one. I came across him down the road, but in the opposite direction, throwing a tantrum as he went. He didn't want a ride at first, either. You should've seen his face when I told him the station was in the opposite direction. I thought the kid was gonna pop a vein." "Did the power go out on him too?" Yeah, the utilities are old up here. And let me guess, there was a problem with the generator. "Uh-huh, I told you they keep it low on fuel," he replied as he swung the doors open. "You'd think they'd leave a little more." "Well, that's their business. I've never asked them why exactly; don't plan on it. Not a crime to keep your generator under-fueled." "It's not polite," Bernard said as the sheriff took his first step down. The wooden steps were old and rotted, but embedded in the ground so they were sturdy. It took the sheriff a few moments to find the gas lantern hanging overhead and light it. The warm orb of light vaguely revealed the rooms dimensions, but its actual depth remained within the shadows. The sheriff yanked a starter cord and the generator turned over. There we go, now on to business, the sheriff said as the overhead incandescent bulbs lit up the subterranean room. It was supported by wooden frames and the generator was tucked away in a space carved out of the earth. The power cable from the generator went down an unlit hallway that appeared to go underneath the cabin. In the center of the room was a mound of dirt with a shovel planted in it. Next to that was a hole large enough to lie in. Whats that? That? The sheriff asked innocently. He grabbed the handle of the shovel. Youve seen it plenty of times. Ive never seen this. Ive never been down here.

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Well, I don't doubt thats true in a way, but I'm sure you have seen it, you just dont remember because I kill you every time and bury you in it. Bernard didnt think it was funny but started to smile anyways and waited for the sheriff to laugh, but it never came. Neither one of them spoke or moved as the sheriff watched Bernards reaction. Flight instinct kicked in and Bernard found himself inching toward the hallway that went under the house. I wouldnt go that way, said the sheriff. Last time you went that way I drowned you in the toilet. I really thought youd remember that. He pulled the shovel out of the ground. Bernard looked up the steps and wanted to run but saw Martin blocking the way. Something hit Bernard in the knees and he screamed as he buckled to the ground. The sheriff stood over him with the shovel in both hands and followed up with a downward smash to Bernards back that knocked the wind out of him. His arms folded back in chicken wings as he rolled to his back, only to take another shot in the bread basket. He rolled to his side and vomited, then tried to crawl away but was grabbed by the ankles, drug through the dirt and rolled to his back again. He gasped and choked from shock and pain as he held his arms up in defense but they did him little good; the spade landed again and his right wrist popped out. Bernard screamed so loud and long both the sheriff and Martin covered their ears. Another swat landed. Two more quick shots followed, both to the head, as far as he could tell. A numbing sensation went through Bernard and he was grateful when the pain began to fade, but he still struggled to breathe. Gonna move anymore?" The sheriff asked. "Good, it goes faster if you stay still." The sheriff went down to a knee next to Bernard and gently held his bloody hand as Martin tossed dirt out of the grave. I was hoping the broken ribs would keep you from making that noise this time. I dont mean to be cold but its an ear-piercing sound. Bernard felt lightheaded and disconnected from his body as he lay at the cusp of consciousness. His head felt swollen and warm. A fuzzy black rim surrounded his vision and little dark dots floated through the room, then something filled one of his eyes and a tickle trailed down his cheek. As the sheriff spoke his voice was muffled, like Bernard was listening to his neighbors have a conversation he wasn't supposed to hear through the bedroom wall at his

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apartment. Martins digging sounded like swishes underwater and Bernard felt like a he was back in the lake, floating to the top but this time the water was warm and comforting, like the first day of Spring. "Now, when the time comes, if you still feel anything, I mean anything, if you can wiggle your toes, just let me know and I'll end it for you quick. You understand?" Bernard did, as far as he could tell, but he couldn't and didnt want to respond. He couldnt move. He couldnt speak. He couldnt blink. He couldnt breathe. He coughed and something dark flew out of his mouth. "Hmm..." the sheriff said as he looked Bernard in the eyes and gripped his hand like he was a dying soldier on the battlefield, as if he wished there was something he could do to save the life of his fallen brother. I've been doing this so long," the sheriff said with a hint of remorse, "I'm at the point where I try to get you to do most of the work. Hence the generator, the power outage, the car problems, etcetera." The sheriff hummed a tune Bernard thought he knew but couldn't name. "That was Martin last night," the sheriff admitted as he waved a blurry hand in front of Bernard's face. "I sent him over to check on things. The boy got cocky and tried to see how close he could get without being seen. You know how young guys are, everything's a competition but nothing's taken seriously. I used to be the same way. I used to have fun with this. You wouldn't believe the stuff I've got in my closet. You ever seen a two-thousand dollar Bigfoot costume? Skeptic or not, you see somebody wearing one of those at night and you believe and the look on your face, faces, when you'd see me in that thing, almost priceless. But the dry cleaning ended up costing more than the suit." "Anyways, once Martin came on board it made me realize how old I was, made me angry at myself. I'd become calloused; the pendulum had swung from one side to the other to put it metaphorically. Instead of running around in masks, banging on windows, I'd just wait for you to go to bed and slip a bag over your head. But I realized I couldn't just suffocate a complete stranger and bury them in a shallow grave. It's not right. Plus, I don't know if you're aware of this, but the human body makes one last donation to mother nature after it goes cold, in your case sometimes before. That was just another mess to clean up."

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The sheriff released Bernards hand and went down the hallway, then returned with the butcher knife. Remember this? I killed you with this the very first time we met. I was a young pup, eager to prove my worth. God I was nervous. You reached out to shake my hand and I stuck this right in your bread basket then slit your throat. The sheriff poked the tip of his finger with the blade." One time, the sheriff said with a nostalgic and regretful tone, I just shot you in the back of the head. You never saw it coming. I slept better that night than, well, in a long time. It may be pointless for me to tell you all this, since you never seem to remember, but Id like to think some day itll be worth the effort and you wont even show up, which means I wont have to kill you. He stood and delivered another blow to Bernards face, which turned Bernards head towards the sheriff. It felt like someone had lightly tapped him with a pillow. Didnt feel that one did you? Good. I try not to leave you in pain. Looks like youre ready. Martin and the sheriff placed Bernard's limp body on a tarp and the two of them rolled up Bernard. He heard a dragging sound followed by a thud and he thought he felt his legs move. Gentle splashing sounds carried him to the threshold of a dream but he was still aware of everything the sheriff said. It all made perfect nonsense. "I'm gonna tell you a secret I havent told any of your other yous before. Its just us here. There's no one at the gas station. Theres no one you can call to help. This is going to keep happening. Ill keep killing you, and you'll die but you, or some version of you, will be back soon and, unfortunately, you probably won't remember any of this. So next time you come here, on vacation or something, just turn around and leave or Im going to murder and bury you in this basement." "Cellar," Martin said. "Well, either me or Martin. But please try to remember this time. Bernard died painlessly from asphyxiation minutes later.

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The next morning Tim woke and got ready for another day of work as a city inspector. A shower and a shave sent him on his way, as usual. He got to work thirty minutes early, as usual, checked the break room for donuts and poured his first cup of coffee, as usual. He sat at his desk and went over the stack of paperwork. He took pride in his work as an inspector. He didnt feel ashamed that he'd denied approval of an expecting couples nursery addition because an electrical receptacle wasnt properly grounded. He knew theyd prefer to pay a fine than have a fire. You see the fight this weekend? a nearby employee asked another. Every construction project has flaws; every single one. It was his job to find them for the greater good. His mantra was, if he approved, he mustve missed something. No, didnt even realize there was one, the second employee replied. His job, his morning routine, his workout routine; it was all part of the process of improvement. He loved improvement. He never understood why people hated criticism so much. Great fight. Margolas looked like he was out on his feet but got a second wind the next round. Dont know how he did it; the guy was busted up from nasal to naval. Its like hes got a backup generator inside him or something. Why did the sound of that turn his stomach? He wasnt a boxing fan but it had never made him queasy before. He returned to the paperwork on his desk but stopped when he saw a note on the monitor screen. Thought you could use some time off Cabin in the Rockies. 21612 Longview Rd. off west Highway 12 Lucky you! Enjoy!

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