A Forest Haunt

by Michael Jess Alexander

part 1

Julian parked his Jeep in the shade of one of the more intact buildings. He’d long been fascinated by ghost towns. The forgotten histories suggested by their ramshackle structures tickled his imagination.

Consisting of only a few lonely buildings and so removed from civilization as though it were meant to be hidden, this ghost town — or ghost hamlet, he thought — intrigued him more than any other dead settlement he’d explored. It was what he found in the surrounding forest, though, that brought Julian back here today.

He got out of the Jeep and walked to the back of the vehicle. He opened the tailgate and retrieved his carrier backpack, which held his red compact chainsaw. He hefted the straps over his shoulders, grabbed his water bottle, and started the long trek to the curious spot in the forest.

The lushness of the forest, the tapestry of light created by the sun shining through wind-caressed leaves, and the sweet-smelling air: Julian could not help but appreciate the forest’s beauty. He wondered why such an area wasn’t more active with nature lovers or why civilization hadn’t established a closer foothold. From conversations overheard and details gleaned here and there, he knew that this area was far richer in natural beauty than the resources that moved markets. At least I appreciate this forest and its beauty, Julian thought.

The weight of the chainsaw on his back, which sapped more of his energy with each step, reminded him that it wasn’t nature appreciation that drove him deeper into the forest. It was curiosity.

After a half-hour of hiking, he finally reached the spot he’d happened upon before. He noted the rusty axe stuck in a tree trunk, which he might have used before if not for its rotted handle.

As he walked up to the ring of birch trees, the astonishment he’d felt when he first laid eyes on the peculiar arrangement returned but, this time, it was infused with eagerness.

His jaw dropped when he first laid eyes on the ring of trees. The tight and circular placement — the close spacing prevented one from entering the ring — was obviously carefully cultivated by someone. Considering the height of the trees, that had happened long ago.

However, it was the modest cabin enclosed by the trees that most intrigued Julian.

He took his cellphone from his pocket and opened the camera. With the encircled cabin centered in the frame, Julian snapped a few pictures, immortalizing the surreal scene.

I’ll send a pic to Chad once I get cell service again, he thought, thinking of his older brother.

He took off his backpack and set it down. He unbuckled the straps holding the chainsaw, grabbed it, and placed it on the ground. He then primed the chainsaw and pulled the string. The chainsaw roared to life on the second pull.

Julian picked up the buzzing chainsaw and carried it to a tree before the cabin’s front door. He brought the whirring chain to the trunk and held the chainsaw at a downward angle. Cutting about halfway through the trunk, he pulled the guide bar out and cut at the inverse angle, creating a V-shaped notch. He killed the chainsaw, set it down by his backpack, and then returned to the tree.

He pulled on the trunk above the notch, exerting more effort than he had anticipated. After a strenuous effort, the tree started to give. He quickly let go and stepped out of the way of the falling tree. It landed with a small bounce and the screeching of birds, and then the forest returned to quiet.

Curiosity urged him to proceed, but it was tempered by the silence of the cabin, the gloomy shade created by the remaining trees, and the peculiarity of the ring itself. Perhaps I shouldn’t, Julian thought. Perhaps I should leave.

He discarded the idea, telling himself that there couldn’t be anyone in the cabin. The trees precluded it, and the state of the old axe suggested that no one had been here for a very long time.

He stepped over the tree stump and walked to the small porch. He stepped on the porch, gripped the crude wooden handle of the vertical plank door, and pressed against the door with his shoulder. The door scraped across the floor, disrupting the quiet. He ignored the ugly sound and continued to press until the door was open enough for him to enter.

He stepped into the shady cabin and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the ambient light.

The cabin was furnished with belongings that might suggest a current resident, had they not been covered in dust and cobwebs. The dust tickled Julian’s nose. To the left of the entrance, he noted a folded patchwork quilt atop a chest and by the chest, leaning against the wall, a rifle. Against the opposite wall, a table sat, and, drawing Julian’s attention, a book lay atop it.

Julian stepped to the table and wiped a seat. He brushed the dust off his hand and sat down. He blew the dust off the aged book. He then picked it up and flipped through its yellowed pages.

It’s a diary, he realized, noting the handwriting and dated entries. Perhaps this will explain the trees.

Skimming through the first few pages and encountering no mention of the trees, Julian turned closer to the end of the thick diary. He began to read the slightly faded handwriting.

* * *

June 18th, 1963

It’s been five years — five years since I abandoned my former life for the solitude of the forest. I had to. Life among others had become untenable. And while I prefer the quiet of the forest, where I can live free from the judgmental gaze of others, the memories still haunt me.

The inability to converse as freely as others seem to. The freezing up in moments of stress. It was too much.

I’d faced these challenges all my life, contending with them as best I could. It was at the suggestion of a friend — one of the few I’d ever had — that I took up journaling. Sam Horner, who I served with in the war, gave me the idea of keeping a diary to better make sense of my troubles.

But it was the bottle that I had most relied on. For a while, it was my salvation. I should have known better, though. It didn’t take long for it to become a damnation.

I won’t recount the details here, for I’ve no desire to relive that painful event, but it was after indulging that habit more than I should have that I suffered a humiliation. It was a humiliation that left me with only two real options: end it all or flee. Obviously, I opted for the less drastic course of action. I fled to these woods, and this is where I’ve lived ever since.

Here, my only company is my own thoughts and, very occasionally, the only person I am at relative ease around, my cousin Jonah.

Without the stress caused by people, I’ve been able to kick my drinking habit, and while living out here by myself is not easy, I’ve grown accustomed to the challenges. I’ve also found that keeping this journal helps to keep me even-keeled.

June 23rd, 1963

I was trailing a buck near a part of the forest I hadn’t set foot in for some time. It’s this part of the forest where I actually first took refuge five years ago. There’s an abandoned trapper’s shack by a bluff, and this is where I resided while I built my cabin.

Anyway, trailing the buck led me this way, and as soon as I had a clear view of the shack, I could see that it was different. With a closer look, I saw that someone had cleared the weeds in front and had established a small garden.

My stomach sank at the sight. I’ve worked so hard to build a life away from the judging eyes of others, and now it seems all for naught. It makes me sick just thinking about it.

June 26th, 1963

My cousin Jonah visited earlier today. Jonah’s been the only visitor I’ve had since setting up in the forest. My forest.

I haven’t always gotten along with Jonah, but he is the only family I’ve got, so I must admit I’m sorry our visit went poorly and that it was likely the last time I’ll see him.

He shared some very unfortunate news. He told me that the sawmill is closing. Greenwood, the nearby town where I used to reside and, more importantly, where I get supplies, such as rice and coffee, was already on its last legs.

He said he was heading east to find work. Learning that he was leaving the area was surprising enough. Contending with this development along with the revelation about the sawmill had already taxed my nerves, so when he suggested that I’d not be able to get provisions in town before long and that I also ought to consider heading east, I snapped. The idea of leaving my solitude for life in some city renewed the pains that had caused me to retreat from society in the first place. My mind conjured countless faces bearing down judgment upon me and me, unable to respond.

Because of our familial connection, I’ve never been hard up for a response to Jonah, so I laid into him. “How dare you suggest I abandon my home!” I said. Again, I feel badly about this, especially since it was likely the last time I’ll ever see Jonah. But the news, and his suggestion — not to mention the stranger living in the forest — it was all too much.

He tried to change the subject. He said that someone had stolen valuable keepsakes from the Thompson family and that there was all sorts of hubbub about this in town. He said the sheriff came to town and investigated and that the rumor was that the sheriff suspected the youngest Cooper brother of the thievery.

I didn’t say so, but I thought it pretty likely that Jonah was the culprit and that this was the real reason for Jonah heading east. He’d been in trouble before. I could tell that he also didn’t feel particularly good about how the visit had gone, so we said goodbye to each other and left it at that.

June 28th, 1963

I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but I went to spy on the shack. I wanted to see who was living there. After Jonah, this would be only the second person I’d encountered in the forest. I didn’t have to wait long before the inhabitant revealed herself.

I was pretty gobsmacked to see that the inhabitant was not only a woman but an older one. I searched my mind for reasons why an older woman might take up shelter in the old trapper shack.

I wondered whether she was like me. A social outcast, perhaps? Or maybe she had suffered financial ruin and was inhabiting this sorry refuge out of necessity?

I noted her messy gray hair and wizened face, and another possibility came to mind, one that hearkened to the stories my granddad told my brother and me when we were children. This woman very much resembles the witches Granddad used to tell us about.

When she returned to the shack, I departed for my own dwelling. About halfway, I encountered another first: a cat. And it was not just any cat; it was a black cat.

I picked up a rock and threw it at the blasted animal. The cat skittered off and, as I continued home, I remembered another detail from Granddad’s stories. That is, I remembered him tell of the witch’s familiar, an evil spirit that takes on the appearance of an animal, such as a cat.

I’ve never put much stock in such fancy, but it won’t hurt to be more on guard while that woman’s living nearby.

Proceed to part 2...