A Forest Haunt
by Michael Jess Alexander
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
July 2nd, 1963
I’ve spotted that damn cat near my cabin a couple of times. Worse yet, I brought a bucket to water my garden and saw that an animal had been digging into my mint plants. In anger, I spilled half the bucket before I could use it, which meant another trip to the well. I’m certain it was that damned cat.
I cannot abide these intrusions. If I see that cat again, I’ll fix this problem for good.
July 5th, 1963
I was chopping wood and had taken a break when that damned cat showed up.
I was treating myself to some jerky, so I kneeled down and offered some to the cat. I coaxed it as best I could, expecting it to run off, but the coaxing worked.
It sauntered up to me, and I grabbed it. It thrashed and clawed my hands and forearms pretty badly, but I held on.
With my left hand and right foot, I managed to pin the cat while, with my right hand, I grabbed my axe.
With a few deliberate strikes, I brought an end to these vexing intrusions.
July 8th, 1963
Just like her infernal cat, the old crone strolled up to my cabin, uninvited.
I was sitting on my porch when she showed up. I did not get up.
Making no pretense about being sorry for intruding, she went right to saying how she was surprised to encounter another dweller in the forest and asking if I’d seen her cat.
I feigned ignorance of the animal. Struggling in conversation at the best of times, I can’t say I’m confident I sounded convincing. I worry that my terseness appeared suspicious, but she was also relatively tight-lipped.
Regardless of whether she suspected me as responsible for her cat’s disappearance, I disliked how she looked at me. I could see that old, familiar judgment in her eyes. It could have been suspicion, but it also could have been judgment for my cold demeanor.
She asked that I keep an eye out for her cat. She called him Shadow.
I nodded and managed to get some more words past my teeth. I told her that forest living is not for the faint-hearted, that the trapper’s shack wasn’t fit for habitation, and that I knew because I’d lived in it for a spell.
She just shook her head and said that if I could manage, so could she. Then she left.
As I write this, I still burn at the idea of that foolish woman coming to my cabin, uninvited. I’d enjoyed years of peaceful solitude before that crone and her damned cat showed up.
July 11th, 1963
She returned. She brought me a radish from her garden. I was hesitant to accept it. I didn’t want to give her the impression that I welcome her company, but that fresh radish was too tempting to reject, especially since I’ve been struggling to get my own garden to come along this year.
I accepted her gift with a simple “Thanks.” She reminded me to keep an eye out for her cat and left.
I trapped a rabbit yesterday, so I used the radish and rabbit to make stew. It was quite satisfying.
July 14th, 1963
She came back with another gift. A bottle of Rittenhouse Rye!
Back when I lived in town, Rittenhouse had been a favorite of mine. After I moved to the forest, I weaned myself off the stuff. I take pride in this accomplishment, for it wasn’t easy, and it took time. It was necessary, too. Life out here requires a sober head. However, the sight of that unopened bottle had me licking my lips before I even knew it.
She said that she’d had the bottle for a long time but had no use for it. My gut told me to refuse the offer. I’d been good for so long. But, as I gazed at that warm amber color, I thought about the irritation caused by the arrival of my unexpected neighbor and her damned cat, and I thought, I deserve a little reward.
With a “thank you,” I took the bottle from her hands. She thanked me for being a good neighbor and left. She didn’t mention her cat.
Now, I’m not a fool. I didn’t forget the look of judgment she gave me before and, even though the seal was intact, I knew that one could open a bottle and then carefully replace the cork and seal so that it appeared unopened.
I considered throwing the bottle away, but the idea struck me as needlessly wasteful. Out here in the forest, you quickly learn to avoid such behavior.
I thought it over for a long time and decided the most prudent thing to do was to take a sip and wait. If the old crone had done something to the whiskey, I’d maybe get a bit sick, but I’d recover. Then I’d know to discard the rest and to confront the old crone. However, if, after a while, I felt okay, then the whiskey was fine.
I took a sip before writing this entry and, while I’ll admit that I was tempted to drink more, I managed to resist. I’m going to wait until tomorrow before I touch the bottle again.
July 16th, 1963
For Heaven’s sake, what am I going to do? That old woman brought damnation upon me!
When I woke, I felt fine and decided to indulge. Oh, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d been more cautious and temperate.
By evening, I’d gotten deep into my cups. I hadn’t indulged for years and, feeling freer and more blissful than I had for quite some time, I possessed little of my usual reticence when a knock sounded at my door.
I went to open the door and found a stranger on my porch. He wore black clothes and a smile.
“May a weary traveler trouble you for some rest and, perhaps, something to eat and drink?” he asked.
I welcomed him in, and he took a seat at the table. Oh, had I not indulged in that whiskey! Had I enjoyed a sober mind, I know that his attire alone would have aroused my suspicion.
The stranger seemed to lose interest in food or drink and seemed keener on conversation. He complimented my cabin and my “clear resourcefulness” in building it.
I may or may not have replied with more than nods and a stupid grin, but I don’t think it mattered.
The conversation — if you can call it that, as one-sided as it was — turned to my appreciation of solitude.
With a sudden intensity, which caught me by surprise, the stranger fixed his eyes on me and asked if I would like to enjoy more privacy from unwelcome visitors.
I said, “Yessir.”
The stranger produced a small black rock from his pocket, placed it in my hands, and told me that I needed to wish, truly wish, for the solitude I craved.
With alcohol-fueled conviction, I held the rock, closed my eyes, and wished for my home to be more guarded from intruders.
The stranger laughed. I opened my eyes, and he was gone! Dumbfounded, I dropped the rock and saw that it had lost its black color and was now common gray.
I stumbled to the front door, searching for the man. I opened the door and watched, stupefied, as a line of trees sprouted with more haste than rising yeast dough. Following the line of trees with my eyes, I saw that they extended in a curve around my cabin.
I stepped up to the line of trees, which were already as high as my chest. I walked alongside them in a state of bewilderment. There was no more than two inches of space between any two of them. By the time I realized the line of trees encircled my house in a closed ring, they had fully grown and were well above the cabin’s roof.
I returned inside and, through a drunken haze, struggled to make sense of what had happened.
July 17th, 1963
I slept a little, but it was restless.
Desperately hoping that what transpired yesterday evening was merely a whiskey-induced nightmare, I went outside. But I couldn’t fool myself. I knew the ring of trees would be there.
I examined them more closely, trying to find a gap between two that I might squeeze through, but no such gap existed.
I thought to shoot my rifle in the hope that the sound might carry to town. I shot it once in the air, but something seemed off. After a few more shots, I realized what it was. The birds did not react to the gunshots. I chewed it over and realized that, somehow, the cursed ring trapped not only me but sound, as well.
I searched for my axe but saw that I’d left it stuck in the stump where I chop wood, which was outside of the ring and beyond reach. What am I going to do?
July 18th, 1963
Sometimes I hear the old crone’s laugh. I’ve never been a very religious man, but I know who that witch’s master is and who she beckoned here to condemn me.
I’ve relied on water stored in a barrel since being trapped, but it will run out before long.
I tried setting fire to one of the trees. I’m not a fool. I knew I was risking a fiery death, but I was desperate. No matter. Despite my best efforts, the flame wouldn’t catch.
I then took a pocketknife to one of the trees. Considerable exertion resulted in modest progress. Exhausted, I took a break and sat on my porch. I sat for a few minutes, gazing at the wound I had made in the tree. At first, I thought the strain or sweat in my eyes had me seeing things. I hopped up and hurried back to the tree. The wood was growing back!
I couldn’t bring myself to write it down before, but I realized early in this ordeal that I was no longer merely continuing my habit of documenting my life but was, instead, making a record of my demise.
I’m hopelessly trapped, and I see now that the only options left to me are dying of thirst or a quicker end. At least my last decision is an easy one.
* * *
The hermit’s words echoed in Julian’s mind: The wood was growing back!
He jumped up from the chair and hurried to the front door. From the threshold, Julian — his mouth agape and eyes wide — looked at the continuous line of trees. The gap he’d created to gain entry to the cabin was gone!
Feeling faint, he walked up to the regenerated tree. Through the small gap between it and the tree on the left, he spotted the red paint of the chainsaw.
“No!”
He rushed back into the cabin. With frenzied energy, he searched for a means to destroy the tree. Finding nothing of use, he turned his attention to the lone interior door.
Breathing heavily and with his heart pounding, he turned the handle and opened the door. On the right side of the small room, opposite a modest bed, a weathered noose hung. Below it lay a collapsed alabaster white skeleton.
As if caught in a bear trap, Julian wailed.
Copyright © 2024 by Michael Jess Alexander
