Fiction

The Girl and the Poet

A weekend getaway

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

“How did you pick this place?”

“Groupon.”

“Really?”

“No.”

The cabin we had just driven three hours to was tucked back in the woods, and it was nearly impossible to see from the woods.

“Did it look like this on Airbnb?

It didn’t look like anyone had been there in a while.

“I didn’t get it through Airbnb,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I didn’t use an app. I just saw the ad.”

“What?”

“I don’t get what the big deal is?”

“Because now we’re just walking into someone’s house. In the middle of nowhere.”

“And…?”

“And..that’s how people wind up being some hillbilly’s dinner.”

“Or is that what you’re afraid of? Cannibals?”

“You never know.”

She laughed, “You’re ridiculous. Get the bags.”

I went to the trunk, and it had to have been my imagination running wild, but I swore I saw someone’s reflection in the window.

I spun to see who it was, but it was nothing but trees.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Come on dork,” she said.

The inside of the cabin was nicer and better maintained than the outside. There was a note on the side table just to the side of the door.

Cassie read it aloud.

Sorry about the yard. I’ll be out tomorrow or the next day to take care of it. The house is in order though and the furnace is turned on. You shouldn’t need it but just in case. There’s also wood for the fireplace and the pit outside. Enjoy.

-Tommy

“Must be the caretaker,” she said, putting down the note, “his number’s here too. In case we need anything.”

“Or he’s an ax murderer,” I said, “and we’re his unwitting prey.”

“Stop it.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She scowled. She hated when I said that which of course made it all the more fun.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said, “go out and find some firewood.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“Go.”

I was outside putzing around. It turns out that true to his word Tommy stacked the firewood against the back of the cabin, so I was mostly outside trying to avoid being yelled at.

I was still outside when I heard Cassie screaming.

I ran into the house, hoping not to find a hillbilly cannibal. Instead I found Cassie in a towel soaking wet in the living room.

“Did you do that?” she yelled.

“Do what?”

“That!” she yelled pointing to the bathroom.

More confused than usual, I strode into the bathroom.

“Huh,” I said to no one in particular.

The bathroom was still fogged over, but someone had written something.

And they wandered into a cabin, where they would, never leave, They wandered in, where no one would hear their screams.

“Wasn’t me,” I said as Cassie walked up.

“Who did it then?”

“I don’t know. There’s no one out here except…”

“Don’t you say it.”

“Fine.”

“What should we do?”

“Call the caretaker, make sure no one’s been out here. I’ll check outside.”

From inside the cabin, the coast was clear, but I exited with the trepidation of a deer during hunting season. It was at that moment I realized that I should have called the caretaker instead of venturing outside.

It was still a windless fall day out. The first fallen leaves were on the ground, so at least I’d hear someone coming.

Luckily, there was no one outside. I searched around the perimeter of the small property. The yard was small but it was abutted on all sides by woods so I suppose someone could have slipped away. At least until I walked back to the front of the cabin and found another message on the car.

It was written on dust on the rear windshield. It both freaked me out and reminded me how badly I needed a car wash.

“Honey…” I called.

“What?” she said, coming out front.

“Look at this.”

Someone wrote in the dirt:

They didn’t know what was coming. They didn’t know. what they’d find. They made so many mistakes, and now they’ll pay.

“Oh wow.”

“Wow?” I asked. “I think this deserves a little more than wow.”

“Does this seem like poetry to you?”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t know anything about poetry.”

“The message earlier. It sounded poetic too.”

“I really don’t know what this has to do with our impending demise.”

“I just talked to the caretaker. The cabin used to belong to Isaac Mendez.”

“Who?”

“The famous poet.”

“Poets can be famous?”

“You really never paid attention in school did you?”

“Paid attention to you.”

“Anyway,” she said, rolling her eyes, “This was his cabin.”

“Was?”

“He died here.”

She paused.

“And?”

“He died after he killed his wife.”

“Grrrreat.”

“That part wasn’t in the ad.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. So we’re being haunted by some dead poet.”

“I don’t think who matters at this point.”

“I mean if you’re going to be haunted by it, at least it’s by one of the best poets of the last 50 years.”

“I don’t get how being able to rhyme makes a ghost less scary.”

“They don’t rhyme anymore.”

We paused for a few moments, “So ready?”

“Oh definitely. I’ll help you pack.”

We packed quickly. Someone writing threatening messages tended to hurry one up.

Cassie tossed our bags in the back seat, while I tried starting the car.

Over and over.

But it wouldn’t start.

“What’s wrong with the car?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it the battery?”

I was opening the hood when I got a text message.

From a blocked number it read.

Don’t bother.

Then my phone, which had a full battery, died.

This was the last straw.

“Honey.”

“What?”

“We need to run.”

“Why?”

“Just run.”

We took off, leaving our few possessions with the car. We ran and walked for hours.

And hours.

Until we realized we weren’t going anywhere. We were in the same stretch of road in front of the cabin.

“It’s getting dark,” I said.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t think we have a choice.”

So we returned to the cabin, hoping to get through the night. The cabin was as we left it, except for the new message on the wall this time in blood.

I watched a cat, play with a mouse, As it lorded over it, deciding whether to end it’s misery, or keep playing.

“He’s not exactly a subtle ghost is he?”

“He was known for being rather overt.”

I made a fire and we settled in for a long night and wondered how long the ghost would keep playing.

It was quiet most of the night. We huddled together under a blanket. Sometime after midnight the lights started going on and off. We’d hear footsteps all around us, but every time we poked our heads out from under the blanket there was no one there.

At two in the morning, the bookcase started shaking. It was gentle at first but soon sounded like it was going through an earthquake.

Sometime later books started flying off the shelves. Each one hit harder than the last and only stopped when we stopped covering our heads with the blanket.

Cassie picked up one of the books.

“You’re going to read right now?”

“There’s nothing else to do.”

She leafed through several of the books, while I tried not to look terrified.

“Hey,” Cassie finally said.

“What?”

“This book is handwritten.”

“So?’’

“It’s some of Mendez’s work but it’s not his handwriting.”

“How do you know what his handwriting looks like?”

“He used to have pictures of his hand written poems in his books.”

“Sounds pretentious.”

“Anyway.”

“This says the notebook belonged to Catherine Mendez. His wife.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, what if she was the poet?”

“And he was using her work?”

“And she got tired of it..”

“So she wants credit…”

“And that’s when he killed her.”

“You’re not Isaac are you?” she said aloud.

“No I’m not.”

A woman said materializing in front of us. She was pale and see through.

“You were the poet all along,” Cassie said.

“Yes.”

“And your husband took credit for your work.”

“Yes. Yes he did.”

Seizing the moment, I asked “Since we figured it out, does that mean we get to go now?”

She smiled.

“Oh no.” she said “You’re very much going to die.” Em Dash is a reader supported publication. You can help support articles like this at any level you want. Paid subscribers get access to subscriber only stories and other perks like picking sequels to stories and deciding to keep their favorite characters alive.