My cabin is in between Adamsville and Atlantic, Pennsylvania, two towns that have maybe four hundred people between them. A tornado damn near wiped Adamsville off the map a while back, and it never rebounded. Nice people, hard times. We don’t have fancy coffee shops, and the nearest Walmart is in Conneaut Lake, but we do have a volunteer fire department, and its social hall is one of our community hubs.
Back before that deer hunt changed everything, I used to volunteer. Then I fell apart, and after that, monster hunting took up all my spare time. So I quit the department, but I’m still friends with the crew. Hell, I went to high school with half of them. Knew the rest from when I used to go to church, before I left my faith and most of my blood in the snow on that cold December evening.
The VFD put on a good monthly dinner. Most of the money went for upkeep on the trucks, but they always had another worthy local cause, like a school, library, or playground to support as well. The food was always good, and plenty of it, but most folks went because we knew we could get caught up on the local news and gossip.
Pete closed up the shop a little early to meet me and get over to the fire department before the line got too long. The social hall isn’t fancy, just a cement block building with a coat of paint slapped on the walls and a tile floor, but it’s a popular spot for wedding receptions, baby showers, funeral meals, and graduation parties. It’s that or one of the church fellowship buildings, and the fire department lets you have beer.
“Smells good,” Pete said as we walked in from the parking lot. Five o’clock, and the senior citizens had already beaten us to the line. A big plate of whatever was on the menu cost eight bucks, but seniors got it for six. That led to a septuagenarian stampede, and I knew better than to get in the way. Those old ladies had sharp elbows and heavy purses.
“Petey Kennedy! Is that you?” Mrs. McCarthy turned around and laid a wrinkled hand on Pete’s arm. Pete’s a couple of inches taller than I am, so he comes in at about six foot six, and built like a linebacker. He’s only two years younger, but somehow, I managed to miss having Mrs. McCarthy in grade school—Pete wasn’t so lucky.
“Yes, ma’am,” Pete answered, dropping his head like he’d been caught playing hooky. I doubt anyone outside of his extended family had called him “Petey” since he shot up to basketball player height.
“You tell your mother that we missed her at the book club,” Mrs. McCarthy chided. “We only had three ladies show up, and that left us with too much punch to drink.”
Chiara’s mother had gone to that book club for a while, and always came home tipsy, so I don’t know what was in the punch, but it went beyond ginger ale and sherbet.
“I’ll pass that along,” Pete said, managing to blush. “She’s been busy, what with Katie’s wedding coming up and all.”
Mrs. McCarthy shook her head. “You’ve all grown up way too fast! Where does the time go?” She patted my arm for good measure. “Good to see you too, Mark. I still miss your mother when the ladies play cards.”
“I miss her, too.” Mom had passed on many years before that hunt, so at least she’d been spared having to deal with the loss.
One of Mrs. McCarthy’s friends drew her attention off as the line moved up, and Pete and I were left to ourselves again.
“Don’t say it, Wojcik,” he warned.
I’d tease him about “Petey,” except that I’d had more than my share of “whoa-chick,” as people often mangled my name. It’s “voy-chick,” but by now, I answer to anything close.
Tonight’s dinner was roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, a small salad, fresh yeast rolls, and a sliver of pumpkin pie. The firefighters didn’t cook the meal—the auxiliary did that, made up of the wives, husbands, siblings, and friends of the crew—but they did show up to circulate and chew the fat. Pete and I took our plates over to an empty table and went to get some of their wicked-strong coffee, then sat down and waited for the rest of our gang to show.
I spotted Blair and Chiara, along with a couple of Chiara’s brothers coming in the door. The place was starting to fill up. Children ran between the tables, babies cried, and the buzz of conversation rose to a dull roar. Before I’d gotten more than a few bites in, Louie Marino dropped into the chair beside me.
“Hey, Mark, I need to talk to you.” Louie and I went to school together. He’s a cop out in Linesville, which is just up the road. Louie knows the score about what I do in my “other” job, and so does Pete. I come back battered and bruised too often to hide the monster hunting from Pete, and Louie and I often run into each other in the wee hours of the morning in odd places, so cluing him in cut down on how much I spent on bail.
“Blair and Chiara told me you were looking for me.” I kept shoveling food. I’d beaten down my hangover to a dull roar, and my abused stomach finally decided it needed solid fuel.
“You ever been to the fishing cabins on French Creek, around Cochranton?” he asked.
I nodded. “Long time ago. Fishing’s not my thing, but I went with Sean and some of his buddies a couple of times. Somebody’s parents had a place. Small, but nice.” French Creek wound down from New York all the way to the Allegheny River. Along the way, it provided some mighty fine water for boating, kayaking, and fishing, and little two- or three-room cabins dotted the banks, places families returned every summer for generations. They weren’t fancy, built and maintained on a factory income, but they were a working man’s getaway.
“So I’ve got a friend,” Louie said, leaning forward and resting his right arm on the table as he shifted his seat to face me. “Ronnie Danvers. You know him?” I shook my head. “Anyhow, he bought this place that had been on the market for a while, kinda run down, picked it up for a steal. He figured he’d make it his man cave, fix it up for poker nights, and get in some fishing time, too. Only no one told him it was haunted.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What makes him think it’s haunted?” There’s plenty of scary shit out there, lurking in the shadows, but none of it works like in the TV shows. I can’t count how many times I’ve gone in to investigate reports of ghosts, only to find it’s actually squirrels in the ductwork, raccoons in the crawl space, or birds in the chimney.
“He saw Eli Wickers sitting on the dock, fishing.”
I gave him a questioning look, prompting him to continue.
“Eli died of a heart attack last fall.”
“Okay, that’s a little strange. He’s sure it was Eli?”
Louie nodded. “Yeah, except Ronnie says Eli looked solid—and really dead. Smelled bad, too.”
“How sure are you that Eli actually died?”
“I went to his funeral.”
“And he’s back?” I asked.
Louie shrugged. “According to Ronnie. And before you ask, he’s clean. He wasn’t smoking anything that made him see dead people.”
Pete snickered. I rolled my eyes. That line quit being funny a long time ago.
“All right. I’ll look into it.”
Louie slid a key across the table, and I pocketed it. “Thanks. If it were anyone but Ronnie, I’d think they were pulling my leg, but he’s pretty freaked about it.”
“You think someone is playing a gag on him? Prank wars?”
“If I didn’t know what kind of stuff you run into, I’d say yes. That’s the easier explanation. But Ronnie says there’s no one who would be pranking him, and he just bought the place after it stood empty for a while. He wants to get in and clean it up. Right now, it’s still the way Eli left it, and Ronnie says it’s a mess.”
“Still got Eli’s stuff in it? That might be part of the problem right there,” I mused. “Ghosts don’t like to let go of things. I’ll go over tomorrow,” I added, stealing a glance at Pete, who nodded with a mouthful of chicken. “See if we can’t evict the ghost so he can get the place in shape for spring.”
“Thanks,” Louie said and clapped me on the shoulder as he stood. “You still planning on helping with the Bingo game at Father Leo’s on Saturday?”
I nodded. “Count me in as one of the bouncers. Last time, I had to break up a fight between two old ladies in their eighties because someone took someone else’s lucky chair. Had to get a tetanus shot after one of them sank her fake choppers into my arm.”
Pete snickered, and I smacked him backhanded across the chest. “Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but they’re vicious, especially when it’s double-or-nothing.”
“I’ll ask Father Leo for combat pay,” Louie said with a laugh.
“Let me know how that works out.”
Pete waited until Louie was gone. “You think it’s really a ghost?”
I shrugged. “Could be, especially if the cabin was Eli’s happy place and he didn’t want to leave. If his stuff is there, something’s probably anchoring him, so I’ll find it, give it a salt and burn, and heave-ho the ghost.” I made it sound easy. It rarely was.
The day got away from me, and by the time I headed for Ronnie’s cabin, the sun already hung low in the sky. I had a couple of hours until dark, but given how late it was in the year, night fell early. I definitely wanted to have Eli out of commission before the sun went down.
Calling the place a “cabin” begged discussion. My house is a cabin, log walls and all, but it’s a three bedroom with a full kitchen and basement, plus a loft. Ronnie’s place was World War II vintage clapboard with a small porch, faded gray paint, and a roof that desperately needed new shingles. The place was the size of two small hotel rooms stuck together, with a minimal galley kitchen thrown in as an extra. It would have been tight for more than one person as a permanent residence, clearly designed for weekend or seasonal use. Out back, a garden shed that had seen better days looked like a stiff wind would knock it over.
Still, I guess I could see the charm, if I squinted. The gray boards of the dock were weathered and warped, but it looked solid. Although trees surrounded the cabin, giving it a secluded feel, the nearest cabin was close enough that I probably could throw a baseball and hit the side of it, if the ball could get through the branches. Town was less than two miles away, so supplies were easy to get. And the overhead wires and meter on the back of the building told me it had the hookups needed for modern life.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, glad that the lights turned on when I flicked the switch. While the outside needed a coat of paint, a new roof, and some patches to the porch, the inside looked like what I’d expect from the bolt-hole of a crotchety old man. A brown film darkened the walls, and the stench of old cigarette smoke still hung in the air. I sniffed again and reminded myself to warn Ronnie about mold, and maybe a dead opossum somewhere.
The worn and stained furniture sagged, cushions flattened and upholstery threadbare. A faded throw rug showed a clear path where Eli most often walked. Fishing and hunting magazines covered every surface. A boxy TV with rabbit-ears sat on a table opposite the couch.
Taxidermied trophies of deer heads, prize antlers, and one or two big bass covered the walls. Little dangling oddments hung from some of the antlers, like a rustic substitute for a Christmas tree. Dreamcatchers, crystals, a saint’s medallion, and a couple of other ornaments that looked handmade. They might have been decorations, or maybe lucky charms for good fishing. Sportsmen can be just as superstitious as athletes, especially when it came to beseeching the heavens for a good catch.
One glance into the kitchen and the tiny bedroom told me Eli had been living here full time before he kicked the bucket. Canned goods of questionable age lined a shelf on the wall, and a vintage refrigerator hummed in the corner, which I wasn’t about to open. A back door squeezed in between the counter and the fridge. The bedroom held a twin bed, a rickety nightstand, and a small dresser. The bed was unmade, and a few articles of clothing lay on the floor. Apparently, Eli had run out of fucks to give.
Now I wished I’d have asked Louie where old Eli died. That might explain the haunting, although I was a little worried about Ronnie’s claim that Eli looked solid. That usually meant a ghost powerful enough to cause trouble on the poltergeist level. Glancing around at the mess, I wondered what might hold enough emotional connection to keep Eli around.
A faded photograph in a frame with cracked glass sat on the nightstand next to the bed. From the clothing, I figured it was early 1970s. The couple smiling for the picture might have been in their mid-thirties, without a care in the world. I wondered what happened to her, whether she died or left, and how Eli ended up here. A look inside the nightstand drawer turned up nothing significant, and the dresser was mostly empty, with only a few changes of clothing. The bathroom was hardly bigger than an airplane restroom, too bare-bones to hide any secrets.
I walked into the living room as the shadows lengthened and looked out the window toward the creek to glimpse the sunset. An old man sat on the dock with a fishing pole in his hands.
Eli.
I’d brought my bag of gear in with me, and I grabbed an iron knife and the Parmesan cheese shaker I’d filled with salt because the larger openings in the lid let me spray more of Morton’s finest faster. Then I headed out the door toward the wooden dock and my chance to lay this ghost to rest.
The smell hit me as soon as I cleared the front steps. I’d scraped a roadkill deer off the highway in front of my parents’ house one summer, shoveling the bloated, maggot-ridden body into the woods on the other side of the asphalt. I’d thrown up afterward and couldn’t get the smell out of my nose until I put menthol chest rub into both nostrils. This was worse.
“Eli?” I called out. I agreed with Ronnie—whoever sat on the old dock certainly looked solid. I could see a shock of straggly gray hair and a threadbare flannel shirt over stained work pants. His thin frame hunched forward, both hands on the fishing pole. Then he turned toward me, and I realized he only had half a face.
“Fuck, fuckety fuck fuck,” I muttered, back-peddling quickly as zombie-Eli rose from the dock and threw his rod to one side. From the leer on the half of his mouth that still had skin, I guessed he thought I looked like a tastier catch than the pike in the creek.
Just like me to bring a salt-shaker to a zombie fight.
I didn’t stick around to find out whether Eli was a shambler or a sprinter. I turned and ran, slamming the cabin door behind me.
“Fuck,” I muttered for good measure and went to my gear bag. I threw the salt and short iron knife into the duffle, pulled out a steel machete, then looked for my Glock.
Machetes will take a head off real clean, but nothing beats a hollow-point bullet for once and done.
Before I could grab the gun, Eli plowed through the front window and knocked over the couch, trapping my gear bag—and gun—beneath it. I scrambled back, and Eli came over the couch like a cat, a decomposing cat with half its skin missing, eying me like I was the last can of tuna left in the world.
I swung the machete two-handed, aiming for Eli’s neck, but he dodged and took the blow on his shoulder. It should have hacked his rotting arm clean off, but instead, the blade just stuck in the bone. I wrenched it free and ran for the kitchen and the back door. If I could get Eli to chase me, I could circle around, climb in the broken window, and get my gun.
All I could picture were the cartoon chases where the Scooby gang ran in and out of all the doors on a hallway chasing the guy in the mask. Only I was pretty damn sure Eli’s rotting face was no mask.
I reached the back door, threw the bolt, and yanked it open, plunging down into the yard…and falling over nearly-invisible fishing line strung in an intricate web, a trip-wire trap. Either undead-Eli was smarter than the average shambler, or the old guy had been hella paranoid. I’d never know, and if I couldn’t get free of my spider-wire tangle, it wouldn’t matter, because I’d be zombie chow.
Eli reached the top of the steps as I began slashing around myself with the machete, slicing through the thin, strong lines that had me tied up like Gulliver. Eli sprang at me from the steps as I broke the last of the filament tethers, and I rolled to one side, letting him face plant with a squishy splat. He grabbed my ankle with a bony hand as I tried to get to my feet, and I slashed at his wrist. This time, my blade hit true, and I severed it at the joint, with the skeletal fingers still gripped tight around my leg.
I ran for the front of the house to get my gun, managing to get over the sill without impaling myself on any of the glass shards. My tumble over the couch wasn’t nearly as fluid as Eli’s, which says something when I can’t move as well as a fucking zombie. Eli wasn’t far behind me, and in a few seconds, he’d be through that window, and I’d be in big trouble. I kicked the couch to right it, and then grabbed my gear bag, dragging it back, away from the window to buy myself precious seconds. My hand closed on the grip, just as Eli pushed off from the window sill and launched himself at me like an undead zombie frog.
The Glock boomed in the small cabin and the bullet managed to hit Eli in the other shoulder, not the head.
Fuck. I had that shot. Just like I’d swung for his neck before. No one could be that lucky.
Lucky.
Shit.
I’d backed up under the antlers festooned with dreamcatchers and crystals. What if one of these damned things actually sort-of worked?
I grabbed the handful of trinkets down from the antlers, and Eli came to a sudden stop. He stared at me, his dead-fish gaze following the sway of the pendants that swung from their tethers. Seemed like confirmation of my theory, and I eyed the charms, trying to figure out which one might be the real thing.
So that left me with a zombie two steps in front of me, a machete in one hand, and the charms in the other, so how the hell was I supposed to burn the damn things? The long-unused fireplace behind me would be the perfect spot. I could salt and burn the charms without setting Ronnie’s cabin on fire. But the minute I took my eyes off dead Eli, he’d have his zombie chompers on my neck. I had no desire to find out whether his kind of undead was contagious.
Our standoff couldn’t last forever. So I did the only logical thing.
I attacked.
Eli’s rotting brains hadn’t expected me to go Rambo on his ass. I gave a full-throated battle cry and lunged forward, slamming the machete through Eli’s chest and out the other side, taking him down to the floor with enough force to stick the tip of the knife deep into the boards.
I scrambled backward, covered with slime and goo, as Eli flailed like a gigged frog. The charms clinked in the fireplace when I hurled them, and after another couple of seconds, I’d retrieved the lighter fluid and salt from my bag. Eli flopped and wriggled, and he’d tear the hilt of the machete right through his ribs if I didn’t hurry.
A douse of lighter fluid and a spray of salt, and then I flicked my Bic and threw the disposable lighter into the fireplace. The charms went up in a Butane flare, and a heartbeat later, so did what remained of Eli, crumbling into a pile of ashes around my soot-streaked knife.
Relief coursed through me, and I stumbled, catching myself on the mantle before I fell. The cabin looked like it had been hit by…a rampaging zombie. I pulled my machete free and reached for my phone. Ronnie was going to need to do something about that window.