“You sure, lady?” the taxi driver called out after her. “It's not safe out here.”
Ilse, though, waved away the warning, already moving up the long driveway beneath the pine trees.
As the lights diminished, again, Ilse realized just how dark the forest was. For a moment, as she moved up the dirt driveway, she heard rustling from the trees. She frowned, stiffened, and glanced up towards the branches.
In the dark, the outlines of the firs were barely visible against the backdrop of moonlight. The light, blue illumination trickled through the thick canopy. The enormous trees lined the road then went deep as far as the eye could see.
She exhaled with prickling lips, her eyes searching out the only remaining form of illumination.
The small shack at the end of the long driveway.
Unnatural, pale light emanated from the greasy windows. The small shack hung off at an angle, the entire roof threatening to collapse. An oversized oak hung low over the house, some of the thicker branches aiding in the roof's bid for freedom. Tall weeds and tangled thorns wrapped a lichen-strewn ground and a toppled log pattered with mushrooms.
The scent of the woods, of the trees wafted around her, carried on the still, whistling breeze.
Ilse shivered, both her hands clenched at her sides as she moved up the path once more, dirt and twigs crunching beneath her feet.
No sign of Sawyer. He would be on the way, no doubt. He'd texted her twice, with misspellings, suggesting he was trying to reach her while still speeding through traffic. But she couldn't be late again. She couldn't wait for Sawyer.
Her heart hammering, she moved up the forest path.
No lake, this time. No scent of water on the air. No sign of cobwebs over the entrance...
And yet, all of this felt so familiar. Why did her life always seem to lead to an isolated home in the woods?
Something so beautiful as a forest so often used by those who would abuse it.
Her breathing came fast, heavy, her eyes fixated on the small, creepy shack beneath the enormous trees. For a moment, she thought she spotted movement.
She froze, staring at the windows... But then, she realized one of the windows was cracked, and a thin, gauze-like curtain fluttered in the frame.
Her heartbeat went wild now, and for a moment she wanted to do nothing but turn back.
Little Hilda... Run. Run. Run.
She closed her eyes, trying to block the memories. She began to recite her memory trick, but even these words died on her lips. Her throat felt tight, her mouth dry, all of a sudden.
She took another step. Then another.
She reached the porch with three, rapid footfalls, forcing, through sheer speed, her own body forward. She could sense the PTSD coming back. Cue-prompted triggers. Rapid breathing. Racing pulse. Intrusive thoughts.
Check. Check. Check.
But just because she knew what was happening, didn't mean she could stop it.
“I can't be late,” she murmured to no one in particular. Would Sawyer understand?
Who the hell cared? Her brothers and sisters were going to die! She surged towards the door now, sweaty palms grasping towards the handle.
“No,” she said, out loud, suddenly. Pausing. Not her siblings. She hadn't meant to think that. No—another victim. Yes, that's what she'd meant. Another victim was going to die unless she helped. Unless she'd hurried.
But she'd called Sawyer. Called the police. They were too late—always far too late. It was up to her. No one else. She had to.
She scowled at the door, her hand still gripping the knob, and, slowly, she turned.
The door squeaked open, unlocked, swinging into a small, cramped space.
Immediately, the scent of blood and decaying meat wafted out and made her gag. Ilse coughed, waving a hand in front of her face and wincing at the eye-stinging stench.
Breathing heavily and lifting the collar of her sweatshirt to cover her nose, she took a tentative step into the shack.
Bright lights illuminated the single room. A bed in one corner. A metal john, like a prison toilet, in another, with no walls or privacy to speak of. No visible shower.
And also... the source of the stench coming from body parts strewn across the room.
It took her one horrifying moment to realize the bodies belonged to animals. Some of them stuffed, dangling from the wall, or the ceiling. But other parts...
A couple of raccoon paws on the wooden table. An eyeball near the fireplace. A bloody squirrel's tail dangling from above the door. A furry rug was nailed to the ceiling with black spikes. Horror welled up in her chest, but at the same time, a more calculating part of her cataloged the scene.
The killer was clearly a hunter. The coroner had said he was good with a knife. It made sense. It also made sense he'd started on animals, taken out his fantasies of mutilation on the voiceless before moving on to bigger game.
She continued looking around, her eyes tracing the back of the small hovel.
No sign of a basement.
Her neck prickled from a sudden rush of breeze through the open door behind her.
She couldn't glimpse anything through the windows, peering out into the dark. “Hello?” she called, slowly, her voice trailing off.
Now, more than anything, she'd wished she'd waited for Sawyer. She needed a weapon. Her hand darted towards the pepper spray she kept on her keychain. Her heart hammered wildly.
The killer wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be on a hunt. How had she been mistaken?
“Hello?” she said, a bit more loudly this time.
No answer. The curtain over the window fluttered again. The dead eyes of the stuffed animals all stared at her. A coyote, with only one eye, leaned against the kitchen table, one of its paws missing, looking up at her as if wondering if she'd seen its misplaced appendage anywhere.
She looked away, breathing even more heavily now, her hands sweaty, slick. No answer. There'd been no sign of a car in the driveway either... Which meant what?
She'd been right. He was out again. Hunting again.
“Shit,” she muttered beneath her breath. Hunting where, though? Who was his next target?
She glanced around the horrible little place. But one of the benefits of such a small area, it didn't take long to note objects of interest. The mutilated animals, the discarded body parts, didn't catch her attention nearly so much as the kitchen table.
There, sitting open beneath a bright light, with a large, highlighting marker resting in the crease, was an open book.
She frowned, taking a tentative step forward. It seemed to require all her strength just to move one foot closer to the wooden table. Her feet felt glued to the floor for a moment.
Little Hilda. Little scared Hilda...
She growled, a sound in her throat coming like that of a wounded animal. She took another herculean step, approaching the open book.
As she drew nearer, she realized her mistake. Not just any book; a Bible.
The pages were highlighted with the red marker in the crease. She leaned in, frowning. “Honor thy father...” she stared at the circled text, breathing heavily, trying desperately to think.
Father... His father. Duncan Robinson's abusive father.
But... but in a Bible... What if father didn't just mean his parent... What if Duncan was religious in a twisted, warped sort of way. Both familial and faithful. FATHER.
Her pulse quickened and she studied the margins of the opened page. Scribbled notes covered the Bible. She flipped a page to find even more scribbled notes in red ink. She read phrases like, “Pay bak evil for evil...” And another phrase, “Fait like Samson can kill much!” She shivered again, flipping another page. “Caste giv me strong!” and also, “Drinc blud?”
As she scanned the Bible's pages, she began to pick up a pattern. The bloody, violent language only got worse in the margins. But also, Duncan's spelling was atrocious. He nearly always missed the C in CK words. He missed out on the H in TH and CH words. Half of his ramblings were practically indiscernible.
Frowning, still flipping through the pages, she realized something else...
FATHER. He'd been spelling father. But also... what if he spelled Father wrong, too?
Her pulse quickened. He was out, already on the hunt, that much was certain. For all she knew, she was already too late.
But if not an H, then... E?
He was going after an E, this time. F for Frank. A for Arthur. T for Taylor. Missing the H because of illiteracy according to everything scribbled in the margins... What about the E, though?
Who was...
She flipped to the front page, going still all of a sudden.
Her eyes scanned the dedication, and her throat tightened.
The dedication simply read, To: Duncan From: Father Edward of Trinity Episcopal Church.
Father.
FATHER.
Ilse's eyes fixated on the name Edward. A slow, dreadful certainty filled her, going as deep as her bones. Father Edward. Victim four.
Father's taught Sunday school classes, taught Bible studies. Another teacher.
As the realization slowly dawned on her, she heard sudden movement. Ilse froze, still gripping the leather bound Bible.
A sudden sound of rapid footsteps echoed behind her. Boots against wood.
Ilse whirled about, a scream caught in her throat as a large form appeared in the doorway, illuminated suddenly by the bright, white lights from the cabin.