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I revisited the fort I built as a kid. It was the greatest mistake I ever made.
My grandfather died while shaving. I always wondered how far he had gotten into the process. He collapsed and suffered a severe concussion on the sink. The head injury did not end it all, as he was amidst an already fatal heart attack.
The day before the funeral, his widow, Cameron, asked me to step into a room in the main foyer of his manor.
I never realized how wealthy Grandpa was until I saw his home. The place had creeks, shrubbery mazes, and levels. Rumor had it that he was a savvy investor, although into what was a mystery to me for years. I found out he had been an early financier of a cigar company that had peaked in sales two decades prior. He had managed to get out of the market before it collapsed.
Cameron and I sat down in a room with an oval oak table that looked out at a lake. She reached into her pocket and unfolded a map with a circle drawn in red marker around the top of the left corner.
“We need to talk about your inheritance," she said. “I am the executor. I have all the appropriate documents to back up my claims here today should you have any questions. James always thought you had potential, but he was afraid. He did not want to ruin any legacy you may have by giving you too much. He did not want to spoil you before you could make something of yourself. Based on what I’ve heard about the construction company you run, you're doing fine. When I die, this house is going to your sister. I’m sorry to say that you were not in line to take this piece of property or any of its belongings. He did give you land, though.”
I blinked. “Is it the golf course out back?”
“No. He recalled with a fondness how, when you were younger, you would play with your best friend. I cannot recall her name - in the desolation wilderness of the mountains. He said you built a fort out there the two of you loved. He purchased it out of pure sentimentality and gave it to you. He wanted to reward you with something you could build on. It’s fenced off, so you should not have any problems finding it with these printed coordinates.”
I gave a nod and placed the map in my shirt pocket.
“One last question,” I said before we exited the room, “may I ask what my parents have gotten?”
“Yes, his board game collection.”
“I see. How many of those did he own?”
“One.”
\*
The next few days passed in a blur. The memorial was as lavish as it could get. An entire banquet team fed us. A full-fledged orchestra belted out Tchaikovsky. His coffin lowered into the ground with his favorite classical music surrounding him.
Later that night in my hotel room, I sat with a bottle of Bushmill on the nightstand. I found myself growing resentful.
My sister has gotten a house worth millions of dollars, whereas I am handed a patch of dirt. I would have to sink money and labor into it to make something valuable.
My childhood images of playing in that area were not as strong as other reminiscences. They became eclipsed by the yelling from my parents when I got back home. They interrogated me about where I had been. Dad, particularly, took issue with me not giving my whereabouts. He threatened to let the dog urinate in my bed and stated he would make me sleep in it.
I could bring back the times when Adeline and I had built a makeshift house out of tree branches. We had strung them together with fabric we cut from our backpacks.
Adeline would die in a car accident on Interstate 80 when she was twenty years old.
I repressed my emotions towards those times. I could not remember if I enjoyed those outdoor adventures. They may have been chores completed to feel less alone.
I called Cameron the next day and asked her if she knew what the lot was worth.
“I do,” she said. “It’s priceless.”
\*
The barrier around the woodland I was now the sole proprietor of seemed new. Harsh weather had not yet tainted it. There was not any gratuitous graffiti or warped entry points from trespassers. The wall was not made of chain metal but obsidian. This left me scratching my head. How much it must have cost to export, let alone have a group of laborers put that much time into it, left me astonished.
I had stalled on visiting the place. I could not quite place why I made this deliberate procrastination. I had this indeterminable feeling to not let my presence be known there.
Cameron had mailed me a key, and it was an older rusted style kind, like it may have once belonged to a PO Box from the 70s. I searched around the perimeter for the front door. I came across a very narrow door with two indentations on either side of it.
There were symbols on either side of the threshold. They resembled a country’s flag with squared shapes. Angled lines and unrecognizable emblems decorated them.
I turned the key and stepped into the acreage which now belonged to me.
My boots crunched on gray and yellowed leaves. I made my way past an entangled and knotted mess of pines overlapped by time and nature. There was no trail, nor any walkways, only small clearings. I stepped on shrubs torn apart by the wind.
It only took me ten minutes of exploration to find the fort Adeline and I had built. It stood there, thinner than I remembered. Its wooden structure is so much frailer than back then. What we had manifested with our hands now had a blanket of moss around it. The shape of it went from a dome-like place of sturdiness in our youth to a horizontal edifice ready to buckle.
I peered into the only fissure one could slide their body through, shone a penlight in, and saw a man there. He was asleep in a fetal position.
What was most uncanny of all was how there was a symbol surrounding him, outlined in red chalk or dust. The illustration was identical to what I had seen on the trees in the first passage.
The man woke up and stared at me. He gave me an awkward smile, rather than a threatening one, which perturbed me even further.
“You can’t be here," I said. “This is my land. Don’t make me call the police.”
“He…he’s out there."
“Who are you talking about?"
“A hunter. He doesn’t prey on deer. He searches for people like you and me.”
After another advisement, the man left. I agreed to give him time to pack up his belongings. In reality, I did not have any weapons on me, but I kept my hand in my waistband to make him think I could be carrying. Once he was past the gate, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked around once again at the place.
I went back into the fort and destroyed the crimson sign by blowing on the lines of dust until they scattered.
\*
I went to my hotel room that night, which was only four miles away from my piece of acreage. I planned on revisiting it in the morning. Chronic insomnia befell me. I tossed and turned, even with the desperate elixir of a highball whiskey to try to get me to pass out. By the time dawn arrived, I decided to go back to the fort. This time I brought a large knife.
I noticed something burning an unnatural color through the pines. I ducked down and inched closer to it. I hoped it was a flashlight used by early-rising hitchhikers.
What I saw left me in a state of shock. He stood a hundred feet away and carried a rifle slung over his front. The man stood the same height as me. The outfit he wore was unlike anything I would have expected from someone in the woods.
His suit had tubes wrapped around it. Each one emanated the same verdant tinge. Even the clouds in the distance behind him possessed a hue of greenish effervescence. A helmet covered his face. It was not the circular type of head protection for motorcyclists, but square-shaped. The mouth was a straight bar of emerald neon.
He saw me. A sense of unrelenting terror overcame me. For a second I would have sworn I saw his elbow lift a bit. It was as if he was about to aim at me. He second-guessed the action. He then sprinted in the opposite direction before I could take a picture.
\*
Later, in the day, I walked up a steep incline lined with bark fragments and rocks. I saw some lights in the distance and followed them.
I found a small community with rows of cabins overlooking the lake. A pier sat isolated by the water. There were gift shops closed for business.
I laid eyes on a hotel that was two floors and had eight windows altogether.
I walked into the lobby. An old man met my gaze and stood up.
“Do you have a reservation?"
I told him I did not. I made it clear I was only passing through and that I had a few questions about the area if he did not mind answering them.
He seemed reluctant. I smelled of sweat.
I inquired about the best bait and tackle shops. I questioned him about which real estate companies owned the regional properties. Finally, I asked him what I wanted all along.
“Are there people who like to play dress up out in the woods? I know it may seem silly, but I know nowadays people like to do live-action role-playing and things like that.”
“What is that?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’m new to this area is all. I did live here before, I was super young the first time around, and it wasn’t year-round. Back then it was only to visit my grandfather. My folks retired here. They live only a half hour away to this day. I’m wondering if the hunters around here have a specific dress code. One that makes them seem a little weird, even.”
The senior’s eyes grew wide.
“Well,” he said as he put a wad of chew in the side of his mouth, “there have been sightings of an unusual man. The police are looking for him, last I heard. Rumors are that people have gone missing, but the local papers won’t report on it. I don’t know if there's a connection. May I ask, what did you do before coming here?”
“I was a salesman of sorts.”
“You may want to go back to that.”
\*
By the time I got back to my land, the sun fell. I approached my fort. I had the craziest of yearnings, one I could not believe I had felt for a moment.
I wanted to sleep in it. Something about the idea was more than nostalgic, it was the kind of comfort I needed.
It would be a strange trip down memory lane. It would take me back to those nights when my best friend and I would sneak out and not return home until daybreak. I remember the drifter. I shone my light on the place I planned to slumber, and it seemed free of litter, stains, or any kind of man-made pollution.
I laid down on it. I ran my fingers through the blades of grass. It occurred to me that they did not feel like they had sprung from the earth. They felt like confetti, plastic, and Monopoly-money stuck in the ground.
I sat up and clawed my fingers to the far edge between the makeshift wall and the turf. I grabbed a chunk of the corner and yanked.
I managed to roll up a piece of artificial earth, like the set design of a stage play. It was a carpet, made to look like nature. It was nothing more than an artificial and superficial landscape.
What it revealed was a flat door.
I retrieved my key and put it into the lock - it opened. I saw a wooden ladder there, splintered and uneven.
I used my flashlight to try and see what was down there, and all I see was another patch of dry dirt.
I climbed down.
The first thing I saw in the right corner was the same suit I had seen the man wearing the day before. It lay crumpled up on the floor, every bit as futuristic as my first impression, only this time it was not lit up. Someone folded the outfit and placed it there in a meticulous manner. It had a cord that hooked up to an electrical plug tower.
I turned around, stared at the wall, and felt my legs weaken.
A desk was there with many items on it. I saw identification cards, pieces of jewelry, and articles of clothing. There were ropes, handcuffs, blindfolds, mace, and photographs of the most horrifying nature.
What were once human beings now existed as photographic depictions of butchery.
At the bottom of the stack, I found one of a man posing next to the bodies. He had a cruel and mocking face, as though he delighted in the carnage.
I recognized him.
He was my father.
My grandfather died while shaving. I always wondered how far he had gotten into the process. He collapsed and suffered a severe concussion on the sink. The head injury did not end it all, as he was amidst an already fatal heart attack.
The day before the funeral, his widow, Cameron, asked me to step into a room in the main foyer of his manor.
I never realized how wealthy Grandpa was until I saw his home. The place had creeks, shrubbery mazes, and levels. Rumor had it that he was a savvy investor, although into what was a mystery to me for years. I found out he had been an early financier of a cigar company that had peaked in sales two decades prior. He had managed to get out of the market before it collapsed.
Cameron and I sat down in a room with an oval oak table that looked out at a lake. She reached into her pocket and unfolded a map with a circle drawn in red marker around the top of the left corner.
“We need to talk about your inheritance," she said. “I am the executor. I have all the appropriate documents to back up my claims here today should you have any questions. James always thought you had potential, but he was afraid. He did not want to ruin any legacy you may have by giving you too much. He did not want to spoil you before you could make something of yourself. Based on what I’ve heard about the construction company you run, you're doing fine. When I die, this house is going to your sister. I’m sorry to say that you were not in line to take this piece of property or any of its belongings. He did give you land, though.”
I blinked. “Is it the golf course out back?”
“No. He recalled with a fondness how, when you were younger, you would play with your best friend. I cannot recall her name - in the desolation wilderness of the mountains. He said you built a fort out there the two of you loved. He purchased it out of pure sentimentality and gave it to you. He wanted to reward you with something you could build on. It’s fenced off, so you should not have any problems finding it with these printed coordinates.”
I gave a nod and placed the map in my shirt pocket.
“One last question,” I said before we exited the room, “may I ask what my parents have gotten?”
“Yes, his board game collection.”
“I see. How many of those did he own?”
“One.”
\*
The next few days passed in a blur. The memorial was as lavish as it could get. An entire banquet team fed us. A full-fledged orchestra belted out Tchaikovsky. His coffin lowered into the ground with his favorite classical music surrounding him.
Later that night in my hotel room, I sat with a bottle of Bushmill on the nightstand. I found myself growing resentful.
My sister has gotten a house worth millions of dollars, whereas I am handed a patch of dirt. I would have to sink money and labor into it to make something valuable.
My childhood images of playing in that area were not as strong as other reminiscences. They became eclipsed by the yelling from my parents when I got back home. They interrogated me about where I had been. Dad, particularly, took issue with me not giving my whereabouts. He threatened to let the dog urinate in my bed and stated he would make me sleep in it.
I could bring back the times when Adeline and I had built a makeshift house out of tree branches. We had strung them together with fabric we cut from our backpacks.
Adeline would die in a car accident on Interstate 80 when she was twenty years old.
I repressed my emotions towards those times. I could not remember if I enjoyed those outdoor adventures. They may have been chores completed to feel less alone.
I called Cameron the next day and asked her if she knew what the lot was worth.
“I do,” she said. “It’s priceless.”
\*
The barrier around the woodland I was now the sole proprietor of seemed new. Harsh weather had not yet tainted it. There was not any gratuitous graffiti or warped entry points from trespassers. The wall was not made of chain metal but obsidian. This left me scratching my head. How much it must have cost to export, let alone have a group of laborers put that much time into it, left me astonished.
I had stalled on visiting the place. I could not quite place why I made this deliberate procrastination. I had this indeterminable feeling to not let my presence be known there.
Cameron had mailed me a key, and it was an older rusted style kind, like it may have once belonged to a PO Box from the 70s. I searched around the perimeter for the front door. I came across a very narrow door with two indentations on either side of it.
There were symbols on either side of the threshold. They resembled a country’s flag with squared shapes. Angled lines and unrecognizable emblems decorated them.
I turned the key and stepped into the acreage which now belonged to me.
My boots crunched on gray and yellowed leaves. I made my way past an entangled and knotted mess of pines overlapped by time and nature. There was no trail, nor any walkways, only small clearings. I stepped on shrubs torn apart by the wind.
It only took me ten minutes of exploration to find the fort Adeline and I had built. It stood there, thinner than I remembered. Its wooden structure is so much frailer than back then. What we had manifested with our hands now had a blanket of moss around it. The shape of it went from a dome-like place of sturdiness in our youth to a horizontal edifice ready to buckle.
I peered into the only fissure one could slide their body through, shone a penlight in, and saw a man there. He was asleep in a fetal position.
What was most uncanny of all was how there was a symbol surrounding him, outlined in red chalk or dust. The illustration was identical to what I had seen on the trees in the first passage.
The man woke up and stared at me. He gave me an awkward smile, rather than a threatening one, which perturbed me even further.
“You can’t be here," I said. “This is my land. Don’t make me call the police.”
“He…he’s out there."
“Who are you talking about?"
“A hunter. He doesn’t prey on deer. He searches for people like you and me.”
After another advisement, the man left. I agreed to give him time to pack up his belongings. In reality, I did not have any weapons on me, but I kept my hand in my waistband to make him think I could be carrying. Once he was past the gate, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked around once again at the place.
I went back into the fort and destroyed the crimson sign by blowing on the lines of dust until they scattered.
\*
I went to my hotel room that night, which was only four miles away from my piece of acreage. I planned on revisiting it in the morning. Chronic insomnia befell me. I tossed and turned, even with the desperate elixir of a highball whiskey to try to get me to pass out. By the time dawn arrived, I decided to go back to the fort. This time I brought a large knife.
I noticed something burning an unnatural color through the pines. I ducked down and inched closer to it. I hoped it was a flashlight used by early-rising hitchhikers.
What I saw left me in a state of shock. He stood a hundred feet away and carried a rifle slung over his front. The man stood the same height as me. The outfit he wore was unlike anything I would have expected from someone in the woods.
His suit had tubes wrapped around it. Each one emanated the same verdant tinge. Even the clouds in the distance behind him possessed a hue of greenish effervescence. A helmet covered his face. It was not the circular type of head protection for motorcyclists, but square-shaped. The mouth was a straight bar of emerald neon.
He saw me. A sense of unrelenting terror overcame me. For a second I would have sworn I saw his elbow lift a bit. It was as if he was about to aim at me. He second-guessed the action. He then sprinted in the opposite direction before I could take a picture.
\*
Later, in the day, I walked up a steep incline lined with bark fragments and rocks. I saw some lights in the distance and followed them.
I found a small community with rows of cabins overlooking the lake. A pier sat isolated by the water. There were gift shops closed for business.
I laid eyes on a hotel that was two floors and had eight windows altogether.
I walked into the lobby. An old man met my gaze and stood up.
“Do you have a reservation?"
I told him I did not. I made it clear I was only passing through and that I had a few questions about the area if he did not mind answering them.
He seemed reluctant. I smelled of sweat.
I inquired about the best bait and tackle shops. I questioned him about which real estate companies owned the regional properties. Finally, I asked him what I wanted all along.
“Are there people who like to play dress up out in the woods? I know it may seem silly, but I know nowadays people like to do live-action role-playing and things like that.”
“What is that?”
“Nothing to worry about. I’m new to this area is all. I did live here before, I was super young the first time around, and it wasn’t year-round. Back then it was only to visit my grandfather. My folks retired here. They live only a half hour away to this day. I’m wondering if the hunters around here have a specific dress code. One that makes them seem a little weird, even.”
The senior’s eyes grew wide.
“Well,” he said as he put a wad of chew in the side of his mouth, “there have been sightings of an unusual man. The police are looking for him, last I heard. Rumors are that people have gone missing, but the local papers won’t report on it. I don’t know if there's a connection. May I ask, what did you do before coming here?”
“I was a salesman of sorts.”
“You may want to go back to that.”
\*
By the time I got back to my land, the sun fell. I approached my fort. I had the craziest of yearnings, one I could not believe I had felt for a moment.
I wanted to sleep in it. Something about the idea was more than nostalgic, it was the kind of comfort I needed.
It would be a strange trip down memory lane. It would take me back to those nights when my best friend and I would sneak out and not return home until daybreak. I remember the drifter. I shone my light on the place I planned to slumber, and it seemed free of litter, stains, or any kind of man-made pollution.
I laid down on it. I ran my fingers through the blades of grass. It occurred to me that they did not feel like they had sprung from the earth. They felt like confetti, plastic, and Monopoly-money stuck in the ground.
I sat up and clawed my fingers to the far edge between the makeshift wall and the turf. I grabbed a chunk of the corner and yanked.
I managed to roll up a piece of artificial earth, like the set design of a stage play. It was a carpet, made to look like nature. It was nothing more than an artificial and superficial landscape.
What it revealed was a flat door.
I retrieved my key and put it into the lock - it opened. I saw a wooden ladder there, splintered and uneven.
I used my flashlight to try and see what was down there, and all I see was another patch of dry dirt.
I climbed down.
The first thing I saw in the right corner was the same suit I had seen the man wearing the day before. It lay crumpled up on the floor, every bit as futuristic as my first impression, only this time it was not lit up. Someone folded the outfit and placed it there in a meticulous manner. It had a cord that hooked up to an electrical plug tower.
I turned around, stared at the wall, and felt my legs weaken.
A desk was there with many items on it. I saw identification cards, pieces of jewelry, and articles of clothing. There were ropes, handcuffs, blindfolds, mace, and photographs of the most horrifying nature.
What were once human beings now existed as photographic depictions of butchery.
At the bottom of the stack, I found one of a man posing next to the bodies. He had a cruel and mocking face, as though he delighted in the carnage.
I recognized him.
He was my father.
| 22,000 mlx | |
| 31 | |
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