Little Cabin in the Woods
By Mac Morse ‘14
Whack. Whack. Whack. Chips of wood flew in every direction as the cold steel axe blade tore into the hard maple. Tom wiped the slowly accumulating sweat off his brow and continued to chop. Within minutes the tall, brown, giant that once stood so proud and accomplished lay motionless and dead on the forest floor.
Ask anybody in the small town of Granite Creek who Tom is, and the glowing answer would contain bits about his pleasantness and kindness; but that is only half the story. Tom is more than a nice man; he is a lonesome one. He spends most of his time in his cabin twelve miles from town in the mountains cutting prize timber for furniture. On Saturdays, Tom piles his dilapidated truck full of the handcrafted pieces and drives them into town to the local market. There locals buy the pieces, providing Tom with enough money for the week. Any excess money he has is always donated to the local animal shelter from which Tom’s five-year-old pooch, Rex, came. In the eyes of the town, he is a saint.
Tom awoke to a dim overcast day that Granite Creek was famous for. He kindled a small fire in the woodstove and it crackled slowly as Tom hoisted a dingy flannel jacket over his broad shoulders, laced his worn leather boots, and opened the cabin door to the light drizzle outside. The worn hickory axe felt good in his hands as he made the trek through the woods to the tree he had selected a few days ago. Its maple wood was perfect for a stool. The air whistled as the axe sped towards the tree. Whack. Whack. The tree was almost a fourth of the way cut when an unfamiliar sound rang through the damp forest. Rex was barking. That’s strange. Rex never barks, Tom thought. The barking increased in intensity; Tom knew something was very wrong. He sheathed the axe and sprinted towards the cabin, dodging thick undergrowth. He rounded a small knoll and an awful sight filled his eyes. The cabin was engulfed in a blazing inferno. The crackling was deafening as he moved carefully towards the doorway. He was about to try and salvage what he could from the cabin when he saw her: a young girl, unconscious in the doorway, flames almost surrounding her. Tom whipped the coat off his back and tried to beat back the intense flames as he rushed to the doorway. He grabbed her and with a last push of strength managed to pull her from the burning cabin. Away from the inferno she regained consciousness. Tom quickly asked, “What were you doing? You could’ve been killed.”
“I…I…was… ,” she stuttered but she couldn’t complete the sentence before she fell back into unconsciousness.
The wail of the sirens brought a sense of relief to Tom as he saw the local sheriff’s car round the corner. Tom waved him over, expecting Maurice, the sheriff, to greet him with a sense of appreciation. What happened next was quite the opposite. Maurice leapt out of the car with his gun drawn, yelling at Tom to drop his axe and back away from the girl. Tom protested but Maurice wasn’t taking any chances. Maurice lunged toward Tom, the butt of his shotgun slamming into Tom’s stomach. Another powerful blow went straight to his head. Tom collapsed–out cold.
A damp smell of mildew drifted through the air filling Tom’s nose. His eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the dark light. Where am I? He wondered. A window let in miniscule amounts of light, illuminating only parts of the tiny room. His whole body ached, especially his head. The sound of jingling keys rang down the corridor as an overweight man in a uniform appeared. Tom groggily muttered, “Who are you and why am I here?”
The uniformed man replied “Quiet…Murderer.” Tom’s head was spinning. Murder? Jail? Then the memories from the previous day flooded his mind. It’s all a mistake, I tried to help her! he thought. He tried to yell to the jailer but it was no use. His fate was sealed.
Tom spent the next four years of his life in that tiny dark, damp, jail cell, deep in his thoughts, constantly reliving every moment of that fateful day. He began to lose it–often not moving or eating for days. He just lay in his cot thinking and growing hatred towards Maurice.
On particularly rainy day, the keys jingled down the hallway. Tom rose from his bed. What could this pig want now? he thought. The door to his cell opened. A voice muttered “You’re free, the charges have been found false.” Tom couldn’t believe it. He was free. He gathered what little of his belongings were left and stepped outside into the real ,world. His truck, kept impounded for those years, was waiting for him at the door. As he drove the short distance to his home, people stared. At every corner women, children and men would point, all thinking the same thing: There’s the killer. Tom was filled with rage.
Dusk settled as he pulled into the charred remains of a once-quaint little cabin where he built his life. He stood in the burnt doorway, remembering all that had happened for the millionth time. But this time was different. Anger, rage, and regret overwhelmed him sending him into an even deeper state of insanity. He grabbed the axe, which lay untouched and rusty from the years, jumped in his truck, and sped off. The moon was high in the cloudy night sky as Tom’s headlights shone on the green car labeled SHERRIF. The dashboard read 2:23am as Tom stepped out of the truck, axe in hand. It was warm. Maurice had left his windows open. Tom gracefully slipped through. He approached Maurice who was lost in slumber. Tom chuckled crazily under his breath. “Just like a tree,” he whispered.