For The Memory of Mikey Lane was the title of the group email sent to me from Sandy about commemorating the loss of our mutual friend, Mikey, who had gone missing in the Atchafalaya wetlands a year ago. That same email sent me north on I-10, many miles past the small southern towns nestled along the lowlands, many miles past the last Bait and Gas shop, then further through a tunnel of Oaks and Ashes, along a dirt road until seemingly out of nowhere the cabin appeared in a glade, engulfed in kudzu and weeds.
The cabin was entirely blue: trim, shutters, doors — all blue. The weeds surrounding the cabin had grown many feet high offering a soft, brushing woosh under my approaching truck. Yet, the closer I drew, the stranger the cabin appeared. Despite the kudzu creeping from within the trees, covering the ground, the trees, and doing its best to overtake the cabin, the building somehow looked unweathered, like a house from the city I just drove away from. And an eerie feeling of familiarity overcame me when I stepped out of my truck into the humid-heavy August evening.
There were no other cars. I must’ve beaten the others. According to Sandy’s email, and my phone — when it still had service — this was the place we would spend the weekend remembering Mikey. Under the bench seat of my pickup, I retrieved a bottle of whiskey. Charlotte, my on and off again girlfriend, and I were on one of our breaks, so I took a long swig.
I grabbed my bag and made my way through the sea of weeds to the front door of the blue cabin. The door was locked. A combo key lock hung from the knob. There might have been booking information attached to the group email, which might include a combination, but who pays attention to such details?
Around the side of the house, I moved through the kudzu tangling my legs like so many fingers, when I noticed that one of the lights was on in the cabin. But why? Had the others already arrived and parked somewhere else?
I sat below the side window taking swigs of whiskey, when I heard someone’s voice from inside. They must’ve already gotten in. I found that the side window slid open with only a slight nudge, and in I climbed. Once inside, I realized that the light I had previously seen to be lit, was off. The whole interior was dark and stank of an earthy mold.
“Hello?”
My voice echoed into the darkened cabin. What had seemed so small on the outside now felt as large as a warehouse.
“Sandy, Beth, Josh? You there?”
No answer.
I clicked on the flashlight of my phone. Mismatched chairs filled the room, holes chewed in the bottom of their fabrics by rats. A coffee table held a few magazines swollen by humidity and strangely I saw an old Polaroid of a group of friends and the man in the middle looked just like me.
There was no way.
I chalked it up to coincidence, and perhaps, drink.
Then, when I turned around, I was faced with a narrow hall. Perhaps I had taken more turns than I remembered. When I flashed my light down the hall, it stretched so far the end disappeared into darkness, like a well.
I walked quickly into the abyssal black when I heard the sound of a voice.
“Welcome.”
I flipped around.
Nothing.
And I turned again.
Darkness.
The walls of the hall felt like they were constricting, almost breathing. I knew I had heard a voice. The sound was clear as day, as if the person stood right next to me. But no one else was here.
A chill rushed across my skin. Strangely, the cold felt as if it was next to me, isolated. I’d never felt weather in that way. Suddenly, the kitchen opened out in front of me. Rust spotted the faucet and cobwebs blanketed the sink-basin. Two windows looked out back covered in layers of kudzu. Somehow it had gotten dark outside in what I thought was only a few minutes since I had been lost in this maze-like cabin.
Where were my friends? I wondered.
Then, I noticed a faint chittering like a small creature, perhaps a mouse, chewing on something. I scanned my light around the wood-slatted walls and there was a door. I stepped closer. My whole body shivered. A rotten odor hit my nose and behind the door lay a decomposing mass and countless sets of glowing eyes. A horde of rats chewed at something. I shouted and stamped but they wouldn’t move. Behind this disturbing orgy, I saw a broom which I swatted at the rats with and they scurried away, shrilly squealing.
I bent down to look at whatever huddled mass it was they were chewing on. It was covered in tiny, throbbing maggots and buzzing flies. I nudged it with the edge of my boot and when the object rolled over I saw what looked like a human skull beneath the hair and bugs. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, expecting to see Sandy or Josh but met only silence.
From somewhere which felt only inches away, I heard the voice again.
“Welcome home Mikey.”
And I ran back through the endless hallway to the window, crashing through. Panicked, I couldn’t find my car keys. I took off into the kudzu trying to get as far as I could from the cabin and once I couldn’t breathe any longer, I stopped. Off in the distance, I saw the light had turned back on in the cabin and then I saw a face in the window that looked exactly like mine, but when I tried to step closer, back toward the cabin I realized I had lost my way.
About Joseph Buckley: Joseph Buckley is a poet and dark fiction writer based in New Orleans, LA. His work is featured in December, Carve Magazine, The Horror Zine, and elsewhere.
