Hunter's Trap

By Anne Michaud

"Ghosts don't believe in you, either."

Seventeen-year-old Dayton Mulligan is stuck looking after his little brother Jeremy when their father goes off on his annual hunting trip. But when Dad’s last phone call ends in a shotgun blast, it's enough to send both boys out into a blizzard to search for him.

Caught in the killer weather, Dayton and Jeremy take refuge in an abandoned hunting cabin, which isn't as empty as it first seems. A ghost inhabits its walls and promises to reveal the truth behind their father's disappearance, but the brothers doubt their host's sincerity as the spirit demonstrates its hatred for anyone who trespasses on its land.

Far from the safety of civilization, Dayton must swallow his fears, fight for himself and for his family before it’s too late and Hunter’s Trap claims them all, forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Michaud
• Release date: Sep 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311820754

Anne Michaud

A veteran political journalist, Anne is an assistant managing editor for Crain's New York Business. She previously reported for The Wall Street Journal and wrote a nationally syndicated op-ed column for Newsday. She has won more than 25 writing and reporting awards and has twice been named "Columnist of the Year," by the New York News Publishers Association and the New York State Associated Press Association. Anne covered Bill Clinton's 1996 re-election campaign, Anthony Weiner's 2005 mayoral bid and Eliot Spitzer's rise and fall as New York's governor from 2006 to 2008. Her work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, The Boston Globe, Newsweek, BusinessWeek.com, Crain's NY Business, Cincinnati Magazine and more. Anne has appeared on numerous television and radio programs, including WNYC's The Brian Lehrer Show, NY1's Reporters' Roundtable and Fox 5 News WNYW. She's a graduate of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. For more information about Anne and her career, visit annemichaud.com.

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HUNTER'S TRAP

by Anne Michaud

Sad Ghost Press

Canada

DEDICATION

So many people have helped me through this long, long process of getting this book together, that I wish to thank: Adam Sydney, Julie Lee Drapeau, Colin F. Barnes, Frank Hutton, Dianne Wayne, Marianne Su, François Tremblay, Angela Addams, Jack Holt, Krista Walsh, Tammy Crosby, Darke Conteur, & the monsters playing inside my head.

COPYRIGHT

SMASHWORDS EDITION

First published in United States in 2014 by Sad Ghost Press

Copyright © Anne Michaud 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1 The cabin in the woods

2 Winter Box

3 Hunted Hunters

4 The Shadow of a Man

5 Morning Glory

6 Hunters’ Trap

7 Gathering The Storm

8 Dead Walk

9 Ghost Hunting

10 Spirit of the Wild

11 No Rest for the Wicked

THE CABIN IN THE WOODS

Fingertips frozen into numbness, blood smeared the window as the glass cut through his skin. With cold-shaking hands, he slid the pane off and looked inside the cabin. A pit of darkness, its tombstone silence felt heavy after the hard blowing winds of the blizzard. His breath hung before his face as he hesitated between staying outside in the forest or stepping into the pitch black. Dayton had never broken into a stranger's home before, but there was no turning back now.

You’re bleeding all over the place, Jeremy said through rattling teeth.

Stopping his little brother’s shivers was enough motivation to push himself up onto the windowsill, Dayton entered the empty space. His icy soles slipped on the floor until his hand found the wood paneled wall for support, leaving red fingerprints in the dust.

Hello? Anybody home? he called. His gaze searched the dingy living room and kitchenette, the cabin obviously used for hunting season only. In the darkness of the hall, he’d probably find a few rooms and the shithole. Empty and dead, no one was in there, so he switched the dim lights on, faking warmth.

From outside, Dad’s not here, can we just go now? Jeremy asked in such a tiny voice, he sounded five years old instead of twelve. Then again, walking through a snowstorm for hours could do that to anybody. Have you checked your phone? Maybe he called and we missed it.

But their father wouldn't be calling him, not after Dayton’s claim to independence finished on both parts by Fuck you and a slam of the front door.

Instead, he answered, No bars in a storm, Jer. Dayton sighed after repeating himself for the billionth time and caught his backpack by its straps. Come through here, the front door’s blocked by snow. He helped his brother join him inside, the cabin still better than the chill of the wild and the snowflakes attacking. This is the place, he was here when he last called you. Probably outside, though. Thanks to that GPS tracker, they'd found the cabin off a road going to a nowhere town, but not their father and his buddies, who’d been missing for days. They hadn’t found them yet, anyway.

Dayt, there’s no trails coming in or going out in the snow, he’s left this place. And we’re not supposed to be here. The owners could come back anytime and call the police. When scared, Jeremy whined with a high-pitched voice.

Don’t worry about the rangers. Dayton walked deeper into the gloom, his eyes slowly adjusting. They said bad weather got in the way of their search, we’ll be fine as long as it snows. The slackers had stopped the minute the storm blew in, searching amateurs giving up before they even started. If only Dayton could show them up and prove them wrong.

I’m cold and I’m hungry, Jeremy complained in a quiet voice.

Me too. Dayton grabbed the backpack from the floor, leaving a puddle of melting snow. We got stuff in here for a week, if we’re careful. Find us something to cook and I'll build the fire, ‘kay? Something heavy, so it’ll be less of a pain to carry around. His sore shoulders and stiff back were painful proofs.

We won't be here a week, right? Jeremy kept his mittens on to dig into the duffle bag. We'll find Dad before night and go back home, Dayt? Even if we have to hitchhike with those weird truckers again, I'd rather we go sooner than later.

Sure, but his voice got lost in the wind's eerie whistle as he stuffed the broken glass with the limp curtains. Dayton hurried up, the cabin's moldy smell all the more heavy in the air, hanging around them like a cloud of electricity.

A distinct crack echoed from the darkness, Jeremy whispered, This place is creepy. Shadowing Dayton, he moved toward the stone fireplace, right behind him. The logs are stashed on the porch, Dayt, he said, sitting down on the couch facing the fireplace. Dust rose up and he coughed, swatting the air before his face as he held onto his phone. I’ve got no reception whatsoever. Not that he needed reception to listen to their father’s last message, recorded on the phone.

Dayton knew it by heart, like he knew his father’s deep baritone voice and thin laugh. Hey, Jer. I hope Dayt's back and didn't get into too much trouble. Static, growing into a numb screech. We’ve hit a roadblock over here. Stu got into a fight with another hunting party, they don’t want us around, so we’ll be moving camp to the other side of the hill. Be back on Sunday around brunch time, love ya son, see you soon. Normal message, almost mundane, but for the last part.

Before he hung up, the phone recorded a loud bang, like a gunshot, and their father’s last words on the recording were Hey! Don’t shoot- then it died. Dayton tried really hard to forget that last part, triggering remorse in his chest. Gunshots were never good, in the city or out in the bush.

He fought the lock to open the front door and backed off from the load of snow pushing in. White shit. To his left, neatly piled firewood sat between the door and the window they’d broken in. Good call, Jer.

We’re wasting our time being here, Jeremy said, his phone's blue screen reflecting on his face. In the dark, his brown hair looked black. Dad is gone.

Arms full of logs, Dayton fought against the invading snow bank, trying to shut the door. Don't say that. He knelt by the fireplace, added newspaper to the wood from the reserve by the round-stone chimney, and held his father's Zippo under the pile. He’s around here, somewhere in the woods. Where else would he be?

I’m not saying he’s not here. I think he’s gone, that’s all. Jeremy hid the bottom of his face behind his thick scarf. He blinked back tears, trying to hide them but failing.

Dayton looked away from the small light of the fire. Then what are you saying, you think Dad’s dead? A stone dropped in his stomach as his kid brother nodded without a word. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but if he gave into it, if either of them did... Stop it. Don’t think like that, don’t ever speak it again, got it? Too harsh, he’d reacted like their father when he wanted to convince people. Nothing else worked on his little brother, anyway.

Okay. Jeremy wiped his eyes and blew on his fingers, before grabbing two cans. Beef stew's for you. He dropped one of the cans, the can-opener in the way of a better grip. The can of stew rolled to Dayton’s feet, the noise so loud in this strange place full of shadows.

I know, Mr. Vegetarian. Dayton rubbed his hands together over the growing fire, feeling them warm up. He winced at the cuts on his left hand as their numbness faded. Blood had stained his skin and reddened the lines of his hands, but it'd stopped dripping out.

Do you really believe he’s still alive? Jeremy asked, scooped up on the mantel step, hugging himself. With his face lit up by the flames, Jeremy looked on fire. Or did we come all this way for nothing?

We’ll find him, I promise. Dayton found it hard to look at his brother, struggling between a lie and a hard truth. Instead, he bent over and took off the lids, pushing the cans into the fire's shades of red. He can't have gone too far, with that storm. He found the best emplacement for the food to cook, ignoring his fast-beating heart and his own doubts. Too late to back up now, the city was far behind them.

Where did you go, Dayt? I waited for you four nights, but you never came back. Jeremy kept his gaze on the fire when Dayton glanced at him. Maybe it was better this way, at least his brother wouldn’t see the surprise on his face. You didn’t go to work at the bakery. Tony was pissed off, but I told him you were sick.

Thanks, Dayton whispered, knowing how Jeremy hated to play pretend. It gets too much, sometimes and... Dad can't expect me to stick around for long, not when I'm eighteen. You get that, right? I'll leave home to find my own, and soon. He cleared his throat, playing with the Zippo’s cap. On and off, on and off, on and off.

You turn eighteen in two months, Dayt. I mean, you're not going to leave just like that, the way Mom did? Jeremy waited for Dayton to shake his head to add, I hope you say goodbye, at least. And that you'll visit, even if Dad's still mad at you. Jeremy had no idea of the pressure in Dayton's chest.

He won't be mad for long, once we get him out of here, Dayton lied. He’d wondered about their pending reunion ever since they left the city. We'll see each other plenty, Jer. I promise you'll never be alone at home again. Because when Dayton had run away, he'd never thought their father would leave, too.

You’re more like Dad than you think, going away to clear your head and stuff. Jeremy rocked himself a bit, before whispering, They’re drunk in the woods and can’t find their way back.

That’s what everybody is saying. Dayton remembered the phone call to the guys’ wives, no one else worried about their extended stay. He repeated what one of girls actually said to comfort them: No one will call child services on the Mulligan boys. But if they did, Dayton would be separated from his brother forever.

You’re leaking, Jeremy snickered, pointing at Dayton's head with a spoon, before giving it to him. You’re melting like a snowman.

As much as Jeremy’s snorts usually got on his nerves, hearing him laugh calmed Dayton for once. He cracked a smile and released his shoulders relaxing him even more. The Frosty fiasco all over again.

But then floorboards from the back of the cabin cracked so loud, Jeremy’s eyes rounded into almost perfect circles as they met Dayton’s. Neither of them moved, waiting for something like screams and threats. None came and everything was silent but for the low whistle of the cans steaming into the fire.

Hello? Dayton called in the empty space, Is anybody here? For his benefit as much as Jeremy’s, It’s just the wind against the walls. Then he ventured, Get ready to run for it, just in case. As he poked his spoon into the cans to check the meal, his stomach whined and roared.

Jeremy whispered, If someone's in here, they already know about us. The swish of Jeremy’s jacket sent a shock of fright down Dayton’s back like a bad surprise.

Don't worry about it. Dayton cooled the steaming mixture with his breath, but still burned his tongue. Eat it all, ‘kay? We never know when we can build a fire to warm these up. He protected his hands with his hoodie sleeves to pass the piping hot can, and unbuttoned his wool coat as he sat. Not used to wearing so many layers underneath, his long johns softened the hard floor for his butt. Their mission seemed less disastrous already, Dayton even believed for a second that they’d survive the night. Good?

Hot, Jeremy said between two sharp intakes of air. Steam shot out of his mouth but he shoved more food in, starved. I love beans.

Yeah, you'd hate mine, plenty of meat in this. Dayton finished his chunky stew two bites before Jeremy and drank from his water bottle. The cool liquid soothed his burning mouth and quenched his dry throat.

What’s that? his brother asked, his gaze seeking the dark kitchen.

Dayton leaned away from the crackling fire and heard them loud and clear: footsteps on the floorboards, someone walking at the back of the cabin, behind one of those closed doors. Someone who belonged there, unlike them.

He jumped as the wind rattled the shutters against the outside walls in a demented beat, his foot sliding in the melting snow dripping from their boots onto the floor, puddles reflecting the dancing flames of the fireplace. The brothers didn’t move, barely breathed and didn’t dare speak, until Jeremy dispelled the curse.

You should check it out, Dayt. His voice, so low it broke twice. Like you should have when we first walked in. The reproach hung heavy in the air, between the brothers. Jeremy spat in a whisper. And don’t be yourself, be nice with them.

Shut up, Jer. Dayton stood up in silence and left the empty can on the mantel, its spoon thunking the metal loudly. He cleared his throat to cover it. Hello? I’m sorry we broke in, but we were stuck in the storm and had nowhere else to go. An echo came back at him, but nothing else. We’ll pay you back for the logs, if you want. The silent cabin stood uneasy against the blizzard that was trying to get in by the covered window. The curtain blew free in the breeze.

Maybe it’s Dad and he’s hurt. Maybe he’s waiting for us in one of these rooms. Come on, go check it out, Jeremy urged him, but Dayton didn’t move, trapped with overwhelming doubt. You got your jack-knife?

The knife their father gave Dayton when he turned thirteen and showed interest in fishing, which lasted one dawn session of mosquito bites and boring lakeside talk. But Dayton had kept it as a family memento more than a weapon, until now.

Yeah, got it. Dayton held on the textured handle with his left hand. Stay here.

No problem. Jeremy sat back on the mantel step, his eyes grave. I won’t move.

Dayton entered the dark hall one tentative step at a time, making sure his body weight wouldn’t put pressure on the creaking floors. As soon as he had the hang of it and could walk silently, a huge crack echoed around him.

Sheesh, could you be any louder? Jeremy asked but got no answer, not even a cuss or a click of tongue. Dayton was too close to the others; he could feel them.

A tang lingered in the air, like when their father came back from the woods after one of his trips, bringing wilderness back to civilization. Like wood burning, wild beast and fresh air mixed together in one musky cologne, but this time it smelled dangerous and uncontrollable and foreign.

My name is Dayton. He knocked on the first door, his knuckles hitting the wood painfully loudly. I’m here with my brother Jeremy. We’re looking for a bunch of guys hunting in the area, guys from the city coming for the long weekend. But he felt the emptiness of the room beyond, his voice resounding into a solemn space filled with the unknown.

Locked. Strange. He brushed the knob keyhole with his fingertips and breathed out. Not someone who locked himself in, but probably to keep the owner’s valuables from the cabin renters.

So, is there someone? Jeremy asked from under his scarf, his muffled voice a strain in the big room. Dayt, can you hear me? he shouted, his shadow becoming bigger as he stood up by the fire. What's going on back there?

I’m in the hallway, quit freaking out. He peeked from the corner, finding his brother where he’d left him by the glow of the flames. There’s no one in here, we’re all alone. Now more than ever, he needed his brother to be courageous, not scared shitless like he’d been since they left the apartment.

Can you come back here, then? Jeremy whispered loudly. I don’t like it.

Dayton closed his eyes for a second, seizing his fists and squeezing to get the tension out. Stay there, I just want to check things out. He added, before Jeremy complained again,I want to know what was that noise and where it came from.

The next door opened on a bathroom reeking of urine and rusty iron. Nothing personal littered the shelf above the ringed sink, and the medicine cabinet wouldn’t open from the yellow lime that crusted it shut. The open window created a draft with every wind gust, and the lightbulb buzzed until Dayton flicked it off, not remembering if he’d switched it on in the first place.

A sound came from behind him. He turned around, his hand tightening around his knife handle, but no one was there; only the closed curtain around the old foot tub, moving in the chilling breeze. Again, a slushy drip cut through the silence and stayed in his head, trapped in there.

The tiny window gave enough light to create a shadow in the tub behind the shower curtain. Tall and large, the shadow remained motionless, waiting.

Hey, there? Swallowing a lump the size of a stone, Dayton yanked the curtain out of the way so hard, its cheap plastic holes ripped from the rail rings. Eyes wide with fear, Dayton backed off, covering his mouth with disgust, and bumped into someone behind him.

Why are the coveralls so bloody? Jeremy asked in his ear, and Dayton's raging heart skipped a beat. There's red stuff everywhere. Guts, gore and stains marked the empty hunting gear that hung by the shower curtain rail.

Probably left forgotten by a hunter. It's useless now, anyway. Beef bits threatened to rise up Dayton’s throat as he glanced at the black goo glaze dripping down the limp legs. Old coagulated blood had frozen around the drain, and smelled bad. Don't touch it, could be bad luck or something. Dayton put a strong hand on Jeremy’s shoulder to stop him from approaching the faintly familiar overalls now worth shit. Hanging from the showerhead for who knows how long, its buttons had rusted and a crust of frost and ice formed where snow touched it.

Why would someone put these in a tub and not outside to wash it off? Do they keep their things gross so it'll attract prey on their next trip? Jeremy sounded