Isaac could describe the cabin in a plethora of single-word ways: Cold. He almost always had a log or two burning in the cobble stone fireplace to keep at least part of it warm. Dusty. It didn’t matter how often the damn thing was wiped down, there was always a thin blanket of particles and cobweb over every surface the next day. As of late, Isaac only focused on keeping his bed and work-desk cleaned off; sometimes the dining table when he actually ate there and not on the front porch. Ancient. He wasn’t sure when it had been constructed, nor by who but he was certain that it was older than he dared speculate. Maybe it had always existed here, might as well have. Haunted. Debatable. Certainly, less than the woods that surrounded it.
Lonely. More than any other descriptor, the cabin was lonely. Located deep in the mountainous woods of West Virginia, the next nearest settlement to it was a village in a small holler, five miles east. Isaac had nobody living around him he could contact if he needed anything. It was fortunate then, he supposed, that he almost never did. There were no roads to the cabin, and it seemed one could only find it if they already knew it was there and were aware of where to look. Or, if they stumbled on it by complete accident like he had.
At least the mail ran on time. Better than on time, actually; the mail always seemed to come early. Isaac often received letters and packages the very next day after they were shipped. Same with letters going out. He would put a letter in the mailbox with the flag up, it would disappear overnight and arrive in possession of whoever it was going to the next morning. Though, his publisher did tell him his manuscripts never did arrive with any postmarks over the stamps… Come to think of it, Isaac was pretty sure the USPS might not be able to reach him, on account of the whole ‘no roads for five miles’ thing… He also figured it was probably best not to think about that too hard; he always had enough things going on to worry about.
For a cabin in the middle of nowhere with no road connecting it to the rest of civilization, it seemed to get a lot of visitors. Normally that wouldn’t bother him, (Isaac wasn’t an extrovert, but he also wasn’t inhospitable) but it seemed like a lot of visitors he received tended to arrive at inopportune moments, and also possibly weren’t human? He wasn’t entirely sure what the visitors were. Hungry? Most of the visitors were famished and in need of shelter. Isaac had plenty of food and a pull-out bed concealed within the (very) dusty old sofa. Plus… he was technically squatting and hadn’t paid any property or utility taxes for the last four years. The cabin had been there for him when he needed it, who was he to turn someone else away? Just because a lot of its visitors were… If someone needed help, they needed help.
The bell in Isaac’s typewriter dinged as he came to the end of the line. He cranked the handle and slid the carriage all the way back to the right, only to be greeted by the bottom of the page no longer held in place by the platen. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, yanked the sheet free of the paper lock and slid it into the bottom of his growing stack of stationery and ink that made up his current rough draft. He grabbed another piece of paper, rolled it into the machine and resumed typing.
A knock on the cabin door sent Isaac nearly flying up and out of his seat. Three. Stern. Knocks. He nearly knocked over his half-full glass of whiskey when it happened and that would’ve been an absolute bitch if it’d spilled on his draft or into the chasey of the typewriter. He sighed, looking up at the clock on the wall. 8:24 PM. ‘Inopportune times.’ He thought to himself, throwing back the entire rest of his drink as he stood up. It seemed his manuscript would have to wait until morning.
Three. More. Knocks. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Isaac shouted groggily, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the rustic wooden mirror hanging on the wall next to the door. He looked… rough, to say the least. Hair was messy and he hadn’t showered all day, nor had he shaved over a week. He was pretty sure he’d fallen asleep and woken up in the clothes he was currently wearing. His skin had an almost wet gleam to it. He probably would’ve felt self-conscious about himself if he wasn’t already three drinks into his evening.
Isaac swung the door open, the stink of copper immediately filling his nostrils. Outside, the eternal storm of blood rained down on the cabin from the open wound in the sky; same as it had since the day he’d first arrived here. Looking side-to-side out the door, even stepping out onto the porch beneath the overhang, he couldn’t see anyone standing anywhere. Even looking off into the woods as far back as he could make out, which wasn’t much further than the mailbox, it didn’t seem like there was anybody outside.
A distant shriek cut through the forest and over the sloshy sounds of the viscera downpour. Isaac shuddered. He didn’t like coming outside during the day, he’d broken one of his own rules by even stepping onto the porch past sundown. He’d done his part in looking, it was time to go back inside.
Citrus and the smell of sea salt filled his nostrils as he closed the door behind him, both were smells he wasn’t used to smelling around his home. The cabin wasn’t very big: consisting only of a main living space, a bedroom, a bathroom, and the door to the UNDER, which he had sworn never to open again. Beside the door, hanging on the standing coatrack, was a black fleece raincoat and trilby hat; blood dripping off them onto the wooden floor beneath. It hadn’t been there before, and its appearance made the hair on the back of Isaac’s neck stand on end. Nervously, he assessed his surroundings to see if he could find where it had originated from. It didn’t take him long to identify the source.
Sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, was an older gentleman, maybe in his late sixties or early seventies, dressed in a well-fitted black vest, tie, shirt and trousers. His shoes, though scuffed and smudged with bloody mud, were still visibly a rich, black leather. His skin was pale, but not exactly white. There was a very light melanin within that made him look radiantly golden in the light of the fireplace. He was bald, and his peppercorn beard was so thick, Isaac wasn’t even sure how the gentleman had managed to keep it so pristinely groomed. His chocolate eyes both had a white reflective shine to the centers of them; leukocoria, Isaac guessed. He was leaning forward, hands balled to fists in front of him, elbows pressed into his knees, staring straight into the fire.
Isaac had seen a lot of weird things in his time at the cabin. A LOT of weird things. A stranger making it inside without him seeing first didn’t even make the top ten. It probably didn’t even make the top twenty… Hell, this wasn’t even the first time it had happened. He sighed, slumped his shoulders a bit and rubbed his eyes. He could feel the whiskey he’d shot before standing up really start hit now, washing away what little anxiety he’d felt before the gentleman had arrived. Two or three more drinks in him and maybe he’d feel fully comfortable for the night?
“I’m pourin’ myself another bourbon. Can I get you one?” Isaac asked, walking over to his work desk, never allowing the gentleman to leave his sight. No response. “We’ve got rum too, if you’d prefer. Nothing fancy, just Calypso. Cheapest I could order in large quantities.” It occurred to Isaac that he might be oversharing, but he didn’t especially care. Social conventions went out the window, the second a stranger snuck into his- the cabin, uninvited.
“Alright then… two bourbons’…” Isaac said absentmindedly as he poured his cup halfway full before shooting it back completely. He wrinkled his nostrils, exhaled the burning sensation from his throat, and poured himself another drink. He grabbed a second glass from the shelf next to him and filled it as well. Walking over to the stranger, he sat the clean glass down on the floor beside his shoe, before sitting down on the opposite end of the couch.
“It’s hypnotic, isn’t it…” Isaac said, staring into the fire himself, taking another small sip of his drink.
“Aye. Hyp-notic.” The gentleman spoke like he was trying the word out for the first time. Isaac picked up on his accent and guessed he mightn’t have been a native English speaker. “Hyp-notic. Warming. Exactly what I needed after a day of travels and an evening of rain. I promise to be out of your burden once this weather has passed.”
Isaac let out a small chuckle that was almost a scoff. “Well, you might want to get comfortable.” He said, before taking another small sip.
The gentleman flashed a very toothy smile and even though his teeth weren’t perfectly straight, they were flawlessly white and impeccably clean. “I am very comfortable, writer.”
Isaac cocked his head slightly and gave him a questioning look. “How do you know what I do for a living?”
The gentleman slowly glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the desk against the wall and the typewriter illuminated by the soft yellow glow of the electric lamp he worked beneath in the evenings. Isaac followed his gaze, then nodded. “Ah! Yeah, I guess that kind of makes it obvious, doesn’t it.”
“It was the third thing my eyes were drawn to, after the fireplace.”
Isaac continued nodding along, taking another small sip. “Say uhhh… do you deliver my mail?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You were out pretty late. I was wondering if you maybe were the person who delivers my mail at night?” Isaac found himself having to focus harder on enunciating each and every word, his tongue feeling less and less responsive with every passing second.
“Do I look like a mailman to you?”
“No. I s’pose not… But I’ve never seen a mailman around here either so I don’t know.” The sound of the blood raining down on the roof above grew louder as the wound tore a bit deeper and worsened. It was always in a constant cycle of tearing and worsening, then healing and waning, on and on in a never-ending loop. Isaac wondered if the sky would ever recover. “It’s not safe to wander alone here at night.”
“It’s not safe to wander alone anywhere at night, when those who wish to do you harm are unshackled from the limitations of visibility and consequence.”
“Wow… Can I use that in my next story?”
“If you remember tomorrow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can smell the alcohol on your breath from across the room, writer.” The gentleman leaned forward and picked up his glass from the floor. He tilted it in front of his face, studying the chestnut brown liquid that sloshed around within. Slowly, he tilted it to his lips, savoring the sensation in opposition to his host’s gluttonous consumption.
“My name is Isaac, bye the way.”
“I’m aware. I’ve read your writings.”
“Really? A fan?”
“On your desk.”
“Huh?”
“The writings, on your desk. I read through them when I first entered.”
Isaac felt his blood run cold and took a big swig of his drink. From the time he’d stepped out onto the porch to look around, to when he came back in… it must’ve been less than a minute? How could this stranger have gained entry, hung up his hat and coat, read through (at least some of) his current writing project and taken a seat in that time, all without having tracked the muck from his shoes across the floor anywhere?
“Why a writer, I-saac? You could make so much more money doing something else. Instead, you’re holed up here, in a place most people could never find.”
“You found it.”
“My name is Never.”
“I don’t know…” Isaac sunk down into the couch, pulling his legs up into himself. It felt like the room temperature had dropped significantly in the last few minutes. He almost thought he could see his breath… “Honestly? Because it’s all I have? It’s all I know how to do and nothing else could make me feel the way this does? Because I loved it once and I really want to love it again. Because years of barely scraping by have let me do this and that’s better than if I had to do anything else.”
“You have no friends.”
“Nope. Not for a very long time.” Isaac threw back the remainder of his drink, gagged on it and shook his head aggressively. “Last time I had friends, it didn’t end well for th-” He cut himself off. “I’m sorry, am I correct in guessing you knew who I was before you came here?”
The gentleman flashed his pearly whites again before taking another sip of his drink. “No, Isaac Stonesun, I knew who you are before I came here. Don’t pretend you’ve changed when we both know you haven’t.”
Isaac nodded, sitting the glass down on the floor next to him. Not for the first time, he really wished he had a coffee table or something in front of the couch for him to set things down upon. ‘One more surface for me to not dust.’ “I’ve gotta admit, this’a first for me.” Words were becoming very difficult to pronounce. “I’m not use’ to like… no one’s called me that in years… not since…” Memories were starting to come flooding back. Isaac closed his eyes and slammed his fist into his thigh several times, focusing on the pain of each impact. “Shit!” He stood up, hands out on either side of him for balance. “Can we go back to s’mthin’?”
The gentleman looked over at him calmly. “What would you like to go back to?”
“Earlier you-” Isaac snapped his fingers a few times as he tried to jog his memory. “You said… You came in and you said your eyes were drawn to the typewriter third? After the fireplace?”
“This is correct.”
“What were your eyes drawn to first?”
Isaac didn’t need to ask. He already knew the answer deep down. Still, he followed the stranger’s gaze, as it slowly turned towards the wall at the back of the cabin… resting on the rickety old door with the chair propped beneath its handle and the word UNDER carved deep into it.
“Such a beautiful door you have defaced…” The gentleman said in an almost sing-song intonation. “And to have shut it so definitively… Are doors not made for traversing through? You have deprived this creation of fulfilling its function.”
“Go down ‘ere, and you’re not coming back up.” Isaac warned.
The gentleman rose and Isaac realized now how incredibly imposing he was. Broad shoulders and a barrel chest. His white eyes stared straight into Isaac and the longer the younger man studied them the more he realized they were dull, like the wetness of them had long ago dried up. The stranger walked past, tracking grime across the floor as he did so. “Every story has its conclusion. You should be very much aware of this.” The man said, pulling on his raincoat, semi-congealed blood glopping off onto the floor in little specs. “I have traveled so far and for so long. And here, at the end of my journey, you would deny me my destination?”
Isaac watched the stranger, hugging his knees into his chest so hard he could feel his heart pounding against the cap of his left knee. “Just want to make sure you’re ready.”
The gentleman placed the trilby atop his head, pulling the brim low enough that it cast his whole face into shadow. The only feature Isaac could make out now, were the shining white dots in the center of his eyes. “Nobody is ever ready.” He walked across the room, his shoes thumping off more gooey muck with every heavy step he took. Arriving at the door, he pulled the chair out from under the handle and cast it aside with one hand. “Goodbye, writer. How will you waste the time you have left?” He opened the door, stepped through it, and closed it behind himself.
Isaac listened to the sounds of thunderous descent as the gentleman went down the stairwell into the darkness below. He counted every step he could hear, trying to get an exact number but it was no use. The steps just went on and on, fainter and fainter until it was just his breathing and the sounds of the blood storm and the crackle of the fire.
Frantically, Isaac shot up and rushed to the chair that had been cast aside by the stranger. He wedged it back under the door handle and took a few steps back, watching it to make sure it would hold. He almost expected to see it turn or even to hear the sound of something coming back up the stairs, but neither came to pass. Eventually, Isaac accepted the night was over and he was alone once more.
Doing his best to take his mind off everything that had happened, Isaac poured himself another drink that he immediately bottomed up, before pouring one more to sip on for the rest of his night. He turned on the TV he had at the foot of his bed, the only one in the cabin, and put a DVD from season 3 of The Office in the player. He didn’t crawl into bed though; he just wanted the background noise, so he didn’t feel so alone.
Something outside howled deep in the woods and for just a second, he could almost hear the gentleman’s voice speaking directly in his mind. ‘Perhaps that is your mailman?’ Isaac couldn’t help but smile, then laugh uproariously. For just a few seconds, he savored the sounds of a sitcom he’d seen a dozen times before, mixed with the sounds of his laughter that were so rare now he’d been forgetting what it sounded like. He only stopped laughing when it threatened to morph into wracked weeping, which he was unwilling to allow himself to indulge in. Tonight, he had work to do.
After scrubbing the floor clean, Isaac sat down at his desk. He placed his current manuscript in his bag and loaded a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. Took a sip and topped off his glass. Expertly, his fingers danced across the keys, striking expertly and always exactly what he intended to. His mind might’ve been slowing, and his tongue might’ve been lead, but his fingers and muscle memory were as sharp as they’d ever been. He titled his new project, and began to let the words spill out of him from his veins as he bled from his fingertips onto the page.
“My Name is Never”
Isaac Underwater
Ry Dandel Stories 