If You're Reading This, Please Send Help (Part II)
I'm trapped in a cabin in the woods with my fiancé and daughter.
Welcome to the sixth chapter of Sunday Shorts, your weekly dose of fictional short stories written by yours truly. If you missed the others, you can read the archives here. This story idea comes from Reddit’s r/nosleep: a place for authors to share horror stories. This is the second part of a three-part series.
If you missed part one, go back and read, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE SEND HELP (PART I).
A quick note: No podcast this week. This chapter centers largely around a conversation, and I don’t have the voice-acting talent to carry a 10-minute conversation through a podcast. Ha.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I stood there frozen in the living room, mind racing as I struggled with what to do. Answer the front door to this gun-wielding man? Find a way out back and run? Clearly he knew someone was in here and who knows how long he’d been following us.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I stepped towards the front door. What better choice did I have? The wooden door creaked as it opened. Before me stood a burly man with a dirty tan fur jacket and wrangley ginger beard that hid his mouth, the rest of his face hidden underneath a black cowboy hat. He had a double-barrel shotgun slung across his shoulder.
“Wandered if you were ever going to open the door,” he said, his deep, rugged voice sounding like a man who’s spent years sucking down cigarettes. “Beginnin’ to thank y’all had snucked off without me.”
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Name is Daneaux—I live out in these parts. I saw y’all wanderin’ around for the better part of the past hour before stumblin’ on this old cabin. Figured I’d come check on ya. Don’t see too many folks out here this late.”
“We’re just a little turned around is all. Look, we don’t mean to intrude. If this is your place we can leave and be on our way.”
“Ah, hell, c’mon, son, you reckin’ anyone has been livin’ in this dump? Y’all ain’t be botherin’ nobody. Plus, y’all’re safer here for a couple days anyway, least till things settle down.”
“Till things settle down?”
He ignored me as he stepped into the cabin. He smelled like old cigarettes and reeked of stale whiskey. The floor groaned under his large frame as the flame of his oil lamp flickered off the wooden walls. I noticed the gray skies outside turned black, hiding the mighty oaks and tall grass that surrounded the apartment. The cool evening air from our hike now had an even colder chill. An electric storm of lighting strikes flashed throughout the sky. I turned my attention to the man inside. Daneaux rested his lantern on the rotting mantle above the fireplace.
“Where’s that wife and daughter of yours anyway? You send them on their way?”
“They’re—doesn’t matter. They’re staying put until you tell me who you are and what you want.”
“Just a friendly conversation is all. Wantin’ to make sure you and your family’re safe. Y’all needin’ any food or supplies? Here, I brought ya some deer jerky. Made it myself last week.”
He whipped out a satchel from underneath his jacket and pulled out a bag. He handed it towards me, but I stayed by the front door, skeptical of this strange man standing before me. “Suit yourself,” he said, tossing the bag on the couch. “If ya needin’ any water, there’s a stream over yonder.”
“Look, Daneaux, thank you for your concern and hospitality, but we’re just here for the night. We’ll be on our way tomorrow.”
He stared at me with an intense focus before a smirk struck his face.
“Trust me, son, you’re gonna wanna stick around long’r than that.”
The coldness in which he spoke made my stomach rise into my throat. Stick around longer? What horrid things did he have planned?
“Why’s that?” I finally said.
“Listen here—I didn’t get your name,” he said.”
“Miles,” I choked out.
“Miles, listen here, son, why’dn’t you get that wife and kid of yours and let’s have us a little chat.”
“I’d rather not,” I heard myself say, a surprising surge of confidence forming in a moment when all I wanted was to flee with my family. “Why don’t you and I talk? Man to man.”
“Suit yourself. But this affects them, too. Mind if I have some of that jerky?” he said, sitting on the old couch that sank under his weight.
“It’s all yours as far as I’m concerned.”
“Listen here, Miles, it’s no coincidence y’all got lost when you did. This here forest does strange thangs this time of year. You’re no stranger to these parts. I’ve seen you out here before hiking and fishing.”
“So, what, you’ve been stalking me and my family?”
“Ha! That’s funny, son. Consider me a kind of gatekeeper for this place. Nothing comes in or out of here without me knowing.”
“A gatekeeper of the Sam Houston National Forest, huh?”
“Don’t mock me, son. If y’all’re wantin’ to make it outta here then ya best listen and do exactly as I say these next few days.”
“Few days?”
He pulled out a long piece of jerky and ripped it with his teeth, smacking loudly as he chewed.
“Best pull up a chair,” he said, pointing to a rickety wooden one resting in the dark kitchen.
“Let’s hear it,” I said.
“Some people say these woods change this time of year, Miles. At the beginning of every decade, a demon that hibernates here in this forest wakes up. Best I can tell, this thing has been a part of the forest for centuries, as old as some these mighty oak trees. Listen to me when I tell you it’s a pure form of evil and will stop at nothin’ to feed or hurt those it feels have wronged it. But if you listen to me and do exactly as I say, you and your family stand a chance of gettin’ outta here alive.”
I couldn’t believe the bullshit I was hearing. “Some people would say that is crazy,” I said. “If you’re trying to scare us, just whip out your big hunting knife or rack your shotgun, okay. Otherwise, I need to ask you to leave, and we’ll be doing the same in the morning.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, standing up from the sunken couch.
If I was a bigger man I would have thrown him out of the cabin. Instead, I watched him struggle to pull himself up from the couch, leaving the bag of jerky behind as he made his way to the door. I heard the floor creak from the nearby hallway, the slow shuffling feet making their way towards us. It was Erin.
“Miles, what if he’s right?” she said as she emerged from the dark hallway.
“Well, hello, pretty lady,” Daneaux said, tipping his black hat.
“Don’t call her that,” I barked.
Erin stared straight at Daneaux. “Tells us more about this…demon,” she said. She was always one to believe in the paranormal nonsense.
“Over the next couple a’days, I dunno when, y’all’re gonna hear the sounds of a beating drum. It’s gunna start off faint and slowly grow louder. That’s the spirit making its rounds accepting offerings or feeding on the less fortunate. Eventually, you’re gunna hear the damnt drum sound like its beatin’ right outside the door—and that’s when you’d best be ready.”
“Ready how?” Erin said.
She sat next to him on the couch.
“One of y’all’re gunna need to kill a deer. Assuming that’s gunna be you, Miles. Don’t care how you do it, don’t care if it’s a buck or a doe or a fawn. Just kill a damnt deer. You’re gunna have to string it up by its hindquarters on the front porch. Once it’s tied up nice and good, slit its throat, and let the blood soak the front porch. You’re gunna need a lot of salt. I reckin’ correctly there’s a shed not too far from here from the lass time this demon came around. Should be with a couple a salt blocks inside. You’re gunna wanna make a trail from the front of the house to the dead deer.
“Now this part is important: Make sure you get the salt to soak up some of the blood, cause you’re gunna need it to place at the base of every door and window in the house. That lets the demon know to stay away, that you’re just makin’ it your offerin’ and to be on its way. You forget that, it very well could come in the cabin and raise all sorts of hell. Torment you, torture you until you look it in its eyes. For the love of everythin’ that’s holy, do not look at it.”
The couch creaked as Daneaux leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He sighed and grabbed a cigarette out of his jacket, lighting it with the flame of the lamp. Erin stared at him, her face pale as her left leg shook anxiously. I personally couldn’t believe what I was hearing, this crock of shit coming from this redneck stranger who calls the forest home.
“C’mon, Daneaux, you can’t be serious. Demons, deer sacrifices, it all sounds like a crock—”
“—I know what it sounds like,” he snapped. “And I’m telling ya that ya best listen to me if you and your family wanna git out of here.”
I looked at Erin, whose glare said everything: Shut up and listen to the man, Miles.
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“Been living out in these here woods for the past 53 years. I’ve met that sonuvabitch more than I care to admit, seen lots of people such as yourselves come and go, too, for better or worse. Ya tend to pick up a few tricks along the way.”
“So,” I said. “When do we get started?”
“It’s late, bout 11 now, I reckin’,” he said, standing from the couch. He took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the fireplace. “Better get a decent night sleep. You’ve got a couple’a busy days ahead.”
About This Story
This is part two of the Sunday Shorts series IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE SEND HELP. If you missed part one, which I hope at this point you’ve read or gone back and read before getting this far, you can find it here. This entire series is based on Reddit’s r/nosleep: a subreddit dedicated to horror stories.
Credits This Week
IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE SEND HELP (PART II) was written by me, Matt Keyser, and edited by my amazing wife, Elissa.
Must Reads
Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis wants voters’ signatures to match. Would his pass the test? (Tampa Bay Times): I’m not looking to start any political arguments here; I just think this story is a great example of the power of local journalism and newspapers, both of which aren’t faring well in this digital era. As the Florida governor seeks new restrictions on mail-in ballots that would include ballot signatures matching those already on file with the state, reporter Steve Contorno went back and analyzed how the governor’s signature had evolved over the years.
Out of Thin Air: The Mystery of the Man Who Fell From the Sky (The Guardian): An outstanding story by Sirin Kale. Stick around for the ending for this one.
Ted The Caver: Did you read this last week? If not, you really need to.
ICYMI
An excerpt from a previous Sunday Short:
Ruth threw off her pink covers and jumped out of bed. Today was the day she’d been dreaming about for years: her 18th birthday. But it wasn’t just any 18th birthday. Since she was a little girl, Ruth’s grandma, Dorothy, had promised her on this very day she’d receive an extraordinary present.
Read: GRANDMA DOROTHY’S RUBY SLIPPERS.
Thank you for reading this chapter of Sunday Shorts. I’ll catch y’all next week with the final chapter of IF YOU’RE READING THIS, PLEASE SEND HELP.
Cheers! 🍻