The Shack

Childhood Memories

I haven’t been home in thirty years. The house is, well, mostly here. It needs some work, that’s why I came back. My parents can’t do the kind of work to the house that needs to be done. But, more importantly, the woods are still here. As I look out the kitchen window toward the woods, the familiar pull tugs at my brain. I need to get back there, walk the path at least.

The day was filled with cabinet repairs and yard work. Every time I raked the leaves by the back of the yard, I looked down the hill toward the overgrown path. It’s still there. My eyes traced it as far as they could, until the path disappeared past the tree line. I continued to rake, planning my walk.

Dusk began to settle after dinner. I cleaned the dishes while my parents stared at the television in the living room. Drying the last plate, I called to them, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”

“Have a good time, Dear,” my mother called back.

My father just grunted.

I tried not to let the screen door slam as I stepped onto the back porch. The sunlight was fading fast, so I took a deep breath and moved to the back of the yard. Finding a tree branch that hung low, I grabbed it and slid as carefully as I could down the hill to the path that led to the copse of trees in the distance.

It’s been decades since I last followed this path. It’s overgrown now, but muscle memory pulls me forward, past the neighbor’s house, the one that partially burned down because of a controlled burn that got out of control, past the stream that led to the small waterfall, and into the swamp.

Fifteen minutes of walking brought me to the little causeway that led to the island. On that island, the shack. The shack that our parents swore never existed. The shack that, as kids, we swore hosted devil worshippers. We knew this because we saw it firsthand.

I remember it vividly. Squirrel and rabbit skulls on sticks in what passed for the shack’s front lawn, their decapitated bodies swinging from tree branches that surrounded the shack. Candlelight flickering through cutouts in the side of the shack that passed for windows. I know what I saw.

And I’m seeing it again in my mind, although the shack is dark now, the animal skulls and bodies are gone. The silence is absolute. I take another deep breath and move forward.

Inside the shack, symbols litter the walls, floor, and ceiling. I stand in amazement at the totality of the space that has been marked by symbols. Half-burned pillar candles litter the floor. A small round table sits in the corner, it’s top empty except for layers of dust and dirt. The entire space smells of grime.

My footsteps echo in the quiet.

I pull out my phone and activate the flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness, and suddenly the symbols are thrown into sharp relief. They’re not random. They’re deliberate. Repeated in patterns that spiral across every surface.

The walls are covered in concentric circles, each one containing what looks like a different phase of the moon. Between the circles, there are crude drawings of hands. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all reading toward the center of the room. The hands are child-sized.

My breath catches.

I move the light up toward the ceiling. There are lines connecting points marked with dates. I can make out some of them: 1967, 1971, 1978, 1983, 1989. The dates re written in what looks like rust-colored paint. The lines between them form a web, a map of sorts, all converging on a symbol that looks like an eye turned inside out, the pupil replaced with a spiral that makes me dizzy when I stare at it too long.

There are more symbols carved into the floor. I swing the light over them. These form a large circle that takes up most of the space, and within the circle are smaller circles, each containing a name.

I kneel down to touch the names carved into the floor. They’re carved deep, the grooves filled with the same rust-colored substance that’s on the ceiling. The residue comes away tacky on my finger, like old blood that never quite dried in the dampness of swamp country.

Sarah Mills

Timothy Davis

Jennifer Oakes

Michael Broadzinski

There are twelve names in total, circling toward the center. I don’t recognize most of them, but two make my heart stop.

David Carpenter

Gina Carpenter

My brother and sister.

I rock back on my heels, the phone slipping from my trembling hand. David and Gina. They were five and seven when they disappeared. It was 1989; I was twelve.

The official story was that they wandered into the woods and got lost. Search parties combed the woods for weeks and found nothing. My parents never recovered. We never talked about it. We moved away six months later, leaving the house to rot.

But my parents came back fifteen years ago after my father retired. They never explained why, and I never asked.

I stand up on unsteady legs and move toward the table in the corner. Up close, I can see it’s not empty after all. There’s a drawer underneath. I pull it open, and the smell of mildew that wafts out makes me gag.

Inside the drawer are four journals, their covers warped. I pull out the top one and open it to a random page.

The handwriting is neat:

October 12, 1983

The circle is prepared and the children are willing. Their trust is key.

I flip pages forward, my hands shaking.

November 3, 1983

Michael’s parents are on the news. They’re begging for information. The police won’t find anything. The swamp takes what we give it. The island keeps its secrets.

I drop the journal and grab another one, flipping to the end.

August 6, 1989

The Carpenter children. The boy is brave and protective of his sister. He’ll fight. The girl is trusting. She’ll go quietly if her brother tells her to.

The older one knows. He’s been watching from the woods, but he won’t tell. They never tell.

The journal slips from my hands.

I remember following David and Emma that night and meet other kids from the neighborhood at the edge of the woods. They walked down the path toward the island, and I followed still. And when we got to the shack, I saw the candlelight flickering through the windows.

I got scared and ran home. They were just playing. I told myself I’d check on them later.

But I never did.

I said nothing when they didn’t come home. I feigned ignorance when the police asked me where they might have gone. I stayed silent when my parents fell apart.

Because I was afraid. I was afraid of a lot of things, but mostly of someone finding out that I knew something and said nothing.

I’ve carried that guilt for thirty years. I’ve told myself it was childhood fear, that I couldn’t have known, that I was just a kid myself.

But, deep down, I knew.

I pick up the last journal at the bottom of the drawer. This one is different. The cover is real leather, and it’s warm to the touch despite the cold dampness of the shack.

I open it to the first page.

This is the record of witnesses. Those who knew and did not act. Their names are written here, bound to this place. They will return. The door remains open for them.

I turn the page, and there, in that same neat handwriting, is a list of names. Kids who moved away after 1989.

And at the top of the list, in letters that seem to pulse in the beam of my flashlight:

Thomas Carpenter

Beneath it is a single line:

Returned August 2019. The circle welcomes him home.

My name and today’s date.

I hear multiple footsteps on the causeway. Turning toward the door, I see candlelight floating through the swamp, converging on the island.

And I understand.

When the footsteps reach the door, the candles illuminate faces I recognize. They’re older now, but unmistakable. The other kids from the neighborhood. The ones who knew.

And at the front, holding candles of their own, their faces expressionless and eyes empty, are my parents.

This was never about repairs to the house. My parents didn’t need my help. They needed me here for this.

Because they were part of it.

My mother smiles. “Welcome home, Dear.”

My father speaks for the first time in years, his voice a dry rasp: “The circle is complete.”

They step into the shack and surround me.

I try to run, but my legs won’t move.

Before the darkness takes over my vision, I see my name carved into the floor in the center of the circle, the letters filling with that rust-colored substance that I now know isn’t rust at all.

The last thing I hear is the sound of children laughing in the distance.