THE BOY IN THE CABIN

 

The scent of pine. The upheaval of damp earth. Dry roots. Flora and fauna in symphony. This was all Ravish had known for the past two years. This and his Uncle Venkat, in the small but sturdy timber cabin, located deep within the whispering woods. Whispering woods. That’s what they were. That’s what he called them. Whispering with a cacophony of nature’s melody, of birds chirping, of small animals going about their peaceful business and a small river that gently ebbed and flowed by the side.

Ravish loved to wander through these paths, though the animals scurried away in alarm and the birds chirruped desperately, as if there was an intruder in their midst, an intruder they could not comprehend. But Ravish loved these little creatures. They could not know that he was their self-designated protector. They could not know, for instance, that just some time back, a bunch of salivating hyenas had come to that spot last month, with glinting eyes and gnashing teeth, but Ravish had come out, rushing, with a flaming stick in his hand and doing his own version of teeth gnashing and eyes bulging, calculated, in his own way, to fill the viewer with terror. And the hyenas had glared at him balefully and slunk away. Predators were sporadic in this area and Ravish took it upon himself, to be the protector of the creatures that existed in this Shangri-la. The creatures could not know that, of course. For them, anything alien in their habitat was something incomprehensible and their survival instincts kicked in. No amount of soft talking and whispered cooing sounds by Ravish could convince them that this was an acceptable state of things. And yet Ravish persevered, for he was kindhearted and he was determined to make them run towards him in delight, one day.

Not so, his Uncle. Uncle Venkat was a sick man. Sick in body and sick in mind as well. His legs were full of sores that did not seem to heal, even when Ravish used to minister to him, daily, lovingly. His leg was twisted and broken as well, rendering him unfit to walk. At times, his Uncle used to shrink back in horror, as if the suffering from sores was preferable to the treatment being given. He kept his eyes averted, incoherent words tumbling out of his mouth, shivering and gasping for breath. But Ravish never faltered from his task, unheeding of his Uncle’s depraved rantings; it was his task to try and nurse his Uncle back to health, though it required daily, patient ministrations from his end and though it seemed doomed to failure; it was his task to take care of his ailing Uncle’s every need, it was something that was drilled into his conscious, maybe a sense of filial duty or a fount of affection. And with ample reason too. They were cut off from the civilized world, ever since the storm two years back, the path to their cabin had apparently become inaccessible. And with Uncle Venkat’s walking disability, Ravish could not find it within him, to abandon his Uncle for even a day. But there was sufficient vegetation and fruits and enough logs from old trees that washed downstream, that Ravish was able to cook simple meals for his Uncle, who partook of them, with trembling hands. Ravish, it seemed, had become a fast learner. If the food was too spicy or too salty or too sweet, the elements mixed randomly without any sense for proportion or appropriateness, Ravish did not hear any complaint; he could not master the culinary skills of a city Chef, of course, in their minimalistic surroundings. The Uncle had to make do with what Ravish made for him and it had kept them sufficiently well, the last two years. But Ravish knew his Uncle was itching, raring to go. In fact he had tried once, but it had started to rain and in the darkness, a tree log had fallen off from somewhere and smashed against his leg and since then, he was almost bedridden. But Ravish was there by his side, soothing him and telling him that everything would be just fine.

Simple world. Simple wants. Simple needs. Trees to the north. A meandering, bubbling stream to the south. And beyond that, lay dangers. Ravish and his Uncle had had many conversations about those dangers, treacherous cliffs, rocky outcrops, a sudden fall and if it ended quickly, it would be merciful, but if not, it would be a slow and painful death. And so they agreed that they would never travel beyond that, atleast not until his Uncle was sufficiently recovered enough to undertake that arduous journey. Meanwhile, Ravish was safe and secure, ensconced in the small world that he had built for himself and his Uncle Venkat. From time to time, Uncle Venkat used to pull out old photographs of his wife and child, when he thought that Ravish would not be looking. And then he would cry, cry at the terrible Fate that had conspired to lay his dreams waste, wondering what happened to them. And sometimes, Ravish would return and look at the photographs, at his cousin. And Ravish would weep as well.

And so, it went on – their dance of survival. Rabbits and deer frolicked about; Ravish had destroyed all the snares, put there perhaps by previous inhabitants of the cabin, perhaps enjoying the thrill of hearing the snap of innocent necks of small defenceless animals, but Ravish would have none of it. He continued to meticulously tend to his Uncle, who was now moving to the next stage of his increasingly raspy cough. The cough would send shivers down the spine of any small creatures that would venture close to the cabin; one rasping cough and they would scurry away in fright, wondering why this noise seemed to emanate from the cabin continuously. It was an echo of desperation and decay, of certain knowledge that there was no getting out of this situation, the sores, the coughing, the back spasms, everything. And the Uncle’s terrors were growing every day, as soon as the evening descended on them, followed by the darkness.

Not a lot transpired between them. Uncle Venkat was taciturn and sat there in his bed, his eyes having a faraway look, while his mouth continued to mutter. Ravish went about his work and did not disturb him, unnecessarily. Since his own parents were already dead, he did not have anyone to grieve over and so he had taken on Uncle Venkat, as his mission. His Uncle had never been particularly fond of him, even when he was a child, but that was no longer important to him now. He used to describe the forest to his Uncle, how he identified edible berries, how he read the signs of the forest and the trees and the floating river. And Ravish had also developed a new hobby – mumbling poems. He had asked for books or pens or paper, but the Uncle had told him there was none. So Ravish started reciting his poetry. Loudly. Impromptu and straight from the heart. It could have been heartening to the Uncle, but Ravish’s poems were about treacherous men and cruel intentions, about deceit and betrayal and fraud. And about vengeance, about getting even. When Ravish recited these poems, bringing forth his soliloquy about all the evil in the world, his voice shook with emotion, his eyes gave out a different texture and almost seemed fiery and the Uncle sat there, transfixed with terror, listening to Ravish mumble on and on and on. Ravish looked like a madman. He seemed to have a specific fixation with revenge, often referring to the use of serrated knives, to gouge out eyes of evil people. At one point, Ravish had given out a sick, maniacal laugh and his Uncle had seemed to shrink inside his very soul. They were peculiar companions, Uncle and nephew and their solitary, desolate existence seemed to have cast a spell on the cabin as well, making it old and dark and forbidding.  The dead silence was broken occasionally by chirping crickets and recently, an owl had come to join these surroundings, his hoot, in conjunction with the laboured breathing and throaty rasp of the Uncle, bringing an unwelcome change, to an already negatively charged atmosphere.

And it could have continued this way, for who knows how long. But then Fate conspired, as it usually does.

-00-

The road, that was about ten miles from the cabin, saw a daily stream of moderate traffic. It wasn’t used much, because of the forest and ravines and gorges. It also had sharp twists and turns. Around one of these turns, a vehicle came, speeding; it had outrun a police jeep and was just carrying on it’s fast momentum, so that they should not catch up. Unfortunately, the wheels seemed to lock and skid and the vehicle ground to a halt and almost teetered over. The four passengers, driver included, got out. One look at them and you knew that these weren’t the regular run of the mill people.

“Rotten luck” muttered one of them.

“We should hide this vehicle and then hide somewhere,” said another. “The police may still be approaching.”

There was a general consensus to this and they all heaved the vehicle to the side of the road, where there was a lot of cover. They put some dry leaves on it and covered it well with brambles and dust and dirt, taking care to cover the mirrors and any shiny spots that could give it away.

Then one of them said “Quick! Run for cover! They’re coming!”

They ran inside the forest. Sure enough, the police Jeep trundled by, the officers within, trying to check for any suspicious activity or vehicle on the road. They were in pursuit of these four notorious criminals, who had committed a murder, while robbing a home on the outskirts of town. The Jeep missed the vehicle and trundled on.

“Hey look at this!” one of them called the others. “There’s a sign painted in Red here – blood red color, see – look at it…”

And sure enough, there was a sign. A grotesque sign, with zigzaggy letters, a cartoonish face of a boy with twinkling eyes and horrendous teeth and an arrow pointing inwards, with the words “Treasure” spray painted in italics. The men looked at each other and grinned. Maybe this would lead to one of those hidden party places, where youngsters went to smoke weed and make out with whoever they could. Four rough men could add a touch of the alpha male to the whole thing and teach the budding youngsters a thing or two. And so they swept aside the plants and shrubbery that was covering the pathway and stepped inside the dense foliage and forest.

In the cabin, Uncle Venkat was preparing for one more evening of melancholy and desolation. The photographs could not be located anymore, he couldn’t even look at them. He looked at his sore foot and his dislocated joints and cursed himself. And then, suddenly, a sound, alien to the peaceful woods, shattered his thoughts. A harsh splintering of wood, gruff shouts and snarls, the sudden disturbed cacophony of birds who flew with shrill screams, out of their nests, their routine disturbed by something they weren’t used to. Ravish, hunched by the dying embers of the hearth he had lit, froze. He stared at his Uncle, whose eyes were wide with a terror Ravish had never seen.

The noise was rising in volume, astonished voices, apparently surprised at seeing the sturdy cabin and also realizing there were signs of life inside. They came across the cabin door and clambered up the makeshift porch. There were three rough knocks. And then, without any sign of patience, the cabin door, old and weathered, was kicked inward with a resounding crash. Silhouettes of four rough men filled the doorway, large and menacing against the fading twilight. Robbers. Dacoits. Uncle Venkat stared at them, blabbering incoherently and they took the room in with a glance. The fireplace and the old man sitting in bed. Venkat looked around, Ravish seemed to have escaped. The men grouped around Uncle Venkat, crude weapons, glinting eyes, cruel laughs.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here, old man? A cosy hideout for bringing in your girlfriends? Where’s the money, old man? Where’s the treasure?” one of them snarled, his voice a gravelly growl that scraped against Uncle Venkat’s bones. Ravish, who had sprinted away and clambered inside an alcove, shivered.

Uncle Venkat, trembling, tried to speak, but only a wheezing cough escaped his dry lips. One of the robbers, impatient, slapped him. The others followed suit. Uncle Venkat stumbled back, hitting the back of the bed, with a sickening thud. ‘

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” one of them bellowed.

Below the bedsheet that was ripped apart when the Uncle thudded back, were drawings. Drawings of a child begging for mercy while a man stood towering over him, holding a belt. The man looked a lot like Uncle Venkat. And there was a knife in the man’s hand in that picture and it was dripping with blood. And the child had two fingers cut and a jab of a knife in it’s navel, from which blackish red coloured liquid was seeping out.

“No! No!” Uncle Venkat screamed in terror. “No, you do not understand!”

The men went into a paroxysm of rage and frenzy. They may have been robbers and dacoits and murderers, but even such people have a code, when it comes to children. To watch this vulgar drawing, that too under the bedsheet of this demented cripple on the bed; that was too much for them. What was unsaid, was also apparent from that picture; they realized that lying there before them, was one of the lowest dregs of humanity, a stinking, rotten piece of garbage, whose ultimate sin had not been carved out on that bed; perhaps shame had overtaken him. But the expression in his eyes had given him away and the expression of sheer terror on the boy’s face in the picture had added further evidence to the monstrosity that was to follow. They pounced on him and pummelled him with hard kicks everywhere, to the face and groin and dislocated his shoulder and jawline.

“Ransack the cabin!” one of them – apparently the leader – screamed. “The sign said ‘Treasure’, this filthy piece of shit must have come here for that.”

The other robbers began tearing the cabin apart, throwing aside everything with disdain. Pots and pans smashed to the ground. Uncle Venkat was sobbing and coughing and retching.

Ravish sat in his alcove silently and watched. He continued to shiver at the gory spectacle unfolding before him. The alcove, carved into the wall, was a cramped space, usually reserved for storing dried herbs. He pressed himself against the cold wood, his heart hammering against his ribs, like a frantic, desperate bird trapped in a cage. He watched, transfixed, as the men continued their destructive search, their voices growing louder, more frustrated, more insistent and more enraged.

Then, a sudden, guttural cry. Ravish peered out and watched. One of the robbers, apparently no longer patient any more, stood over the snot dripping Uncle Venkat, a glinting knife in his hand. Uncle Venkat’s eyes had grown crazed with terror and pain and now the repeated slash and jab on the neck had rendered them wide and unseeing. A dark, reddish black stain spread across his threadbare shirt. He was gone. Just like that. Dead.

Extinguished, like a candle in the wind.

The robbers, seemingly satisfied with their grisly work, began to gather the few paltry valuables they’d unearthed. There was nothing else, there. But just as they were about to leave, one of them, a lean man with an angry scar running down his cheek, glanced towards the alcove. His eyes, sharp and predatory, narrowed and a cruel sneering grin eclipsed his mottled features.

“What’s this?” he grunted, approaching the hidden recess. Ravish shrank back further, his body growing more rigid. The man’s hand reached in, first clutching only air, then sensing that someone was inside. “Hey!” he called out. “Come here, y’all! We got ourselves another little passenger here!”

The others shrieked with laughter and gathered around the alcove as the man’s long, loping fingers brushed against Ravish’s trembling leg. Their faces were grim, devoid of compassion. Their blades caught the last vestiges of daylight, a cold, unfeeling gleam. The man heard a whimper and a small choking sound from inside the alcove. He grinned; he was the killer in their group – the sensation of cold sharp metal across a soft pliable neck, the feeling of utter helplessness and inevitability, the sheer terror, these were things he thrived on. He could already feel the shift of the air and the call of the blade. He gave a decisive yank and a brutal pull, right out of the alcove and right into the brutal light of the ransacked cabin.

-00-

Days later, the woods were quiet again. Too quiet. The birds sang, but their songs seemed sorrowful, lacking their usual joyous lilt. The wind rustled through the leaves, a mournful whisper. The cabin stood, a gaping wound in the otherwise pristine wilderness, its door hanging forlornly from a single hinge.

It was this unsettling quiet that drew Rita’s attention. She nudged Hiren, who was meticulously scanning a faded map. Just three months into their marriage and already he was ignoring her; she thought jocularly. But their one common hobby – hiking across uncharted territory, remained strong, so far.

“Hey, something’s off,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “That cabin… it looks like it’s been through a war” she said.

Hiren, always the pragmatic, shrugged. “It’s probably abandoned. Just look at it. Who the hell would come and stay up here? It’s not even as if this is a resort or anything, just wilderness. Although it’s an ideal weekend getaway.”

They had stumbled upon the hidden car quite by accident and then as they explored further, they found the grotesque sign and the path that pointed inward. Naturally curious, they went ahead.

As experienced hitchhikers, kicking dust off forgotten trails and off-the-beaten-path experiences, was second nature to them, now. Had been, for the past few years and it was what had brought them closer. The solitude of the woods usually appealed to them, but the deathly solitude that hung around this place – well, something felt different.

As they drew closer, the extent of the damage became horrifyingly, sickeningly clear. There was a sickly, sweet odor in the air, along with dried, putrid stuff. The door was not merely ajar; it was shattered and the splintered wood was scattered across the porch. Another foul, metallic odor came up to their nostrils. With a jolt of alarm, Rita recognized the scent, she had spent many a childhood near her grandfather’s butcher shop.

Hesitantly, Hiren pushed the door further open, And then they both froze, their blood turning cold. For what was inside, was pure carnage. The cabin was a miasma of utter and total devastation. Furniture was smashed to bits, supplies were strewn across the floor, but that was not what had caught their attention.

It was the blood spatters. Multiple blood spatters and bones, scattered across the entire space. On the right, there was a crumpled old figure and they could see that he had been severely hacked with sharp knives. His face was contorted with agony. But on the left, were four prone figures.

Rita gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes darted from one to the other. All men. All dead.

One lay contorted near the hearth. Another one sprawled by the shattered window. The third, closer to the door, may have made a desperate attempt to escape, his knees were slashed. The fourth lay face down, a pool of congealed blood beneath him. Their faces, even in death, held expressions of stark, absolute terror.

“What in God’s name happened here?” Hiren whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He clutched his wife, who was crying.

They stood for a moment, frozen by the gruesome tableau. The silence pressed in on them, oppressive, heavy and completely suffocating. Then Rita’s eyes landed on something protruding from beneath a discarded blanket. A tattered newspaper clipping.

Driven by a morbid curiosity, she knelt, her hands trembling as she carefully pulled it free.

The headline was more than two months old. The paper was moldy, the writing was faded, but the words were still legible, so she could make them out:

“MISSING BOY FOUND DEAD IN RAVINE – UNCLE SUSPECTED.”

Below the headline, a grainy photograph showed a young boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with wide, innocent eyes. Rita’s gaze dropped to the article’s body. “Authorities have confirmed the discovery of young Ravish Satpathy’s body at the bottom of the ravine adjacent to the highway, east of the Ratambora Forest. The boy had lost his parents three years ago. The article went on to say that the Uncle and his family were living in poverty and the boy’s parents had been well-off and had left behind a lot of money, which the Uncle wanted. The boy, who went missing more than two years ago, was found to have been slashed with a knife and prior to death, he had been molested as well. Investigations are ongoing, but suspicion has fallen upon his uncle, Venkat Satpathy, who is currently absconding…..”

Rita’s blood ran cold. Venkat Satpathy? The uncle? She glanced at the body in the bed. Could it be the same man? Her eyes swept over the dead men again. Four robbers. Who were they? What was their role?

Then her eyes snagged on something else. Just below the bed, covered by another tattered blanket, was a leather-bound journal. It’s pages were filled with cramped, almost frantic handwriting.

Driven by an instinct she couldn’t explain, she reached for it.

The entries were dated, spanning the last several months, though many were illegible due to water damage or erratic scribbling. She found a more recent entry, dated just a two months prior:

October 24th, [Year Unreadable]

He’s back. I hear him. I can always hear him. He’s always slithering about. Moaning that song about revenge. That song, It gets on my nerves. There’s a rustling in the leaves, a whisper in the wind. Ravish. Even the animals and birds are scared. His eyes… they’re bloodshot, always bloodshot. He’s always angry. And he’s always laughing and sneering. Why wouldn’t he be? How do I make this right? But he won’t let me rest. He never lets me rest…..

 

Sarah flipped to an earlier entry, dated five months ago:

June 12th, [Year Unreadable]

The cabin feels smaller every day. He’s always here. He’s in the shadows. The food. He mixes everything. He mixes pebbles in my fruits. Sharp berries. And even rabbit droppings. Then he laughs. And when I sleep, he sprinkes dust on my sores. And kicks my broken foot…”

And a few more such entries:

 

“I didn’t want to do it. It’s evil. Inhuman. Immoral. But I’ve had these urges for so long. And he looks so sweet. So young. So trusting. So naïve. Who will know? His own parents are dead…”

And the denouement continued, unabated:

 

“What have I done? I shouldn’t have killed him! Now he won’t let me live. And what is this painting he has made – Treasure – he writes – beckoning people here. Why does he do that? He told me that he had pushed off two travellers who had come earlier – pushed them to their deaths. He wants criminals to come here. Criminals. I’m going mad…”

 

And then the very first entry, that really spooked her:

´How is it possible? I killed him! I watched the life drain out of his eyes…..”

 

Rita showed the diary to Hiren and their eyes widened in horror, comprehension dawning with a sickening lurch. This wasn’t a story of robbers and a murdered uncle. This was something far, far more sinister. The Uncle had murdered the nephew and had gone mad and deranged, he had entered this cabin, haunted by illusions of his murdered nephew. And the four robbers had stumbled upon the cabin and killed him.

But who had killed them? And why?

Why were their faces contorted in expressions of terror. Why?

Rita, struck with a nameless dread, clutched Hiren’s hand – “Hiren”, she said. “… it says here… the uncle… he strangled the boy. His nephew. Two years ago.” She gestured around the cabin. “And he’s been writing in his diary… about being haunted by him. By the boy… with bloodshot eyes.”

A chill, colder than the autumn air, snaked its way up their spines. The silence of the woods outside seemed to reverberate across the damp cabin and then deepen, press in on them, no longer comforting but suffocating. They looked at the dead robbers again, their terror-stricken faces fixed in their final moments. As if, in their final moments, they had been exposed to something unexpected. Beyond unexpected.

If the uncle had been haunted by the boy, and the robbers had met such a horrific end… what, or who, had been here when the robbers attacked?

Rita’s gaze was drawn to the alcove, a dark, narrow opening in the wall. It seemed to pulse with an unseen presence. She thought of the newspaper clipping, of the boy’s innocent face, and then of the diary entries, the uncle’s descent into madness, his conviction that Ravish was haunting him.

Then, she remembered the last line in the clipping: “The boy, who went missing two years ago, was found to have been slashed to death, after having first being molested.” The words echoed in her mind, chilling her to the bone.

They stood there in the ruined cabin, amongst by the dead, the air thick with a pervasive dread. The rational part of their minds screamed for them to leave, to flee this cursed place. But a deeper, more primal fear held them captive, held them rooted to the spot.

What if the “Boy with the bloodshot eyes” wasn’t just a figment of a murderer’s tormented mind? What if he was real? And what if, when the robbers came, he had finally exacted his revenge? First on the Uncle and then on the robbers? And why on the robbers? Was he driven by a compulsion to kill? Did he think that all men were evil? Was there even a “He” anymore, or was it an “It” and was it now watching them with ghoulish eyes, from the alcove?

A sudden, faint creak echoed from the dark alcove. It was barely audible, a mere whisper in the overwhelming silence.

But it was enough.

Rita and Hiren instinctively recoiled, their eyes fixed on the shadows within the recess. The air in the cabin seemed to have grown heavier, colder.

They hadn't seen any boy’s body among the dead. The newspaper said he was found in a ravine. But was that just his physical body? Was there another… a lurking vengeful spirit, denied of it’s existence, now looking to lure others to their death as well? What if …. What if that spirit… had never left this cabin?

What if it was still here, lurking in the shadows, a spectral protector of it’s own tormented legacy?

They backed away slowly, their hearts pounding in their chests, a desperate need to escape this place overriding all reason. As they reached the shattered doorway, a soft, almost imperceptible sound reached their ears, a sound like a small, sad sigh, or maybe a sob, carried deep on the wind. It touched Rita’s maternal instincts, a sob of heart-rending melancholy, a deep rooted, stricken soul, reaching out from the depths of his grief, seeking love, seeking comfort and care. For a moment, she felt compelled to empathise with the poor, luckless soul, who was deprived of a full and fulfilling life, by a monster who now lay dead. But then there was a tiny snigger and she realized that his soul had passed beyond redemption. Vengeance was no longer about getting even, an unholy sick joy had taken over, joy to inflict misery and pain.

They didn't look back. They ran, their footsteps echoing through the silent, ancient woods, the chilling horror of the boy with the bloodshot eyes, clinging to them like a shroud. They ran until the cabin was a distant, forgotten scar on the landscape, but the chilling tale it told, and the unseen presence it harboured, would haunt their dreams forever.