The Cabin in the Woods

“He’s got a husband bulge,” Marty said, frowning, not quite sure where that had come from. Jealous much, dude? Then he pulled open the door and stepped outside, gasping momentarily as he met the cool air. The door closed behind him and the cabin’s interior was instantly far away, a memory of someone else walking across that room and saying that strange thing. Who the fuck calls a boner a husband bulge? he thought, and though the memory of where he’d heard that phrase was fresh, he did his best to avoid it.

He walked on and left the cabin behind, pausing at the first stand of trees. It was quiet, and he looked up between the trunks.

“I thought there’d be stars.” He sighed, smiled. “We are abandoned.” He unzipped and started pissing, watching the swirls and whorls of steam as it drifted off between the trees, lit by weak light from the cabin.

Behind him, a breaking twig.

Marty stopped in mid-stream and looked around. Just trees. He glanced left and right, remembering something about peripheral vision being better at night. Nothing moved, and there were no more sounds.

He sighed again, looking forward to getting back inside and rolling a new joint, and as he finished pissing and zipped up Curt barreled into him.

“Run! Fucking run!” He was clasping Marty’s arms too tightly, hurting, bunching up his shirt and tugging hard as they danced on the spot and Curt tried hauling him toward the cabin,

“What’s-?”

“Go!” Curt yelled again. He looked a mess-blood on his arm, head cut and bleeding somewhere, leaves, dirt, and he looked fucking terrified. As Marty was sizing him up Curt changed tactic, letting go and pushing Marty toward the cabin instead.

His panic caught, and Marty ran.

From the shadows to their right, a figure darted at them. It was… a girl, but there was something wrong. One arm was missing. And in her other arm, she carried a hatchet. Her hair was long and lank, clotted with leaves and mud, and her face was all wrong. Marty skidded to a halt, staring, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but Curt put on a burst of speed and swung his arm across the girl’s throat. She flipped backward and sprawled, never letting out a sound.

“Dead bitch!” Curt shouted. He span around, grabbed Marty’s arm, and pulled him up onto the porch.

“Curt, your dick’s-”

“Inside.” Curt flipped the catch and booted the door open.

He’s got a husband’s bulge, Marty had said, echoing the weird language in the diary from downstairs. At the time Dana had thought it strange, but as soon as Marty had closed the door Holden had held her again, pulling her close and cupping the back of her head as he kissed her sweet and deep.

And now here she was, hand resting gently against his husband’s bulge and the night ahead of them alight with possibilities.

The door smashed open. Dana and Holden knocked teeth as they sat up, and she was about to shout at whoever was fucking around when she saw Curt. He was on his hands and knees inside the door, and she had never seen him like this before. Never seen him looking so scared. “Curt!” she gasped. She and Holden went to him, and the blood and wounds registered instantly. Blood streaming down his arm, a gash in his head. And his hands… it looked like he’d been digging.

“Jesus, what happened?” Holden asked.

Curt’s eyes rolled in his head, and he seemed unable to focus on either of them.

“Door!” Marty screamed, skidding through the door as he attempted to slow and slam it behind him. He spilled to the floor, but Curt had already turned and kicked the door closed.

What the hell is this? Dana thought. For a moment she wondered if it was a joke, and that they’d all start cracking up soon, pointing at her and Holden and rolling around on the floor. But she didn’t think that for long. Not with the way blood was pulsing from the slash in Curt’s scalp. And not from the terror in Marty’s eyes.

“Anna Patience,” he muttered. “Her. Her!”

Dana darted to Curt’s side.

“Where are you hurt? Is all this blood yours? Where’s Jules?”

Curt pushed her hands away, shaking his head. He stood slowly, shaking, glancing around as if any shadow could hold danger. He zipped his fly, and firelight reflected in his eyes, dancing shapes. Dana thought he was crying, but she wasn’t sure.

“It’s okay, Curt. You’re okay…” Holden tried to calm him, holding his upper arms and catching his eye.

“No,” Marty said, gasping for air. “We’re not okay. What’s the opposite of okay?”

“What are you talking about?” Dana said, because they were scaring the shit out of her now. “Curt, where’s Jules?”

Curt shook his head. Blood spattered his shoulder and the floorboards, but he didn’t notice. His eyes still seemed to be looking elsewhere.