The Cabin in the Woods

“This is somewhere we should never see,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Marty said. “I feel the same. But check the freaky stonework.” Below each torch was a large stone slab, free-standing, maybe twelve feet square and inlaid with intricate carvings. The etchings of four slabs glittered with reflected light, and Dana identified at least part of the scent that troubled her: blood. They paused in the center of the chamber and she turned a full circle, and as she saw each carved stone a sickening dread settled deeper over her.

“Oh, and…” Marty said, nodding down. “Look familiar?”

It did. Inlaid into the floor in different colored stone was a representation of the five-armed pendant. The guy she’d stabbed had made an effort to grab that before he died, and she’d seen the tension on his face as he willed himself to remain alive long enough to hold it in his hand. It had eased him into death, that pendant, and now they were standing at the place on the floor where the five arms merged.

Each arm pointed at one carved slab, and each slab was lit by a burning torch. But Dana knew that this chamber was more than just a place for display

It was much more important than that.

“Oh, suddenly I feel a bit seasick,” Marty said, glancing over his shoulder. “Look, back where we came in.”

At the bottom of the stone staircase they’d crossed a small bridge that spanned a space maybe four feet across, and that space circled the rest of the chamber. Even behind the upright slabs there seemed to be no connection between the floor and the walls.

“I’m liking this less and less,” Dana said, edging over and peering down into the void. The flaming torches lit the rough rock wall a little way down, but beyond that was deep, heavy darkness. It looked solid, almost as if she could fall in and it would ease her fall, holding her suspended like a cartoon cloud in a kid’s imagination.

She closed her eyes, swayed, and stumbled a few steps back.

“Deep?” Marty asked.

“Can’t see the bottom,” she said. “But there seemed to be something…”

“Don’t tell me,” he said.

“Something moving down there.”

“Okay. That’s it. I officially want to cut this vacation short.”

“I don’t think we ever could have, even if we’d wanted to.” She turned a slow circle again.

“No way out,” Marty said.

“Look at these. Five of them.”

“Weird. What are they?”

“Us,” Dana said. “I should’ve seen it like you did. All of this: the old guy at the gas station, the out-of-control behavior, the monsters… this is part of a ritual.” “A ritual sacrifice? Great! You tie someone to a stone, get a fancy dagger and a bunch a robes. It’s not that complicated!”

“No, it’s simple. They don’t just wanna see us killed. They want to see us punished.”

“Punished for what?” Marty asked, and then there was movement on the stairs. Dana gasped and raised the gun, wondering what monstrosity they’d see coming through… demon or zombie, alien or mutant.

“For being young?” the woman said. She was tall and elegant, calm and reserved. She might have been beautiful, but Dana sensed a pressure of responsibility on her shoulders that seemed to crush her sense of self. She was like a mannequin given life, her beauty a suggestion rather than something she carried well. “Who’re you?” Marty asked.

“The Director,” Dana said, answering for her. “It’s you we heard over the speakers.”

The Director nodded affirmation, then continued. “It’s different for every culture. And it changes over the years, but it’s very specific. There must be at least five.” She pointed to one of the slabs, the blood-filled carving showing a woman standing erect, holding open her robe to reveal her nakedness. “The Whore.”

“That word…” Dana muttered, remembering the way the spooky gas station guy had muttered it when he looked at Jules.

“She is corrupted, and she dies first.” She pointed to the other slabs one by one, naming them. “The Athlete. The Scholar. The Fool. All suffer and die, at the hands of the horror they have raised. Leaving the last, to live or die as fate decides.” She pointed at the last slab, and this one looked different, the etching there not so defined.

Unmarked by blood, Dana realized.

“The Virgin.”

“Me?” Dana snorted. “Virgin?”

“Dude, she’s a home-wrecker!” Marty said.

“We work with what we have,” the Director said, shrugging. “It’s symbolism that’s important, never truth.”

“What happens if you don’t pull it off?” Marty asked. He’d twigged it, but Dana knew that he’d had more of an idea than any of them. His humor was his own defense mechanism, the same as Jules used her overt sexuality, and Curt hid behind his machismo. Or used to.

“They awaken,” the Director whispered. And she looked utterly, insanely terrified.

“Who does? What’s beneath us?”