Weekend Retreat

“Let’s all go to the cabin at the lake this weekend. It’ll be fun to get away for a while.” Our seventeen-year-old daughter Molly had just finished a battery of tests at school and was clearly ready for a break. Molly’s exuberance was contagious, and we all quickly acknowledged being afflicted with a form of cabin fever.

My job as a computer programmer carried with it all the anxieties, burdens, and tedious professional duties one so often encounters when working for The Man.

My wife Julie taught a classroom full of juvenile delinquents more interested in demonstrating their macho spunk than learning the intricacies of English literature. Her nerves were always in ravels by the time she got home.

Except for an occasional trip to the crowded city park with the nanny, four-year-old Bradley had been cooped up in our apartment while the rest of us dealt with the drudgery that makes a rather dull, wearisome, and lethargic existence deficient in what landscape painters call “life.”

Yes. We were all ready for the rejuvenation that the island of peace at the cabin offered.

Since the schools were on a semester break and I had some vacation time coming, we packed our bags and left early Friday morning.

I could feel all the stress washing away as we left the pollution and commotion of the city behind and drove into the rural countryside. High rise apartment buildings were replaced by rolling green hills, and the tumultuous frenzy of the city was soon forgotten, at least for the moment.

We stopped to purchase some provisions for the weekend at Smitty’s Bait and Tackle Shop, conveniently located at the intersection of the main highway with the access road to the remote cabin in the woods.

A herd of Harleys was parked in front of the shop, and several of the bikers were lounging around chugging on their beers, while others were waiting to use the lavatory. They were all attired in the requisite black leather jackets adorned with swastika or skull-and-crossbones insignia, denim trousers with silver chains attached to oversized wallets in their hip pockets, dingo boots, and greasy bandanas wrapped around heads full of shoulder-length tangled hair.

Their surly glares convinced us to get our supplies quickly and move on without engaging in a little friendly banter with the kindly old lady who ran the shop, as we normally did during previous visits.

The cozy little cabin was nestled among the evergreen pines between the deep blue lake and the picturesque purple mountains under an azure sky--a perfect place of tranquility to escape from the frenetic bustle of the city.

The scene that greeted us when we opened the door was not what we expected. There were empty beer cans and whiskey bottles strewn all about the front room, along with a variety of pornographic magazines and paraphernalia.

“Disgusting!” Julie exclaimed. “Who would do something like this? How did they get in?”

“Who knows, Hon? Maybe it was those bikers we saw back at the tackle shop. You’d better take the kids outside until I can get this mess cleaned up.”

She took Bradley by the hand and motioned for Molly to go back out the door.

When I went into the kitchen to get a trash can and broom, my heart surged into my throat, and a flood of nausea erupted at the grisly sight spread out before me. Blood was spattered all over the floor and walls, and there were human body parts on the table and the counter, and a hand appeared to be waving from a pot on the stove.

I steadied myself against the door frame for a few minutes. Then, trying to compose myself, I went outside to inform the family that we wouldn’t be staying there after all. Trying to spare them from the horror, I told them simply there was more damage than we could repair, but the pallor on my face told them there was something more to the situation than just damage to the cabin.

We still had a major problem to contend with. There were cannibalistic killers out there somewhere, and they could return at any time.

Suddenly solace and tranquility had turned to isolation and terror. The only way out was that secluded access road, and the thought of meeting the killers on that road had me petrified.

In spite of the terror that engulfed me, there was no other choice. We had to leave.

While we were packing the bags back into the car, a flashing blue light came careening around a curve in the lonely access road, bringing a flood of relief with it.

The police officer explained that the kindly old lady at the tackle shop had overheard the bikers bragging about their escapades and called 911. The group was presently being delivered to the local jail for safe keeping.

The family was a bit disappointed over having our weekend plans disrupted, but I was only too happy to get back to that apartment in the city in one piece.