Chapter 6 Disturbances
The cabin was a quirky marvel. Inside it, a lifetime of her aunt’s peculiar treasures. Clara’s life was ordered by algorithms and logical progression, while this was a chaotic wonderland, as well as a daunting task. Her firm had granted her two weeks' leave, with the understanding that she’d tackle the backlog of a massive legacy data the moment she returned
To her surprise, she was feeling a seismic shift in her carefully constructed world. Her initial reservations were a mountainous range of their own. Bea, bless her eccentric soul, had been a wild spirit, a woman who spoke to trees and claimed to distinguish between the whispers of the wind and the sighs of the earth. Her cabin, as Clara discovered upon her arrival, was a testament to that untamed spirit.
The air was different here, crisp, clean, carrying the scent of pine and sage. The silence was profound, broken only by the chirping of unseen birds or the rustle of leaves in a sudden breeze. Initially, the silence had been unnerving, but as the days bled into a week, a curious transformation began. The wildness around her, once overwhelming, became an intricate tapestry of sounds and sights she slowly learned to decipher.
She established a routine. Mornings were for coffee on the porch, watching the sun paint the eastern peaks in hues of gold and rose. Though she once preferred concrete sidewalks to dirt trails, she found herself drawn deeper and deeper into the forest. She discovered hidden springs, ancient, gnarled trees that seemed to hold the weight of centuries, and deer paths that wound through sun-dappled clearings. The forced solitude, initially a burden, became a balm. Her mind, usually cluttered with spreadsheets, began to declutter, finding a strange peace in the rhythm of her footsteps on pine needles. She felt a lightness, a sense of being unburdened, that she hadn't realized she was missing.
The task of sorting through Bea’s possessions was monumental. Every dusty box was a new puzzle to solve. It was far larger than she had anticipated, made even more difficult by her burgeoning love affair with the wilderness. Days slipped by unnoticed, marked by the changing light on the mountains rather than the relentless ticking of a clock. Before she knew it, her initial two-week leave from work was almost up, and she was nowhere near finished. A pang of anxiety, familiar and unwelcome, twisted in her stomach. She couldn’t leave it like this.
Reluctantly, she picked up her phone. There was barely a signal, not surprising in her remote location, but there was enough to call her office back in Denver. "I'd like to extend my leave," she said, her voice sounding oddly formal in the vast silence of the cabin after being connected to the personnel office. "Another two weeks." A sigh of relief escaped her as the extension was granted. She hung up, feeling a surge of satisfaction. More time. More peace. It was exactly what she needed.
It was almost precisely after that phone conversation to her office that the subtle threads of unease began to weave themselves into the fabric of her new routine.
The first incident was minor, easily dismissed. A scratching sound, low and rhythmic, coming from beneath the cabin floor late one night. She’d awakened with a start, her heart hammering against her ribs, convinced it was some animal trying to claw its way in. She’d grabbed a heavy iron poker from beside the fireplace, her knuckles white, and crept to the living room window. Moonlight painted the clearing outside in silver, but there was nothing. No deer, no bear, no raccoon. Just the profound silence of the Rockies. She rationalized it as wind playing tricks on the old timbers, or perhaps a mischievous squirrel. Still, a faint chill lingered long after she’d returned to bed.
The following, she returned from a particularly invigorating hike to find the main gate to the property standing ajar. It was a heavy, wrought-iron affair that she knew had been shut when she left, She looked for a sign that someone had been there but found none. Her stomach clenched. She distinctly remembered locking it the night before as was her habit, and she hadn’t gone down to unlock it before going on her hike. She was meticulous about details; it was her nature. Was she mistaken about closing it the night before? Unlikely. Maybe the wind or maybe one of the neighbors had come to visit, but not finding her home, they left without closing it behind them. A prickle of unease, like static electricity, traced its way up her spine. She shook her head, dismissing it. Ethan helping himself, a familiarity that irritated her more than it should have, had probably come by again and left it open. She discounted the chilling discovery as just being her overactive imagination from too much solitude.
The mail arrived sporadically, delivered by a grizzled local who drove a beat-up pickup. He’d usually just drop the mail in the box by the road and wave before pulling back out onto the main road. However, one afternoon, she found her latest utility bill torn open along the top flap. The contents were still inside, but the violation felt personal, invasive. Who would care about her utility bill? What mail was still coming in for Bea, was mostly catalogs and nature magazines. Had someone been looking for something specific? She dismissed it as a postal error, a machine snag, but the seed of fear, once planted, began to sprout a tiny, tendril.
As before, the feeling of being watched on her hikes intensified. It started subtly, a sudden quieting of a birdsong, a rustle that was too distinct to be just the wind, a fleeting glimpse of shadow at the periphery of her vision. She’d stop, her breath held, straining her ears, but the forest would invariably resume its peaceful hum. Her analytical mind tried to break it down: sensory overload, the brain creating patterns where none existed, the heightened awareness that came with isolation. But the feeling persisted, a constant, low thrum beneath her skin.
One afternoon, she was traversing a narrow deer trail that hugged the side of a steep incline when she paused to admire a cluster of wild columbines. As she straightened, she distinctly heard a twig snap behind her, too close, too deliberate for an animal. She whirled around, heart pounding. Nothing. Just the endless expanse of trees. But the air felt heavy, charged. It was then, standing alone on that winding trail, surrounded by the impassive wilderness, that a wave of primal fear washed over her. She picked up her pace, her leisurely exploration turning into a near-run back to the perceived safety of the cabin.