The Red in the Dark | A Cabin in the Woods

The Irving Woods swallowed all light.

A man named Ben ran through them, breathing hard, covered in blood he had not spilled himself.

This is his story.

He didn't even stop.

Jesus Christ.

The way he just kept chopping.

Calm.

Certain.

Like he was nothing.

Danny.

The blood had hit warm on Ben's face when the axe found Danny. Copper and salt still sat at the back of his throat. Swallowing didn't help.

Run.

His legs moved before the thought finished.

Run.

Don't look back.

Don't you dare look back.

No trails. No markers.

The dark had weight.

Branches tore at his arms. Roots came up underfoot. Twice he stumbled. Once he hit the ground hard enough to see white.

Back up. Keep moving. Lungs burning.

I'mgonna fucking die out here.

Danny.

A sob caught in his throat before he could stop it.

A crack somewhere to the left sent Ben veering right on pure instinct.

He killed him.

Right in front of—

Run.

Then light.

Faint. Warm. Steady through the trees.

A window.

Ben surged toward it like a drowning man spotting the shore.

A clearing opened up around an old cabin that stood against a rise of stone, smoke climbing from the chimney into the black sky.

Both fists slammed against the door the moment Ben was on the porch.

"HELP!"

"SOMEBODY— PLEASE—"

Again. Harder.

Wood rattled in the frame.

"HE KILLED MY BROTHER!"

Another strike.

"PLEASE—"

Bang!

Bang!

Footsteps.

Slow.

Unhurried.

The door opened to a tall, lean man standing in the doorway with a dark beard touched with grey.

A flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms.

He looked at the blood on the porch. Looked at Ben. Looked at the woods beyond.

Then back again.

"Oh."

He went still for a moment.

"A visitor."

He stepped aside and opened the door wider.

"Come in."

The cabin hit all at once.

Woodsmoke.

Something simmering on the stove.

Rich and heavy.

The smell dug into an empty stomach hard enough to hurt.

Old paper. Pine.

The scent of a place that had been lived in for a very long time.

"There's somebody out there."

The words came apart as they came out.

"He killed my brother. I need a phone. I need to call somebody."

"There's no phone."

"What?"

"No phone."

Ben stared at him.

"A radio. Anything?"

The man shook his head.

"No. I have nothing of the sort."

He turned back to the pot and lifted the lid, letting a wave of aromatic steam roll into the room.

Ben just stood there trying to understand how somebody could live out here with nothing.

No phone. No radio. Nothing.

The man replaced the lid.

The smell coming off the pot was even stronger now.

Ben's stomach clenched painfully in response.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

"My brother is dead."

The man nodded.

"I'm sorry."

"He murdered him."

He nodded again.

"I'm sorry about that too," he whispered.

Ben waited.

Waiting for shock. Anger. Fear. Anything.

Nothing came.

The man calmly pulled out a chair, the fire crackling softly behind him and the woods pressing against the windows.

"What's your name?"

Ben blinked.

"What?"

"Your name."

"Ben."

The man nodded once.

"Ben."

"How can you be so calm?"

The man shrugged.

"I guess I learned a long time ago that I could spend my days worrying about what might happen."

He looked toward the fire.

"Or I could enjoy the days while they're still mine."

His eyes drifted briefly toward the dark window and back again.

"When trouble arrives, I deal with it."

He gestured toward the chair.

"Until then..."

He smiled softly.

"...there's stew."

A short laugh escaped Ben's mouth.

"He killed my brother…"

The man's expression softened.

"I know."

He pushed the bowl a little closer.

"Which is why you should eat something."

Steam curled up between them.

"You've been running."

As Ben looked down, he realized how badly his hands were shaking, the man following his gaze.

"You need food, water, and sleep."

The bowl sat between them, patiently waiting.

"The dead will still be dead in an hour, Ben."

The words should have sounded cruel.

The fire worked steadily in the hearth.

For the first time since Danny fell, Ben realized how exhausted he was.

He finally sat.

"What is it?"

The question came out around a mouthful of stew.

"The stew?"

Ben nodded.

"It's good."

The smile widened.

"Thank you."

"No, seriously."

Ben gestured with the spoon.

"What is it?"

The man thought for a moment.

Then shrugged.

"Whatever the forest decided to provide."

Ben snorted.

He shook his head and took another bite.

The man stood and crossed to a shelf running along the wall, his hand settling on a thick book.

He pulled it free and brought it back to the table where he sat to open it.

"I've been keeping these for a long time."

He ran a thumb along the edge of the page.

"Stories."

Ben took another spoonful of stew before settling back into the chair, and for the first time since Danny died, he wasn't running.

The man found his place in the book and spoke.

"This one's called..."

He glanced down.

"Red in the Dark."

He began to read.