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  CABIN D

  IAN ROGERS

  ChiZine Publications

  COPYRIGHT

  “Cabin D” © 2012 by Ian Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  Published by ChiZine Publications

  This short story was originally published in Every House Is Haunted by Ian Rogers, first published in print form in 2012, and in an ePub edition in 2012, by ChiZine Publications.

  Original ePub edition (in Every House Is Haunted) October 2012 ISBN: 9781927469194.

  This ePub edition November 2012 ISBN: 978-1-927469-90-3.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS

  Toronto, Canada

  www.chizinepub.com

  [email protected]

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Cabin D

  About the Author

  Publication History

  More Dark Fiction from ChiZine Publications

  CABIN D

  I

  When the man in the houndstooth jacket stepped through the door, Rachel knew he was going to be trouble. It wasn’t until later, after he had dropped the biggest tip she ever received, that she learned trouble was, in fact, where he was going.

  It was a few minutes past eight on a Friday morning and Rachel was nursing a cup of coffee and leafing through the Sutter County Register. The breakfast crowd had come and gone, and she expected things to pick up again, oh, sometime tomorrow morning. The Crescent Diner did a good business in the hours between six and eight AM, but afternoons and evenings were deader than disco.

  At the moment, the only sounds in the diner were the low gurgling of the Silex and the whisper of the ceiling fans turning overhead. Reg was out back having a smoke and the jukebox (which contained such golden oldies as “Gangsta’s Paradise” and “Mambo No. 5”) was mercifully silent.

  The bell over the door jingled, and Rachel was so surprised by the sound that she almost dropped her coffee cup. She looked up from the newspaper and saw a man standing in the doorway.

  “Morning,” he said, and gave her a sunny grin. He squinted his eyes in order to read the orange, moon-shaped name-tag pinned to her blue rayon uniform. “Rachel.” He raised a hand in greeting. “I’m Henry.”

  The waitress’s first thought was that the man, Henry, had crawled out of a Salvation Army donation bin. In addition to the houndstooth jacket, he wore a paisley shirt, a plaid tie, and a pair of tan slacks so short they looked like flood pants. He was also wearing mismatched socks—one brown, one yellow and covered with a pattern of lobsters. She wondered idly if the circus was in town.

  She was about to head out back and tell Reg they had another homeless person in the diner, but something made her wait. She stared at the man a moment longer and realized that, despite his ragged, clownish attire, he clearly wasn’t one of the homeless vags who wandered in from time to time in search of food or money. He was in his late twenties or early thirties. He was thin, clear-eyed, and clean-shaven, and he didn’t give off the stink of either cheap wine or puke.

  “Hi Henry,” she said finally.

  “I just hitched in.” His jacket opened a bit as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Rachel caught a glimpse of rainbow suspenders. “A trucker named Eddie Ray said if I wanted a good meal I had to stop in at the Crescent.”

  “You found it,” Rachel said. “In all its glory.”

  “Do you have an extensive menu?”

  Rachel blinked. In the five years she had been waitressing, she had never heard that question before. “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, I have some time to kill—and an appetite to kill, for that matter—and I was just wondering if your menu has a wide selection. I brought a newspaper—” he patted the rolled up copy of the Register under his arm “—and I plan to bivouac in one of your booths for the day. If that’s all right by you.”

  “Bivo-what?”

  “Bivouac,” he said. “Camp out.”

  Rachel was speechless. She was tempted to look out the wide front window and see if there was a camera crew out there. She felt like she was on one of those reality TV shows where they play practical jokes on unsuspecting people.

  “We have a pretty good menu . . . I guess.” She made a vague gesture. “Would you like to see it?”

  Henry held up his hand. “No need,” he said, still smiling. “I trust you.”

  Rachel watched as he went over and took a seat in a corner booth. He put the newspaper on the table and picked up a laminated menu. He began looking it over with the wide-eyed exuberance of a scholar perusing a rare folio edition.

  Five minutes later, he summoned Rachel over.

  “All set?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’d like the Full Moon breakfast—scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, toast (white bread, please), melon, and orange juice. I’d also like an extra side of bacon.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Constantly,” Henry said, and grinned.

  Rachel didn’t like that grin. There was something artificial and a little unsettling about it. It stretched too tightly across the skin on his face. Like a skeleton’s grin.

  She turned away and went through the swing door to the kitchen. Reg was just coming back in, taking off his coat and hanging it on the wooden peg next to the door.

  “We have a customer,” Rachel told him, and recited Henry’s order.

  “Really?” Reg said, amused. “Hell must have frozen over.” He slipped his apron on over his head.

  “Guy looks kind of weird. Says he hitched in with Eddie Ray.”

  Reg dipped his head down so he could see through the partition in the wall. “He looks harmless enough. Although I don’t know many bums who ever used a newspaper for anything other than a blanket.”

  “I don’t think he’s a bum,” Rachel said. “He seems kind of . . . strange.”

  Reg shrugged. “Strange or not, he’s got an appetite.”

  II

  Ten minutes later, Rachel emerged from the back with Henry’s order on a large serving tray. As she dished it out, Henry moved each plate around like chips on an oversized bingo card. When he had everything where he wanted, he looked up at Rachel with that same beaming grin.

  “This all looks great. Really great.”

  Rachel smiled politely, tucked the empty tray under her arm, and returned to the kitchen.

  Henry picked up his fork and knife and began to cut up the four sausages on one of the side plates. When he was done, he cut up his eggs, forked some hash browns on top of them, and began to eat.

  Rachel watched him through the partition. Henry didn’t seem to be aware of her staring, and that was good because she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. She followed his fork as it scooped up eggs and sausage and hash browns and deposited them into his mouth. He chewed mechanically, as if he were a machine and the food was his fuel.

  He seemed to relish the food, closing his eyes and letting out long, satisfied sighs of pleasure between bites. It was like sex. He wasn’t just eating the food; he was savouring it. Like he had never eaten before. Or might never eat again.

  Like a death-row inmate, she thought.

  Henry took a big gulp of coffee, tilting his head back to get the last drop. Watching from the partition, Rachel noticed dark smudges under his eyes. At first glance Henry had seemed full of buoyant, invigorating energy, but upon closer examination she saw he was quite thin and pallid, almost sickly. The phrase death-row inmate
clanged in her head, and Rachel reassessed her initial observation.

  No, he looks like death. Or someone close to death.

  Regardless, Henry continued to eat steadily throughout the day. After finishing his breakfast, he ordered a tuna-fish sandwich on rye and a glass of milk. Rachel topped up his coffee—almost filling it past the overflow point in her daze—and went back to Reg in the kitchen with his order.

  “Maybe he’s one of those food critics,” Reg said, taking an enormous bottle of mayonnaise out of the big, steel-doored walk-in. “Sometimes they travel in disguise.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rachel said.

  By the time noon rolled around, Rachel had filled Henry’s coffee cup at least a dozen times. He had polished off the tuna-on-rye and ordered a side of French fries with gravy. He told Rachel that you could tell a lot about a restaurant by the quality of their gravy.

  At three PM, Josie Sutton pulled up in her lime-green VW bug with the bumper sticker that said TENNE-SEEIN’ IS TENNE-BELIEVIN’! She was wearing her waitress uniform and the magenta hoop earrings that she had bought off eBay because they supposedly once belonged to Tammy Wynette.

  She gave Henry a passing look as she strolled through the swing door. She was reaching for her time-card in the slot on the wall when Rachel stopped her.

  “What’s wrong?” Josie asked.

  “Do you mind if I take your shift today?”

  “What? Why?”

  Rachel told her about Henry. Josie raised one pencil-drawn eyebrow. “You got a crush or sumthin’?”

  “No,” Rachel said, flushing slightly. “I just know that if I go home now I’ll be wondering about it for the rest of the week.”

  Josie thought it over for a second—which was about as long as Josie ever thought about anything—and said: “Okay. Sure. Whatever. Matt Damon’s gonna be on Oprah today, anyway.” And she left.

  An hour later, Rachel came out of the kitchen to wipe down the counter for about the forty-seventh time that day. Henry was reading his newspaper.

  As she moved along the counter, Rachel turned her back to him. When he spoke she dropped her cloth and almost cried out in surprise.

  “I’ve been in here for just over five hours and I haven’t seen a single person come in.”

  Rachel let out a long, steadying breath as she crouched down and picked up the cloth. “Things fall off pretty quick after the morning crowd leaves,” she said. “You’re really making me earn my minimum wage today.”

  “If you don’t have many customers, then why such a big menu?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  Rachel turned around and leaned against one of the counter stools. “The owner, Reg, is also the cook. He says offering a wide variety of food puts a certain amount of creativity into an otherwise mundane job.”

  “Seriously?”

  “That’s what he says,” Rachel said, aware that Reg might be listening.

  “Well,” Henry said, raising his voice slightly, “he’s an absolute artist in the kitchen.” He folded his newspaper and picked up the menu again.

  “More?” Rachel couldn’t quite mask her surprise.

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” Henry smiled again; this one was thinner, not as forced as the others.

  “It’s just . . .” Rachel contemplated for a moment, then threw caution aside. “You’re eating like a condemned man.”

  “Condemned,” Henry repeated, and looked away. “That’s funny.” But the look on his face said it wasn’t funny at all. “I’m not condemned. This is all voluntary. Very, very voluntary.” The look went away and the thousand-watt smile came back on again, like a switch in his head had been flipped. “Could I get the meatloaf? Mashed potatoes, roast carrots, and a tall glass of milk?”

  III

  As Reg went to work on Henry’s meatloaf, Rachel drifted back to the partition. Henry had taken a single piece of newspaper and was folding it carefully and methodically. Curiosity finally got the better of her and she went back to the booth, under the auspices of refilling Henry’s coffee cup. As she topped him up, he raised his head.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  On the palm of his hand was a folded-paper animal. A cow, she noticed, complete with tiny paper udders. Its head was lowered as if it were cropping.

  “A cow?” Rachel guessed.

  “That’s right.” Henry set it on the table. “Origami. The Japanese art of paper-folding.”

  “Paper-folding, huh? I thought they just made electronics.”

  “This is a much older craft.”

  “Secret of the Orient?” Rachel asked.

  “Something like that,” Henry conceded. “It can be traced back to the sixteenth century. Can you believe that knowledge of something like that could be kept for so long, passed down from one person to the next?”

  “The only thing passed on in my family is insomnia and an old moth-eaten quilt that my great-grandmother made while she was snowed in one winter.”

  Henry chuckled.

  Rachel eyed him suspiciously. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: have you been drinking or something?”

  Henry chuckled again, louder this time, then stopped suddenly. “I thought about drinking today,” he said in a solemn, thoughtful tone. “I thought it might be for the best to, I don’t know, sedate myself, before the main event.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I decided not to. It seemed kind of . . . cowardly.”

  He is sick, Rachel thought. I knew it. It’s cancer, or something like it.

  “The way I see it, nobody dies with a clear conscience, but I plan to go out with a clear mind.” He looked down at the origami cow. “I’m afraid the only thing I planned to get drunk on today was cholesterol. And why not? Long-term health effects are not exactly my concern anymore. Hell, the long-term in general isn’t my concern.”

  Rachel gave him a long, considering look. He didn’t sound self-pitying or self-deprecating. He was speaking lucidly, almost clinically, as if he were talking about something he had read in the newspaper spread out before him. He had taken his time eating the food she had served; he hadn’t wolfed it down. He had made it last. He acknowledged each forkful before putting it into his mouth. Like he was counting the bites. Like he knew there were only so many more he was ever going to take.

  The sound of Reg dinging the order-up bell almost made Rachel jump. She went over to the partition and retrieved Henry’s meatloaf dinner, delivering it to him without comment. Henry didn’t say anything, either, just smiled that damn smile of his and started eating.

  When he was finished it was almost eight o’clock. Like the rest of his meals at the Crescent Diner, Henry had made his dinner last.

  After clearing his empty plate, Rachel came back and filled his coffee cup. “Dare I ask?” she said. “Dessert?”

  Henry was breathing heavily now. Rachel thought it was a wonder his sides hadn’t split.

  “What kind of pies do you have?”

  “Apple, blueberry, strawberry-rhubarb, peach, and pumpkin.”

  “One of each,” he said without smiling. “Please.”

  Nothing surprises me at this point, Rachel thought on her way back to the kitchen.

  But she was wrong. After she brought out the pies, Henry surveyed each one, picked up his fork, and began to eat. Rachel couldn’t watch any longer. Henry was sick, this whole thing was sick, and she didn’t want to look at it anymore. She felt like she was participating in an execution. She wished she hadn’t taken Josie’s shift.

  She was turning away when Henry said, “This is a good place.”

  “What?”

  “The Crescent Diner. This is a good place. Good food, good service. I like it.”

  Rachel stared at him.

  “I’m fit to burst,” he said. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to finish these.”

  She looked down and saw that he had taken a single bite out of each piece of pie.

  “The
re was a guy from around these parts, name of Mundy or Mindy, I can’t remember which. He wrote a book about bad places.”

  “A food critic?” Rachel asked.

  “Something like that,” Henry said dismissively. “He had a word for these bad places. He called them ‘pressure points.’ I knew a girl once who called them something else. A much more appropriate word, in my opinion.” He paused in remembrance, or maybe for effect. “She called them ‘tornadoes.’

  “Do you read?” he asked suddenly.

  Rachel shook her head. “Only the expiry dates on the milk cartons at the Food Mart,” she said, and Henry laughed.

  “Can I get my bill?”

  Rachel took her order pad out of the pouch on the front of her uniform. She flipped through the sheets on which she had scribbled Henry’s orders throughout the day. She couldn’t remember the last time she had to add so many numbers. Finally she scribbled a total at the bottom of the page and plunked it down on the table.

  Henry reached into his houndstooth jacket and produced a thick wad of bills bound with a rubber band. He paid the bill and then placed the still-considerable stack of cash on the table. He smoothed it out and placed the origami cow on top of it.

  “That’s for you,” he said.

  And then without another word, he stood up, ignoring Rachel’s stunned expression, and left the diner.

  Rachel turned around in time to see the door swing shut. She heard the sound of Henry’s shoes on the crushed gravel in the parking lot, and a second later she saw him pass in front of the side window on his way around to the back of the diner.

  The next time she saw him he was on page four of the Sutter County Register.

  IV

  There are haunted places in the world. Dark places. Shunned places. Forgotten places. All existing in reality and every bit as tangible and accessible as the house next door. Sometimes it is the house next door.

  But hauntings aren’t restricted to houses. There are also haunted apartments and haunted trailers, haunted farms and haunted restaurants, haunted churches and haunted schools, and, on Lake Shore Boulevard in Toronto, there is even a haunted fish-processing plant.