You Are Alone

Trigger Warning - Implied violence

You are alone.

You know you are alone because you drove here alone, forty-seven miles deep into the woods of Cuchara, Colorado. The cabins here are widely spaced; your nearest neighbor is probably a two or three hour hike from your front door. The only sounds are the wind in the pines, the scrabble of birds and small mammals, and the occasional clap of thunder that interrupts the rain on the roof.

You know you are alone because you told no one where you were going. Your family believes you’re away for work this weekend. Your friends think you decided to stay home. The owner of this cabin knows he rented it out to someone, of course, but he’s in Cuchara proper, no doubt knocking back whiskey sours at the bar and complaining about the weather. He seemed the type based on the few words you exchanged when you booked the rental.

You know you are alone because there is one door in this tiny cabin and you locked and bolted it, twice. You wanted to be here, to be away from everything for just one night, but you’re not stupid. There could be bears out there.

You’d sort of like to see a bear, maybe. As long as it’s from a distance.

All the lights are on in the cabin. You busy yourself unpacking the groceries you brought—a 2-liter bottle of soda, a bag of Doritos, some microwave hot pockets that you won’t be eating because it turns out this place doesn’t have a microwave. That’s okay. You can live on Doritos. It’s only for one night, after all.

One night of freedom. One night away from all the weight and responsibility of your life. One night when nobody will ask anything of you, and you can just be at peace with your thoughts.

Thunder bellows just as you tear into the bag. You jump and spill the chips out onto the counter. Damn. At least it wasn’t the soda.

There is no TV in this place. No internet. The few board games in a cabinet look like they’re older than you are. There’s a layer of dust over the place that confirms what you already know: no one has stepped here in months, probably years. You are alone.

Another thunderclap, but this one doesn’t startle you so much. You take your dinner over to the couch, which is just the right amount of ratty—worn and comfortable, but suitably clean. You are alone, and no one knows where you are. No one will miss you until tomorrow. The night is yours.

***

The next time you hear the thunder, you’re almost asleep, and it startles you awake.

The couch is soft, but it’s a little too short to sleep comfortably. Your feet are propped on the opposite arm from your head, but when the thunder claps you sit upright and slide them to the floor. Another loud rumble follows almost immediately, and you know what that means. The storm is close. It’s nearly on top of you.You get to your knees and pull the curtain aside to look out at the forest.

It isn’t raining.

The sky is bright with stars. The wind is rustling the tree leaves but, you realize, the pattering on the roof has stopped.

Was that a dream?

Did you imagine it?

Maybe it was thunder from far away, from a storm that’s moving on. But then why did it sound so close?

No, you were dreaming, you must have been. You laugh at yourself a little, lie down, pull the blanket to your shoulders. Close your eyes.

BOOM!

There was no lightning.

How didn’t you notice this before?

Thunder belongs to lightning. There was no lightning.

You rip open the curtain and stare out into the dark, trying to see...anything…

BOOM!

Jesus, it’s behind you.

You run to the window on the other side of the cabin in time to see a tree slowly tip and fall to the ground—BOOM! Behind it, you can just make out the outline of a dark figure. Upright. Massive. Bear.

The truck is a mile away, up by the road. That’s a mile of dense forest at night, with no markers or trails. You know that uphill is vaguely the right direction, but there’s a lot of uphill from here. Anxious, you glance back at the door—

It’s standing open.

No. No. You locked it. You run over, pull it closed, slam the bolt home.

Breathe.

BOOM! Closer now.

Bears won’t bother you if you don’t bother them. You know this. You learned it in scouts and you read about it in your camping manual. Bears don’t want to tangle with humans. Still, you dim the lights. You wrap yourself in your blanket and force yourself to breathe normally. You watch the door.

The bolt slides open.

What? Your breath catches. Time crawls

The lock turns.

You jump up and run to the door, slam your shoulder against it, and try to turn the lock back, but it fights you. It won’t go. You shove at the bolt, but it doesn’t budge.

There’s a sort of pop and the cabin fills with a terrible smell, a smell of raw rusty meat. You gag and your eyes water, and now you can hear heavy footsteps outside your door, the hot, wet sound of mumbling bear. You shove at the lock harder. Nothing. Nothing.

There’s a whirring sound.

You turn.

A camera. A camera is mounted high on the wall near the ceiling. Here in this place without technology, a camera is watching you.

You stare at it.

It stares at you.

You turn back, your heart in your throat. The bear’s eye is locked on you through the window.

The door begins to push open.

**

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