After the Gloaming - 8 - Cabin in the Woods

Episode Date: August 26, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.Cabin in the Woods was written by James Dermond.James Dermond is a horror and science fiction author living in Colorado. He has written five volumes of short horror stories in the Doorways to the Unseen series, which is planned as a twelve-volume book series. James' story, "The Unearthly Gardens," was part of the science fiction short story anthology, 'Metamorphosis Alpha 3,' with the work of a dozen other authors. 'Doorways to the Unseen, Volumes 1 to 6 are available on Amazon and other platforms. https://www.amazon.com/stores/James-Dermond/author/B01M1S54YP?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=trueNarrator was performed by Jamie Petronis, creator and producer of the podcast, The Cellar Letters - https://pod.link/1542891074.Howard and Stranger were performed by Harlan Guthrie, who is the creator of podcasts such as Malevolent - https://pod.link/1525652021, Deviser - https://pod.link/1680747031, and Dice Shame - https://pod.link/1485704498.Henry Blackwood was performed by Xander ZweigShelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra ElroyAfter the Gloaming script was written by James Barnett – http://www.jamesbarnettcreative.comSound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett - https://temporalrecordings.wordpress.com/Music and sound effects were provided by: Epidemic Sound, Sound Stripe, and Freesound.org.If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a 5-star rating.To support the show and gain access to all episodes now, ad-free, and a bonus episode, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcastIf you would like to support this show in having a season 2, head to https://ko-fi.com/dissonancemedia and drop us a donation. It is very much appreciated.This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons – Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. But by all means… share the hell out of it.Stay Horrific, everyone! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dissinance Media and the other stories presents. In the soft glow of dusk, night falls, exists. Gothic tales of the macabre, where the supernatural calls home, and the shadows dance. Hold tight, lost you may become. What did you mean sacrifice? Did you do something to your daughter? Oh dear, why don't you have some Earl Grey? I have so many stories to tell. They will not rest, my dear.

Sit back. Let me stoke the hearth. The storm seems to have receded. Why don't I call upon you for that lift into town? They will not rest, dear. I must tell them for her, for them. It is the only way. Oh, they... I think I must be going, Henry.

Perhaps I will head back to the car and see if it will start. Nonsense! They will not rest. I have so many more to tell you. Please, they will not rest. Another to appease. Another to push back the dark. Henry, you are frightening me.

One more, dear. Please. Why does he keep saying that? Perhaps one more, and then I must be off. Thank you, Shelley. You are a savior. Thank you. Explores a seeker of truth.

But is the truth really what they wish to seek? Or a new beginning. It is titled Cabin in the Woods. There was a loud knock on the cabin door. Several more followed in rapid succession. The knocking was insistent of someone desperate, or even of someone in imminent danger. All at once, it stopped.

Blyri-eyed and half asleep, Howard pushed himself up from his fireside reading chair and put his ear to the door's solid wood. He waited for some sign, anything that might hint at the nature of the trespasser. But Howard heard nothing from the other side. Only the crackling fire and the faint popping of burning wood behind him. Stepping away, Howard dimly wondered who would be out on such a cold night.

He hadn't seen anyone since the snowstorm. He drew aside the curtain draping a frost-tinted window and peered into the winter night enveloping the cabin. A man, wearing a bulky hooded coat, stood alone at the door's threshold. Arms limp, making no effort to knock again. The man neither turned his head. head nor looked down, instead staring forward at the door itself. Howard grabbed his hunting rifle from its rack above the fireplace. Returning to the door, he called out to the unwanted visitor in an intimidating voice. You should go away. If you need help, my neighbor is back down the road.

I can't let a perfect stranger in this slate at night. Just go. The stranger offered no reply. even as Howard removed the pivot safety from his rifle with its characteristic and very audible clack sound Howard returned to the front window and pulled its curtain aside again the man was gone where could he have come from Howard pondered the road's impassable he couldn't have just walked here from town despite his better judgment Howard unlocked the cabin door and slowly opened it overcome by a disquieting curiosity. His rifle was ready in his other hand. The night outside was frigid,

a gusting Arctic wind rustling the spruce trees that line the path from the distant road. Howard stepped outside into the cold and the dark, the vapor of his breath instantly icy. The lament moon provided its invisibility, its soft rays reflecting cleanly off the mounds of virgin snow piled high about the cabin. The snow crunched under Howard's boot.

as he paced around his wilderness home. The last snowfall had been comparatively light and he could actually walk outside unimpeded, which was unusual. Howard found the man in the heavy coat lying face down on his snowbank near the cabin's tarpaulin-covered woodpile. Motionless, the man's arms were sprawled above his head. Quickly propping his rifle against the side of the cabin,

Howard rushed to the fallen man, seizing him by the shoulder to turn him over. The stranger appeared young and was bearded. Strands of matted hair falling from under his park hood. His eyes shut. The man tilted his head and then coughed weakly. Can you hear me? Howard inquired sharply. His legs half buried in the snowbank. The man remained senseless. What's your name? At the second question, the stranger opened his eyes, giving Howard a dull, uncomprehending stare. Howard began to pull the man to his feet,

shivering in the cold. He had failed to down a cope before stepping out. The man stumbled and nearly fell again, but Howard helped him to the cabin door, first taking his rifle from where he had left it. Blustering winds from the freezing night swept into the cabin before Howard closed the door tightly behind them. He sat the man in a chair near the blazing fireplace, its embers sparking as Howard threw in more wood. While Howard mounted his rifle, the man reclined and looked about the room, seeming to come to his senses as the warmth of the cabin's interior revived him in some measure. Do you know where you are?

Howard asked, looking down at the man in his overstuffed chair. Again, what's your name? Towering shadows were thrown about the otherwise unlit room from the cabin's fireplace, with Howard's aging, craggy face somewhat softened by the fireplace's ruddy glow. The man finally answered in a broken, halting voice, speaking as if he hadn't formed words for some time. Do you... Do you have anything to drink?

water, some warm broth maybe, or anything. He pulled back the hood of his parker with a mittened hand and wiped his wet face as Howard turned away from him, taking a pot from a cupboard in the open room's small kitchen. I'll eat some broth for you. It'll be ready in a minute or two. You're my first caller since before the winter. Howard opened a can from the cupboard and poured broth into a lidless pot, covering it as the stove's burner ignited.

Howard then sat in the other plush upholstered chair before the fireplace and, for the first time, took a good look at his visitor. The young man was handsome but unkempt. His wavy chestnut hair rumpled and his thick beard untrimmed. His clothes were that of a traveler or outdoorsman, but his parka and winter boots were a vintage military issue. The man's forehead was beaded with sweat, as if he was coming down from a recent fever. The broth's ready. The man said, looking hopefully into the kitchen as the aluminum lid jittered on its pot. Howard stood and poured the steaming broth into a large mug before carefully handing it to his guest.

He sat again and asked the man pointedly. What's your name? Honestly, I don't know. The man said anxiously before taking a long sip of the hot liquid. I can remember walking down a deserted road and seeing a light in the window of your cabin. I took the path. and knocked, but you didn't answer. I started to search for another door when I felt dizzy and fell into the snow.

It's really just a blank before then. I was getting quite drowsy in that chair. Howard said offhandedly, despite his lingering concern for his guest. I was starting to nod off. In a kind of waking dream of some old memories when I heard the noise, the comfort of the fireplace sometimes does that to me. How many times did you knock? The man took another sip from his mug after removing his mittens, choosing not to answer Howard's last question.

Am I sick? He asked instead, lightly touching his forehead with his fingers, a look of bewilderment on his face. I don't even remember why I was on the road. He sat in silence for a moment before turning to stare at Howard. Who are you? I'm Howard. He replied, stopping himself before he gave him. his full name.

I'm stuck with this fellow until I can get to a phone, Howard calculated. He's going to at least spend the night. Whatever he has might be contagious, too. Blast. There's nothing you can remember before tonight, young man. Nothing at all. Howard then queried, hoping for anything that might reveal if his guest was a threat. The man eagerly finished his cup of broth,

reaching down to put the empty mug on the cabin floor. He listlessly surveyed the room before turning back to Howard. My first memory which is hazy at best is of taking a trip to a foreign land. He said in a distant voice, now gazing into the soft dancing flames of the fireplace. I'd hired a local guide and we rode on pack camels to a remote region of the country. The guide was about my age and he wore a head wrapping, a kind of turban, but I can't remember his name. Suddenly intrigued by his guest, despite his initial reservations,

Howard interjected before the man could continue. What did the camels look like? I mean, did they have one hump or two? Howard grinned as he said this, but was also serious, leaning forward in his chair to better hear the man's reply. The man furrowed his brow for a moment and then his eyes widened and surprised the detail came to him. Two, he said.

hesitantly holding up two of his fingers before him. I remember that now. The camels had two humps. He sat back, seemingly satisfied. Then you aren't in Arabia. It was somewhere else. Up in the mountains, perhaps. Howard said, probing the man impatiently.

He was beginning to believe the man's story could truly be authentic. He was so obviously reliving a genuine memory hitherto buried in the recesses of his mind. Yes The man replied cautiously nodding his head Yes we had traveled from the city where I hired my guide And then we rode into the mountains

The journey took us several days We were looking for a site I had found on an old map some years before I was an explorer Or maybe a professor of antiquities What were you hoping to find there Howard interrupted again Feeling himself drawn to the unfolding story

and momentarily taken aback by the man's archaic phrasing. The answer to a riddle. I studied a collection of clay tablets from the same part of the world found in a long-forgotten cave. Thieves had stolen the tablets at first, but then they were sold at auction. I must have obtained them somehow. The tablets told of a lost city

in which a great temple was hidden. The city and its temple were ancient, even when the tablets were set down. From these tablets I was able to identify an incomplete map from a special collection, the only map in the world to hint at the city's location. A winding riddle was written on these tablets in a dead language,

one which, when unraveled, would grant its solver eternal life. The riddle's answer was kept within the hidden temple set into the very stone of its walls. I doubted this was true, but but when I discovered many subtle references and sacred texts to this riddle of immortality, I began to believe that it might be. Howard was now gripped by his visitor's story, his inquisitiveness again overcoming any sense of fear. How could solving a riddle make one immortal?

Did the tablets explain what was meant by immortality? No, the translation only states that those who decipher the riddle will be granted life for all eternity, or possibly translated another way, bound with those whose lives are eternal. We found the city high on a mountain at the edge of a vast desert, erased from any surviving historical record, far from any modern settlement or trade route. My guide claimed the city had been there from a time before the word of the prophet had spread, in that the few local tribesmen stayed away despite having thoroughly plundered similar places.

Securing our pack camels, we scaled the worn rocks to the top of the sloping mountain. Finding the abandoned city's wind-blasted columns half-buried in the baked earth, my guide refused to enter, dabbling in his own tongue, and then saying, he would wait for me at the entrance for my return, if I returned. I followed the narrow streets past collapsed walls and ruined buildings, empty for perhaps millennia, and finally located the cracked and fragmented steps of the great temple. At either side of the temple's entrance was a winged guardian, chiseled from the hard stone of the immense structure itself. Flashlight in hand and tablet's translation notes in my satchel, I entered the lightless place to find the key.

to the riddle. I shone my light as I walked the many corridors of the temple revealing processions of bearded men from an age long past carved into its austere walls. The passages soon led me to a domed chamber with an anvil-shaped altar at its center, a large stone brazier sat before it, a row of sculptures lined a wall nearby, each one of figure, but all without faces. I opened my satchel, taking my photographs of the text on the table. tablets and then compared the photo script to that on the wall behind the figures. The match was exact, but the wall's script seemed to go further. The narrative contained in the tablets was incomplete.

The concluding line of the riddle preserved on the tablets had been left out. The final part on the wall read, where the fire burns brightest, you will meet your other The riddle made more sense with this neglected line included. Howard felt woozy, his head beginning to pound. He at once steadied himself in the arm of his chair before questioning the man yet again. What was the full riddle after reading the script on the temple wall? How did the last line change things? The man smiled slightly and said,

The riddle wasn't asking for an answer. but leading its reader to a place. That place was the hidden temple in the lost city. Tell me the whole riddle. Howard demanded. Now almost angry for reasons he couldn't fathom. Watch the full riddle with its final line. The entire riddle is too long to repeat back to you.

But I can tell you the closing part, including the line from the wall. The mystery man offered. He then recited the last part of the riddle in a sing-song manner, almost like a nursery rhyme. The glowing light of the fireplace bathing his face as he spoke. Intoning the words, the man's voice took on an eerie,

hypnotic quality. Time passes. Empires rise and fall, but I remain. Men are born and die. People's rise and fall, but I remain. The mountains erode to dust. The oceans wither to mud, but I remain.

I am you, but not you. I live with you. But once you are no more, I remain. Where the fire burns brightest, you will meet your other self. There was a tense silence.

After a moment, the man began speaking in a low voice. As I examined my photos, something very odd. happened. I turned my flashlight to the figures along the wall, and one of them seemed to be watching me, the one closest. The sculpture had no face, as I said, only a smooth stone mask, but the spot where its brow should have been had become arched, the space for its mouth curling into a mocking grin. I stowed the photographs in my satchel and then beamed the

flashlight into the passage from which I had entered the room. I started to walk quickly at first, but then breaking into a full run as I was chased by a macabre shadow along the passage walls, one that was not my own. I fled the temple, traversing the deserted streets of the lost city until I emerged onto the mountain's plateau. My guide was nearing the cliff facing westward, the dimming sun, a backdrop to a rising sandstorm headed toward us. The camels, he cried to me as I approached. We must get them before the storm comes upon us. Rush into the side of the mountain, he frantically searched for a path back down to its rubble-strewn base. As my guide clambered down the cliff, I ran to the precipice and looked out over the desert.

The approaching sandstorm was almost majestic. Its swirling cyclonic winds tearing up the arid landscape before it with absolute certainty. I labored down the rocks to join my guide in our pack animals, nearly slipping as I reached the bottom. He insisted we ride away from the storm, but I told him I doubted it would do much good. With no shelter in the open desert, we rode northward, hoping to circle around. But the storm engulfed us anyway. Howard was on the edge of his chair, despite the growing pain in his head,

enthralled by events that were somehow strangely familiar to him. How did you escape the sandstorm? I mean, did your guide get out alive? For a fleeting moment, Howard wondered why he was so engrossed by such a seemingly fantastic tale, one which he now suspected was someone else's altogether. No, Abdul, that was his name. And his mount vanished into the eye of the storm as it finally came over us. I fell behind my poor beast of burden,

who partially shielded me from the biting sands that cut into us like. shards of shattered glass. When the sandstorm eventually passed, my camel was bloody and raw and barely alive. And so I pressed on without them, the early evening becoming night. The next day I wandered in the desert, foolishly hoping my broken compass might steer me back to civilization, to safety. I became thirsty, weary, and half mad from the punishing heat. On the evening of the third day as I struggled to find a resting place among the burning sands, I came upon a cool oasis in the desert.

Here I collapsed and crawled to the shimmering pool of water. It surfaced sheltered from the desert sun by generous palms. I drank deeply, choking as my parched mouth and chest seared with a sharp pain. I then lost consciousness waking again during the night time unsure of how many hours or even days had passed I tried to stand but lightheadedness prevented me from doing so I lay there on the moist sands near the pool

blurred images of the oasis almost all I could see only once or perhaps more than once I saw a dark figure standing over me as if waiting for something. My next memory is being lifted onto the back of a camel. One of many in a long caravan. Some traitors had found me,

telling me I was sick with fever, my luck held, and I returned alive to the city from which Abdul and I had traveled. I was brought to a hospital by my rescuers. I drifted in and out of consciousness for weeks, only becoming coherent again once my fever broke. I couldn't tell the doctors my name, or where I was from. No passport was found on me, and I had lost most of my carried possessions in the sandstorm. I had no memory of my life before I had traveled to that place. Everything

had been wiped away by the long fever. The man I had been before was now entirely unknown. What an incredible story. Howard enthused, even as he felt a gnawing discomfort at its uncertain familiarity. How did you leave that place? Can you remember why you're here now? As Howard asked this last question, he almost instantly began to regret it. The man turned to stare at Howard. You brought me here, Howard, or should I call you Edward? That's the name of your birth, by the way. Edward Hophouse.

You chose Howard as your name once you recovered and began your name. new life in the town not far from these woods. Edward stood abruptly, knocking his chair to the floor. Get out. Get out now. Whoever you are. Edward commanded an a quavering voice, gaping at a seat of guest, a genuine terror. Your buried memories have started to return to you, Edward. The man said, undeterred and cold-eyed. You were beginning to recall your journey to the forbidden city when I knocked on your door.

Once your delirium-filled mind became a blank slate at the oasis, I could no longer assume your place. And then lost you for many years. You could remember nothing of the riddle of the tablets or the eternal temple after your fever finally broke. That is, not until tonight. Studying the face of the stranger, Edward realized suddenly who he was. The man was his younger self, bearded and dressed in the close of that bygone period, decades before. Edward bolted toward the cabin door, flinging it open and running out into the howling winds and falling snow. A storm was coming.

Edward could see that. The snowfall grew heavy as he ran, frigid winds whipping against his ill-clothed form. Edward glanced over his shoulder and saw the dark silhouette of the stranger, striding after him, drawing closer as Edward slowed, now staggering through the deep snowdrifts coating the forest floor. The road to town was close. Edward focused and tried to push himself forward, making one last effort to pull ahead of his pursuer. As he came within reach of his goal, Edward fell, tumbling into a ditch by the roadside. He lay on his back in the trench, the falling snow stinging his eyes as he struggled weakly to rise.

Stepping into the ditch, Edward's doppelganger stood above him, looking down at the man who had solved the riddle of the tablets and who it would now replace in the world of the living. The lost city stood empty, obscured by the shifting sands of the desert, but within its temple to the other world, the mirror world of shadows,

there was a momentary disturbance. The brazier at the foot of the all, faltered to life and then slowly died. Its fire burning brightly for an instant as another soul was taken into the chamber's tabernacle. Forever bound by the stone figures watching over it. After the gloaming is a production of dissonance media and the other stories. Cabin in the Woods was written by James Dermond. James Dermond is a horror and science fiction author living in Colorado. He has written five volumes of short horror stories in the doorways of the unseen series, which is planned a is a 12-volume book series.

James's story, The Unearthly Gardens, was part of the science fiction short story anthology, Metamorphosis Alpha 3, with the work of a dozen other authors. Doorways to the Unseen, Volume 1 to 6, are available on Amazon and other platforms. Narrator was performed by Jamie Petronus, creator and producer of the podcast,

The Cellar Letters. Howard and Stranger were performed by Harlan Guthrie, who was the creator, of podcasts such as malevolent, divisor and dice shame. Henry Blackwood was performed by Xander Schwig. Shelley Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Elroy. After the gloaming script was written by James Barnett. Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.

Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett. Music and sound effects were provided by Epidemic Sound, Soundstripe and FreeSound.org. If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it. And please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a five-star rating. To support the show and gain access to all episodes now, add free and a bonus episode, head over to patreon.com forward slash nightsend podcast. If you would like to support this show in having a season two, why not head over to our coffee page and drop us a donation.

That's coffee.com forward slash dissonance media. and that's coffee as in K-O-F-I. It is very much appreciated. This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives License. Don't change it. Don't sell it. But by all means, share the hell out of it. Stay horrific, everyone.