Hiding Out In An Abandoned Cabin Was One Of The Worst Mistakes I Ever Made

It had been at least a few hours, the sun had risen in the eastern horizon and had begun to start thawing the snow that covered the ground and Jo had not woken up. I had checked her pulse the best I knew how and it seemed like she was alive, but I didn’t know much about that kind of stuff.

I spent the past few hours trying to figure out what to do and had come up with exactly zero strategies when I heard the intimidating purr of big diesel engine pull up in front of my cabin. I looked out the front window and saw a huge red pickup truck idling in the parking lot between the trees and my place.

I went back to trying to revive Jo when there was a knock on the door, this one much heavier and pounding.

“Hi, Morford’s Christmas Tree Farm?” I said through the door.

There was a long pause on the other side before a gruff guy’s voice came through. “Hi. I’m looking for a Christmas tree.”

I had almost forgot where I was until I heard the question. Trevor told me if anyone showed up with any questions or needs to play the part of the off-season caretaker and I try to BS as much as I could to not draw attention.

With that in mind, I threw a blanket over Jo’s comatose body, threw on some pants and a jacket and stepped outside.

I was greeted by a man that was about 75 percent beard with a jaw swollen with a heavy dip of chewing tobacco, he looked down at me with dark eyes shaded by a filthy black baseball cap.

“Just need some help picking out a tree,” He said while avoiding eye contact.

Luckily, I had searched the farm enough to know the biggest trees were in the far Northwest corner of the farm, but not so lucky that was the most-concealed area. If this guy had any bad intentions, the Northwest corner would be the best place to execute them.

Never the less, I figured I needed to do it. I pointed in the Northwest direction.
“Best trees are over there, you can follow me.”

I started to trudge in that direction while wondering why the fuck anyone would need a “Christmas tree” in January, but stopped when he spoke up.

“I reckon we will need something to cut the tree down with,” the man said from behind me.

“Oh yes, yes,” I frantically shot back and ran back to the side of the cabin to grab a rusty hacksaw.

The man said nothing during our entire walk to the Northwest corner, just spit a few times.
“These are our best trees,” I announced when we reached the corner and handed him the hacksaw with a shaking fist. “Take your pick.”


Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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