The Cabin

It began two weeks ago in a field opposite my home.  The field has a few trees, wonderful green grass and gentle sloping hills.  I cross it everyday.

Then it appeared.

At first it was a black square where there had been only grass for as long as I could remember.  Its edges were long enough for two men to lie along, flat and framing an empty patch of earth.  I didn’t pay it much attention, but I kept my distance.

The next day it had grown and was one foot off of the ground–two the next.  I waited, far away, until it got dark the second day to see the builder.  No one came.  It was three feet off of the ground when it was light.

Each morning as I awoke and looked out at the field I could see it.  Sinister and perverse.  Ominous and somehow sentient–aware that it was out of place and not bothered.  I realized that it was becoming a cabin.

My path home got closer and closer to it each day until, a week after it had first appeared, I found myself next to it.  Its walls were dark, but not suggestive of an emptiness like the sky; it was closer to charcoal–dirty and cold.  An unholy blend of ancient coal-blackened machinery smelling of archaic otherworldliness, and primal savage rock that had once been buried under the Earth.  It was horrifying.

I went to see it on the way home each day after that, staying longer every time.  A few days ago its windows began to glow with a fire from the inside, but it wasn’t warm.  The sickening walls made the fire seem evil–not the giver of life but the destroyer.

It was finished yesterday, I know because there were no changes this morning.  I’m going inside tonight.  I don’t think I will be back for some time.


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