Chapter 1 – Chap 1

It’s been almost a year since my time on the mountain. I actually thought I was getting better. I’ve spent the last twelve months pushing the memories away, or trying to rationalise what happened. The things I heard. Things I saw. And they were finally fading. But recent events have brought it all back. I think it’s time for me get it down on paper, like my dad wanted. Maybe it will help.

It’s hard to know how to start. I’ll try my best to tell it as it happened, not to miss anything. It was early October, a friday morning. I had a long weekend off work and, if I’m honest, wasn’t planning on much more than lying in bed and some beers in front of the television. Not the most exciting, I know.

I wasn’t in a great place in my life. Not any crisis, not as bad or as unfortunate as a lot of people out there. But I was just coasting, sliding in a long downward spiral. Small apartment, shit job. Days, weeks, months became a little blurred, drained of colour. So many days were the same that when I look back it’s hard to recall what seems like years of my life. All changed now, of course.

So on the thursday night I had stayed up late, drinking till I fell asleep on the couch. Classy, I know. I was still there when I was woken by my phone ringing around 8.

The light through the window had that crisp quality it only gets when it’s cold outside, clear skies promising winter. I remember checking the caller ID and being surprised to see it was my father. Despite promising we would phone each other at least once a month, we had both failed miserably. I couldn’t even remember our most recent phonecall. The last time we had spoken face to face had been even longer, a couple of years before when I had helped him move house.

We had never been particularly close, at any age, but it hadn’t been dislike. Life had just always pulled us apart. His job when I was a child, then university and work for me as I grew up. You both reach a certain age and the person you have known all your life is a stranger. We should have tried harder, I guess. I should have.

Anyway, I answered and heard his voice.

“Ryan?”

“Hey dad. You okay?” I sat up, rubbing sleep out my eyes.

“I need you to come and visit me, Ryan. Can you do that?”

“Ehm. Now? Is everything alright?”

The line wasn’t great, there was an odd kind of scratching noise when he spoke. Strange the things you remember.

“I just need to see you, son. Can you come to the cabin, this weekend?” he sounded tired. Exhausted. I thought I heard his dog, Harley, whining in the background.

“I…yeah, I guess so. But what’s wrong? Is that Harl -” He hung up.

“Nice dad. Charming.” I tried to call back but it just went to voicemail.

Yes, I was worried about him. Yet, as unusual as this was, it wasn’t completely out of character. His social skills had certainly … deteriorated, for want of a better word, in the last decade. My father had loved this country when he came here in his twenties. But, like so many things, it had soured for him with age. I didn’t realise at the time, just a regular kid preoccupied with themselves, but I saw it happen. The years passed and his circle of friends grew smaller. He stopped leaving the house except for work. Smiled less, angered easier. Maybe it happens to all of us, I don’t know.

So when he told me he had bought some land and an old house up in the mountains I wasn’t totally surprised. A friend of a friend had it built a few years before, but had fallen ill and would never take up residence. Dad was going to fix it up and build himself a fishing cabin by the nearest lake. I realised then how much he had changed since my childhood, how withdrawn he had become since my mother died. He didn’t seem to want anything to do with anyone, except his dog. I only persuaded my father to keep the cellphone I bought for him after a lengthy argument. I remember it amused him greatly when I switched it on and there was no reception anywhere near his house. He finally got a signal out at the lake while fishing one day, which turned out to be the only place he could get reception. He must be out there now, I thought.

I hadn’t visited him since I had helped him move.

That thought stuck in my head. Even if everything was fine I should still go.

It was a 7 hour drive (with an 30 minute stop). I actually enjoyed it, away from work and doing something worthwhile. Well, at least more worthwhile than becoming one with my couch.

I had taken a few hours to get myself together, shower and pack, so it was around 11.30 when I left. I tried to phone him a few more times without answer. Annoying, but not something to be concerned about. He wasn’t likely to be just standing at the lake waiting on me to call back.

The skies were a light clear blue, the air through the car window icy and fresh. After the first hour the roads were quiet and I began to relax a little. He would be fine, I thought. The old bastard had always given off an aura of being practically indestructible, so it was hard to imagine any harm really coming to him. Especially with that goddamn wolf he kept.

I passed through the last town before my fathers house around 5.30, the mountain rising into view in the distance. The name on the map is Mount Penance, although it’s not a perfect translation from what the native population called it. I’ve looked into it more since, more than I should have, and it translates as something between “payment” and “punishment”, but there isn’t really a word for it in English. No-one had ever lived on it so I guess no-one had ever cared enough to sort it out. I read about some archaelogical digs from the 80s, down in one of the valleys. But never anything on the mountain itself. There had been paths leading there but no-one ever found anything more.

The snow started as I left the town. It had been getting dark, as much due to the clouds as the sinking sun but I hadn’t thought twice about it. Stupid, I know.

I think about this a lot now, how many simple mistakes I made in the space of a few days. It’s always easier looking back. In the moment, things are never so simple. Still, I should have known better. Driving into the mountains at night, in a potential snowstorm, in a piece of shit car. I knew the road was tough, I had driven it half a dozen times helping my father move 50 years of books and papers and diaries that he had accumulated over his career. Breaking down and getting stranded was a risk even in better weather. Walking out of that terrain was not easy and it wasn’t like there was any help around. That was the main thing that attracted my father to the place. And I was aware of these things. He had told me there was a decades old rumour of a family trying to settle there, actually building a home in the godforsaken place, but no-one ever found the house or heard from them again. And that was it. I knew this and still, on I went, driving into the blinding snow, at night, with no-one for miles.

Stupid.

In my defence, I almost made it. The weather went from an inconvenience to near zero visibility blizzard in a matter of minutes. Maybe I should have stopped and turned back, but by then I was past halfway. I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve never seen anthing like it. The snow was falling so fast, what little I could see of the landscape was already blanketed in white. I had to drastically slow the car, which was beginning to struggle. I almost came off the road more than once but I have an awful tendency to plough on when I’m angry with myself.

Night had started to fall. The car slowed too much on a turn and stopped, wheels spinning. After a few minutes of trying I turned it off and just sat there, too angry to even swear. The snow wasn’t letting up. I could barely see the trees on either side of the road now, but I was confident my fathers house wasn’t much further. I checked my phone just in case but there was no reception. 8pm. I had 2 choices. Keep the engine and the heater running, try to see out the night in the car. Or hike the rest of the way to my fathers cabin. Neither option really appealed but, driven by frustration and a certainty that I was close, I pulled on my hat and gloves and stepped out into the dark.

It was so quiet. I’ll never forget that. The silence after the door slammed. The snow against the night, white on black. Everything more than a few feet away became a shadow.

I started walking, plowing through the knee high snow. Just follow the road, I told myself, you can feel it under your feet. Fuck, it was a crazy thing to do. I think I had been walking for about 15minutes when I slipped and fell, rolling into the undergrowth. It felt like waking up, a shock to the system that brought me to my senses.

It was pitch black. I was freezing cold. The snow was as heavy as ever and the wind was picking up.

That was the first time I heard it.

Faintly, between the howl of the wind through the trees.

Scratching.

Like something, or many small things, clawing at wood or stone. I think I held my breath. I looked around but there was nothing to see. Only the night. I thought, are there wolves up here? Bears? I had never heard about any but it was surely possible, wasn’t it? I remember shaking violently, realising I had gotten properly soaked when I fell. My hands and feet were raw with the cold.

I pulled myself up and started moving again, faster now, stopping every minute or so to listen. To stare into the black between the trees. I didn’t hear it again. At least not there.

Looking back, it was likely luck more than anything that I made it. On one of my glances up, wiping snow from my face, I saw a flicker of light. The windows of my father cabin. God, the relief was like warmth in my bones. It wasn’t more than a few hundred yards. I don’t know if I could have made it any further.

I couldn’t see anything past the snow other than the lights, but I made it. Passed his half buried Toyota 4runner, reached the door and hammered on it. I grabbed the handle and turned it in case he had left it unlocked and it was. The door swung back and I stumbled inside, slammed it behind me and sank to the floor.

I took a minute to get my breath, every part of me aching. I had expected Harley to rush me, barking frantically but there was only silence.

“Dad?”

I pushed myself back to my feet, water dripping from me and pooling around my feet.

“Dad? It’s Ryan.”

Nothing. No reply. No sound of movement. It was warmer in here although not by much. Still, I peeled off my wet clothes as I moved through the house. The door I had come through opened straight into an open plan living room and kitchen. Two old couches with a low table between them, fireplace, a bookcase and a dog basket were all the contents of note. Not a man for luxuries, my father. If I remembered correctly the only other area on the ground floor was a small storage room behind the kitchen.

“Dad?”

I moved up the stairs, the shock of my own troubles receding as worry for my father returned. Where was he? The top floor had a toilet (I grabbed a towel when I stepped in to check it), a impressive sized bedroom and a study. He wasn’t in any of them.
The house was empty.

I stopped, staring at his bed, still shivering. It was made, everything was tidy and in place. I tried to think.

He had phoned me, almost certainly from the lake, at 8 that morning. There were no signs of any kind of struggle or emergency. In fact the only sign of recent habitation was a book and whisky bottle next to his bed. Dad still loved his whisky, then. His car was still here. I realised I could hear a faint humming sound which must be the petrol generator. I recalled helping him set it up and knew he had to fill it every day, so he had definitely been here.

Now what, I thought.

I looked out through the wide bedroom window. The wind rushed out of the dark and rattled the panes.

It would be idiotic to go back out tonight. Surely he wouldn’t have been caught in that. He must have stayed at the fishing cabin, decided to sit out the night there with Harley. Surely. The thought that he might be out there in the woods, needing my help, was sickening. But what could I do? Idiotic was an understament, it would be crazy to go back out tonight. And pointless. I couldn’t find someone ten feet away in that snow nevermind in dozens of square miles of forest.

I’d go out at daybreak, I thought.

I double checked every room, every cupboard just in case. Nothing. Although I did get myself some fresh clothes and find the controls for the heating, which got turned up. I hoped the generator would last the night, I didn’t think I would even be able to find it in the snow.

As I calmed down and warmed up, I realised how hungry I was. I had nothing to do but wait till morning, so I searched the cupboards and pulled out some pasta and sauce, a meal to match my culinary skill.

While it boiled I retrieved the whisky from beside his bed and my eyes fell on the book beside it. His diary. Of course it was. He always kept it by his bed, an ancient leather bound one where you could slot in fresh paper every few months. I knew he kept all the old pages, dozens of boxes of them. I flicked it open as I went back downstairs, hoping for a clue as to his whereabouts. It was in french. Vague childhood memories came back, my father writing or speaking in his native language. Trying and failing to teach me very much of it.

“Papa, je ne peux pas etre derange.”

My favourite phrase.

In a few minutes I had wrapped myself on the couch with food, a whisky and his diary. I almost laughed. All this hassle just to swap couches.

He had only refilled the book a few weeks before, so there were less than 20 pages of writing. I tried to translate the most recent page as I ate. I was actually better at reading french than speaking it, which was unfortunately still pretty shit.

“la chaleur a nouveau. insupportable.”

I thought “chaleur” was “heat”, but I couldn’t put it together with “nouveau”. I was sure that meant “new”, but not in this sentence. “Insupportable” was … “unsupportable”? No. “Unbearable”. That was it. “The new heat is unbearable”? That couldn’t be right.

“ce grattage. plus fort chaque nuit. je ne veux pas y retourner. je peux entendre ces mots chaque fois que je ferme les yeux”

“Grattage”. I thought that was “scraping” or something similar. I got “every night”, “return”, “hear words” and I thought “close my eyes”. It didn’t make much sense yet but I was getting there, piecing it together like a puzzle. This was do-able.

The final sentence however totally stumped me. I was sure I knew the meaning of certain words but as a whole I couldn’t grasp it at all.

I sat back in silence for a moment, exhaustion taking hold of me. The house was so silent. Outside, nothing but the wind and the night.

I used to always think I liked being alone. That I was always more comfortable with it than other people. Probably got it from my father. But being alone in a city is different. You’re not really alone, you just aren’t making contact. True isolation is something very different. No matter how much we have changed we are still social animals, and there is a feeling unlike any other when you are the only human for miles. A feeling, oddly enough, like you are being watched.

I felt sweat trickle down my brow. It had gotten much warmer. I looked at the thermometer on the heating control but it hadn’t moved. 18 degrees. It didn’t feel like it. I pulled my cover off and sat up, wiping sweat from my face. Did I have a fever? It was certainly possible, after the stress and that walk. I took a deep breath and got up to get water.

Then I heard it.

Just like in the woods. A scratching sound. Like many small things, clawing, scrabbling away at the walls. There was something outside.

I stared at each window in turn, frozen to the spot, water in hand. An animal maybe? Mice? No, it was too loud for that. In fact it was getting louder.

I was shaking again, my fresh clothes now soaked in sweat. The heat was incredible, like the height of summer but rising from all around me.

I had to have a fever, I thought. I was hearing things.

A shadow flashed past a window and I stumbled, heart racing, eyes stinging.

“Dad?”

My voice hardly came out, just a whisper.

Nobody was out here on this mountain. Nobody.
Did I lock the door? My eyes fell on the door handle.

That sound, that scratching sound had intensified, like it was only inches away. The word rose up in my mind. “Grattage”.

There was a sudden slam from upstairs and I dropped my glass, smashing it on the floor. The bedroom window has opened, I thought. I definitely didn’t lock that. I felt the icy air rush down the stairs, heard the wind racing in.

It’s tempting to pretend I was brave here. To just tell you I snatched a knife from a drawer and charged up the stairs. But I didn’t. It didn’t even occour to me. I was shaking so badly I would probably have cut myself by accident. I did climb the stairs though. There was nothing else for me to do. I couldn’t stand there all night, I couldn’t go out into the snow.

I could still hear the scratching but fainter, still feel the heat but not like before. It had backed off, like something lying in wait. I reached my fathers bedroom door, stepping as silently as I could. I could see snow pouring in, swirls of white whipping around the room, wind snapping the curtains.
I felt frozen in the doorway.

Cut into the wall, in a strange blocked script, were six words.

“the devil made me do it”

Something touched my shoulder.

I woke.

I was on my fathers bed, morning light streaming through the window.

The window, I thought.

I jumped up, gasping for breath like something out of a movie. There was no-one, nothing else there. The window was closed. I turned, heart in mouth. There was no writing on the wall. Nothing. The floor was dry. The house was cold again. Silent.

I had no recollection of going to sleep. Only seeing those words, and…

No. I remember sitting back down, head in hands and almost bursting into tears. Exhaustion and stress make you see and hear crazy things.

Nothing happened, I told myself. Just my imagination.

Then, as I looked out across the white forest, I remembered my fathers diary.

I saw that final sentence in my mind, in my fathers spidery handwriting. And I remembered what it meant.

“Le diable me l’a fait faire”

The devil made me do it.