THE RETREAT (A Short Story)

*PREFACE: As I'm in the midst of the insanely busy production of The Edeneth Chronicle, I've been rather pressed for time. However, I was determined to get this out on Halloween (a deadline I've missed by mere minutes, unless you're west of my timezone), so the draft seen here may not be as refined as I'd like to be. If I make changes, this post will be updated to reflect them. But who knows. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow content with the result. In the meantime, enjoy this spooky little horror story and have a happy Halloween! 

The Retreat

By Ralphael Pacheco

Four weeks, at minimum. That was what we set out to do. Four weeks. No internet. No 4G. No distractions. Only my grandfather’s old library for research material. Ideally, this would culminate in our first feature screenplay. But of course, as they say, “not everything goes according to plan.” Which is a mantra that should really be corrected to: “almost nothing goes according to plan.”

I first pitched this little retreat to my buddy Sean over dinner. We’re no Cohen brothers, but our joint efforts had gotten us a few scripts produced. And by scripts I mean shorts and by produced I mean premiering at small-time festivals across SoCal. Living that LA dream, right? I at least had the advantage of growing up in the city. See, we attributed the success (?) of our writing partnership to the diversity of our lives. We came from such different backgrounds and experiences that we figured no gap would be left unfilled by our combined minds. I was an introvert that grew up in a city. Sean was an extrovert raised in a small town. I’m a mixed Latino. He’s as white as a snowball. I’m a comic book nerd that never leaves home. He’s an outdoors enthusiast enlisted in the Army. The list goes on ad nauseum, but somehow we hit it off. When we found each other at a seminar, we thought it was a creative combo made in heaven, but we’d be deluding ourselves if we said either of us were okay with our charted career paths. So I kindly -- and might I say, rather profoundly -- suggested we take unpaid leave of our day jobs to hammer out a feature script. My father inherited a house from his father in the hills outside Pasadena. I figured it was prime real estate for a peaceful getaway. Ol’ pops didn’t want to move there, so he hired a caretaker to maintain the property in his absence. I called my dad, who was all right with it, and called the caretaker, who more than welcomed the company. Sean left his wife with the kids, I left my cat with my sister, and soon enough we were in business.

We passed the hour-long trek jamming my 80’s synth-wave playlist in Sean’s Jeep Wrangler (I think he secretly disapproved). The sun was just on its way down as we arrived, but the impending darkness was amplified by the surrounding hilltops. The west-setting sun cast a long shadow right over the house, giving an ominous outer glow to the modern architecture. The nearby trees lent themselves nicely to the picturesque cabin-in-the mountains vibe we observed as Sean pulled into the driveway of the double decker house. He killed my music along with the engine, and suddenly we were in silence. Deep silence.

“All right, Oliver,” Sean said through his righteous beard. He’s very proud of that beard. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it right. Leave your phone in the glove box.”

“Hold on, I know I’m the one that brought up the caveat, but can’t we just bring them in on airplane mode?”

He gave me a stare. “You trust your discipline that much?”

“…Fair play.”

The phones went in the glove box.

We didn’t wait long after ringing the doorbell before Francis, the caretaker, opened up. He was a tall, heavy-set fellow who greeted us with a warm smile. “Hey gentlemen. Welcome, welcome, come on in!”

We carried our bags inside and set them down by the living room coffee table, across from which was a cozy fireplace already lit for the evening. The hardwood floors were polished squeaky-clean, and the high ceiling gave the entire area a chamber-like feel. Sean took a good while to take it all in with his jaw wide open.

“Man, this place is massive,” he remarked.

“Yeah, I wasn’t kidding when I said gramps had it going,” I replied. “But beyond this house, can’t say much of it dribbled down.”

Francis locked up the front door and joined us, a giddy grin on his face. His altogether look gave the impression of a jolly Santa Claus. I couldn’t help but smile with him.

“Ah, welcome to the abode!” He looked over to me. “You must be Oliver.”

“That’s right.” We shook hands.

He looked over to Sean. “And that makes you Sean.”

“Yes, sir. How do you do?” They also exchanged a handshake.

“Why, I’m excellent, it’s a delight to have you two.”

He sustained that big warm smile all the while. “You seem awfully excited to see us,” I pointed out.

“Well, as I’d said over the phone, I don’t get much in the way of visitors.”

“Not even family?” Sean asked.

“Oliver Sr. requests that there be as little traffic through here as possible. Plus, after three divorces, I doubt they want to see much of me anyway...... SO! Who wants the grand tour, huh?”

Sean and I exchanged a look, both eager to escape that big downer we were headed for. Francis gave us the rundown: three bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor; and a bathroom, kitchen, and dining area beyond the ground-level living room. We unpacked our belongings in our respective guest rooms, and then planned out the next month over supper, courtesy of our host. The schedule seemed crystal clear: one week of outlining, followed by three weeks of scriptwriting – one week per act. Simple. Effective. Systematic. But, of course, “not everything goes according to plan.”

Week one was rough. I found it hard to sleep in a foreign bedroom, so for the first night I tossed and I turned and I stared at the wall until morning. I got out of bed creatively unenthused. I could tell by the lack of trim on his beard that Sean woke the same way. Bickering ensued. The living room which had become our base of operations – with our papers and pens and laptops (sans Wi-Fi, mind you) scattered about – soon became a battleground. Worse yet, we were routinely interrupted by Francis when he came through each day with a broom or mop. Invasive though it seemed, we were his guests, and he was the housekeeper, so we obliged as best we could. Still, little work got done. We could hardly be said to have anything that resembled an outline by the end of the week. But time was precious, so we forced the process forward, despite our disagreement on a conclusion to the story. Sean wanted a happy ending where everyone could ride off into the sunset. I thought that was cliché, and pushed for a tragic ending where all of the principal characters died.

By week two, sleep deprivation became a pattern. It might’ve been the stress, but Francis’ interruptions seemed to grow more frequent. Strangely, we saw little of him outside of that. It was almost as if he did nothing but mop the floors, vacuum the rugs, sweep the dust, and wash the windows, day in, day out. What stuck out even more was the afternoon Sean and I got into a big argument over our protagonist’s motivation, which ended in him kicking the coffee table. The glasses resting on it shook enough for Sean’s beer to spill out onto the rug, right before Francis’ eyes. He claimed an expletive as soon as he realized what he’d done. “Sorry, sir, I’ll clean that up.”

“No!” Francis shouted. “I’ll take care of it!”

“No really, you don’t have to,” Sean insisted, already heading to the kitchen for a paper towel.

“NO. THIS IS MY HOUSE!” Francis snapped, and proceeded to spray and scrub vigorously. Sean and I side-glanced at one another, unable to stop him, and unwilling to correct that it’s not technically his house.

The lights were out and I was on my way to the sack that evening when I stopped outside the master bedroom… It sounded like Francis was talking to someone inside. The door was slightly ajar. Out of curiosity I peeked inside. It was dark, but moonlight shined in from the window. I could see only a shadow of a man rolling around on the bed, whispering coarsely to himself. What little I could make out was completely nonsensical – “No I don’t wanna not why am thisisallthereis seventysevenknots whyami” and the like – but it bothered me enough to lock the door to my room that night. Granted, this did little to alleviate my poor sleeping habits. I’d gotten better since arrival, but still what little I could gather was forced to be enough.

Sean was already up at ‘em, surveying our notes and scripts in the living room by the time I crept out past my door the next morning. I was startled awake by a series of sharp banging sounds from outside. I proceeded with caution.

“Sean?” I called as I descended the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“What’s that noise?”

“Francis is out back chopping wood for the fireplace. He’s been at it all morning.” I breathed a sigh of relief, somehow less afraid by the sheer fact that it was less unknown. “How’d you sleep?” Sean asked, without lifting his eyes from the page in front of him.

“Hard to tell… You?”

“I’ve been up all night.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

He shrugged. “Meh. I slept less in the Army.”

I nodded. There was an air of unspoken reconciliation that I couldn’t quite explain. “So. Where are we at on this screenplay?”

We sat together and worked in solidarity for the rest of the day. Pride was set aside, and critical story solutions were found. Needless to say, it was the most productive day of our time there. However, that periodic chopping sound continued throughout. We grew increasingly aware of Francis’ absence in the afternoon upon stopping for a lunch break. It was Sean who decided to go out and fetch him, which I approved since he was better with people.

I observed their exchange from the kitchen window, which gave a view to the backyard. It was my first time seeing it that day and I was uncertain how long it’d been in the condition I found it in. The grass could hardly be seen under the sea of wood blocks covering the ground. One might’ve thought Francis spent a year cutting the entire surrounding woods into lumber. I watched Sean get waved back inside, where he reported that Francis had no interest in joining us.

We went on eating and drinking as we cranked out pages of text until the sun went down. For once, we’d gone hours without interruption. It was a full day of inspiration, or the muse, as some might call it. We hit our stride and had no intent of slowing down. That was, until the front door creaked open... I raised my head, looking over Sean’s shoulder to see what was up. The lamp we had shining inside made it difficult to see what was out. All I could discern was a tall, dark figure standing in the doorway, completely silhouetted by the flood-lamp shining onto the driveway behind him. His contour was one large, black mesh, but another shape took form as his arm adjusted – a lumber axe hanging low to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” The voice was unmistakably that of Francis, but different somehow, like it was pitched low into a primal growl.

“I’m sorry?” I said, confused.

“This is my house…”

Now Sean, as taken aback as I was, turned around to give his undivided attention. “Are you all right there, Francis?” he asked, a steady composure in his voice. “You were out there all day.”

Francis entered with slow, steady steps, dragging the axe along the hardwood floor. Sean and I jumped immediately to our feet. We’d be idiots to miss the intent here.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“Whoa, whoa, Francis, it’s us!” I sputtered. “Oliver and Sean, we’re your guests, remember?”

He kept walking. We started backing up.

“You don’t belong here…”

My heart was beating out of my chest, and my body began to tremble. “We cleared this with you. We’ve been here three --”

The axe swung through the air, knocking out the lamp that’d lit our table. This was a good distance away from us, but the suddenness forced a jump (and a very emasculating screech) out of me. It became apparent that this lamp was the main source of light in the house, because the impact was followed instantly by darkness.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

I couldn’t tell if what followed was loud, or if my own screams were just really loud to myself, but in either case there was a lot of confusion. I could hear the axe tearing through something behind me after picking a direction and running. My run was stuttered by walls, and furniture, and other obstacles until I stumbled into the kitchen.

My eyes began to adjust. I could see just enough to reach for, close, and lock the kitchen door. I surveyed my surroundings. I had no idea where Sean had gone in the chaos. I wanted to call out to him, but didn’t want to broadcast my location.

The doorknob shuddered, followed by the axe crashing through. To my surprise, the wooden door gave about as easily as scissors through paper. I turned tail and dashed for the back. The axe could be heard repeatedly striking the door behind me, but I didn’t dare stop to look.

I exited out into the backyard, where piles of lumber now covered every inch of ground. I made an attempt to climb over them, but inevitably lost footing over one of the thousands of logs and fell onto my hands, splintering them against a rough piece of wood in the process. Looking back, I could see the looming figure of Francis giving chase. He walked out onto the wooden blocks, keeping balance like it was nothing. I made a desperate attempt at rising to my feet, but it seemed I’d sprained an ankle in the fall. In front of me, I could see Francis’ shadow raising the axe overhead for a finishing blow. But before my life could flash before my eyes, Sean came and stuck a kitchen knife into the behemoth’s back. Francis cried out, striking Sean away and redirecting his attention to this new prey. With his back to me, I could see the knife handle protruding from Francis’ right shoulder. It struck me as inhuman how easily he shrugged it off as he began his slow, menacing stride forward. His overwhelming size and physical strength was suddenly worth worrying about.

Sean, cornered, retreated back into the house. “Get to the jeep!” he yelled as he disappeared through the doorway. “I keep a Smith & Wesson in the back!”

And suddenly there was hope.

I climbed up onto my weakened feet and stumbled over the field of chopped wood towards the driveway, refusing to look back no matter how awful the noise. After moving beyond the lumber floor I fell onto the asphalt, which was a comfort by comparison. My sprained ankle was giving out, but the adrenaline pushed me forward. I could hardly be bothered to notice the shower of sweat running down my clothes amidst the terror of the moment. There was a choir of anonymous screams resonating from inside the house. But there was hope in the form of a jeep at the end of that driveway, and to my sight it was only getting closer and closer, one painful step at a time.

However, when finally I reached the back of the jeep, I found only an open trunk and an empty duffel bag. By the time I looked up from it, I could see on the other side of the vehicle’s windows: Francis dragging a decapitated corpse in one hand, and a Smith & Wesson revolver in the other. The thought that Sean had forgotten to lock up the jeep hadn’t occurred to me. And even if he did, I didn’t have the keys on hand. In short: there wasn’t a way to cut the situation in which I wasn’t screwed.

In that moment the fear lapsed, and I could only laugh. To an outside observer, I must’ve looked the psychotic one in this scenario. Guess I got the ending I wanted after all.

END