Entry 7
There had been no way of knowing the gender of our host, and women are just as capable of concealment as men.
August 11
We made our way to the cabins after listening to Phillip’s story—and surely it was that. Nothing about it could be remotely true. Yet it unsettled us all, at least that’s what I concluded from our silence. There was no late-night chatter before leaving, no nightcap, even if there had been one to have. (The lodge had no amenities we could see other than the dining room and two restrooms; there was nothing resembling a liquor cabinet in sight, and I found myself wishing one of us had brought a bottle or three of wine, not to make us convivial but to calm the nerves.) Phillip had remained behind, saying he needed time for his evening meditation. Given that it was a spiritual retreat I didn’t think there was anything odd about it. We all left him there and headed out from the lodge.
“Do you think any of that was true?” Larry asked.
The cabin was small enough that we could talk without raising our voices. There hadn’t been time for anyone to fall asleep, and the quiet itself added to my unease. We had all prepared for bed and gotten beneath our respective covers. I’d had the foresight to bring sweat pants and a T-shirt to sleep in—something I normally did unclothed. Sleeping alone in my apartment was also normal for me, and I’d fretted before coming that I might not get a good six hours, let alone eight, in a room of strangers. I assumed before arriving we would share sleeping quarters, and there were no photographs online to see what the lodge and property looked like before we got there. That is another part of story I’ll relate later—evidence that the place existed, but not what it looked like.
“Not a word of it was believable,” said Remy, responding to me from across the room. “It was story time around the fireplace, and we were the children. That’s all.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t have marshmallows on sticks to melt over the flames,” added Harlan.
“I trust we’ll meet the person behind all this tomorrow,” I said. I was lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling. A single lamp had been left on for Phillip so he wouldn’t stumble around in the dark when he came back after his meditation.
“Whoever he is,” said Remy.
“Or she,” replied Larry.
He had a point. It was easy to assume this had all been arranged by a man. That is a cultural default, however misguided. There had been no way of knowing the gender of our host, and women are just as capable of concealment as men.
“Concealment,” I said out loud, repeating my thoughts.
“Pardon?” asked Harlan.
“It’s all very … secretive,” I said. “The listing—”
“It was online, that’s not very secretive.”
“No, but everything about it is. I had no idea who else was coming to this, did you?”
“No idea who, how many, or what we’re supposed to be doing,” answered Larry. “And those notes left on our beds, and that dinner waiting with no one to serve it. And that story!”
We had returned to the outlandish tale Phillip had treated us to, if that’s the right word. He’d told us about some mythical place in the woods, and a tree, and people who worshiped it. And a walking stick, I can’t forget the walking stick—then, and certainly not now.
“He never said if they were good or bad, these tree people,” said Larry. “Maybe they’re just a bunch of forest faeries, or large wood nymphs or something.”
“More likely they’re nothing,” replied Remy. “Figments of Phillip’s imagination. Why he would take our time listening to such drivel is beyond me.”
“It’s all beyond me,” I said. “And I have a feeling he’s not done telling it.”
“One can hope he is,” said Harlan. “I’m not really in the mood for nonsense. I came here for a spiritual retreat, not a retreat filled with spirits.”
“Maybe they’re the same thing,” I said, just as the door opened and Phillip walked in.
“Gentlemen!” he said, seeing we were all still awake. “I hope you weren’t waiting up for me.”
“Not at all,” said Harlan. “But now that you’re here, it’s time for this old man to go to sleep. Please turn out that light when you go to bed.”
“Soon,” Phillip said. “Good night, and sweet dreams.”
It was almost a cruel thing to hope for, given how disturbing my dreams were that night. I’ll write about them soon.
— Anonymous
“It was online, that’s not very secretive.”
“No, but everything about it is. I had no idea who else was coming to this, did you?”
“No idea who, how many, or what we’re supposed to be doing,” answered Larry. “And those notes left on our beds, and that dinner waiting with no one to serve it. And that story!”
We had circled back to the outlandish tale Phillip had treated us to, if that’s the right word. He’d told us about some mythical place in the woods, and a tree, and people who worshiped it. And a walking stick, I can’t forget the walking stick—then, and certainly not now.
“He never said if they were good or bad, these tree people,” said Larry. “Maybe they’re just a bunch of forest faeries, or large wood nymphs or something.”
“More likely they’re nothing,” replied Remy. “Figments of Phillip’s imagination. Why he would take our time listening to such drivel is beyond me.”
“It’s all beyond me,” I said. “And I have a feeling he’s not done telling it.”
“One can hope he is,” said Harlan. “I’m not really in the mood for nonsense. I came here for a spiritual retreat, not a retreat filled with spirits.”
“Maybe they’re the same thing,” I said, just as the door opened and Phillip walked in.
“Gentlemen!” he said, seeing we were all still awake. “I hope you weren’t waiting up for me.”
“Not at all,” said Harlan. “But now that you’re here, it’s time for this old man to go to sleep. Please turn out that light when you go to bed.”
“Soon,” Phillip said. “Good night, and sweet dreams.”
It was almost a cruel thing to hope for, given how disturbing my dreams were that night. I’ll write about them soon.
— Anonymous