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.

Some of those revelations would turn out to be confessions of crimes, though the evidence would never make it into a court of law.

August 6

Were you to notice the dates of my writing, you’ll see significant gaps. That’s due to my personal struggles, resulting in large part from the consequences of this misadventure. There are days and nights when I’m simply unable to do much, and writing, however easy that might seem, becomes a herculean task. At the same time, I realize I won’t always be able to record these events, barring a miracle, so I will continue attempting it as best I can.

To say I was hungry by the time we headed to the lodge for dinner is an understatement. I hadn’t eaten anything that day other than a bag of cashews I bought at a gas station outside Easton. Other than that, my only fuel had been four cups of coffee—I admit to having a caffeine addiction that, if not fed regularly, gives me crushing headaches. I even travel with my own small percolator and can of coffee. It has proven prescient on more than one occasion.

We had been told to arrive by three p.m., which was after lunch. It seemed like the standard check in time for a hotel, so I had assumed it would  be much like staying in one. I was wrong. There was no one at a front desk—no front desk at all—and only signs posted on the driveway saying ‘Men’s Cabins’ and  ‘Women’s Cabins’ with arrows pointing us in the directions of  them.

I ignored the sign at first and went directly to the lodge, only to find it locked. How strange, I thought. Had the retreat been cancelled and I hadn’t been notified? Then, of course, I noticed the other cars. There may not be anyone in the lodge, but there were certainly people in the cabins. I made my way to the men’s quarters, met the other gentlemen, and found the note on my mattress. Five mattresses, five notes, four men—which meant, of course, I was not the last to arrive. It was only later I would find out I had been. The mysterious fifth man, whose bed remained empty and whose fate would be revealed before the end of this misadventure, would never be encountered.