THE CABIN

As I exit the motorway, I head towards Black Mountain, tuning the radio to a local station. The crackle of the broadcaster’s voice fills the car: "No updates on the missing men, but we remain hopeful that they will be found safely and returned to their loved ones soon." I switch stations, settling on The Weeknd's "Blinding Lights," as I drive into town.

Entering the familiar streets of Black Mountain, a comforting wave of nostalgia washes over me. The main street, perfectly preserved, looks exactly as it did during my last visit. I gaze at the vivid weatherboard shops squeezed between the enduring brick and stone buildings, their ornate black and cast iron signs a testament to the town’s enduring charm.

I find a parking spot and step out, eager to embark on a culinary journey. My first destination is the local butcher shop, still adorned with its classic bright red and white awning. The mountain air, tinged with the crisp scent of wood smoke, invigorates me. There's something about nature’s aroma that resonates deeply with me.

After making stops at five stores and filling my car with fresh produce, I discover Nan’s—a quaint café and bakery tucked away just off the main drag. A whimsical chalkboard sign greets me: “Despresso: the feeling you get when you’ve run out of coffee. Get your fix here.” It’s a playful welcome to the charming spot.

As I enter Nan’s, I almost bump into a man leaving the café, the fresh scent of cut grass clinging to him. I quickly apologize, stepping aside as he passes with a smile that stirs a flutter in my stomach. Shaking off the encounter, I turn my attention back to the café. The irresistible aroma of fresh pastries wafts out, and my stomach rumbles in response, pulling me inside.

As I approach the black antique-looking cash register, I’m greeted by Nora, a fresh-faced woman in a black apron, her nametag proudly declaring “NORA.” Her voice carries a charming Irish lilt.

“Hi,” I reply, stepping closer, “I’ll have a large latte and whatever that smell is, to go, please.”

Laughing, Nora’s hazel eyes twinkle. “That would be the almond croissants, fresh out of the oven.” She deftly grinds coffee beans as she speaks, “Are you here for the Halloween festival, love, or just passing through?”

I hesitate for a moment, then think, what the hell. “Actually, I’m here for a few weeks, staying at a friend’s cabin. I didn’t know about the festival, though.”

“That wouldn’t happen to be Olivia and Paul’s place, would it? They mentioned a lovely young lady would be staying,” Nora beams, making me inwardly groan at the reminder of how news travels fast in small towns. “The festival’s this weekend. It’s a big event here; the whole town participates—it’s quite a lovely affair.”

As she hands over my coffee and pastry, Nora suggests, “In the meantime, you might want to try Brady’s. It’s just around the corner. They serve a mean burger, and it’s reasonably priced too.”

As memories of the old pub I once visited with my parents flash through my mind, I nod and hand over the cash.

“Just be careful, though, love. The roads up to the Spur can be tricky to navigate at night. You wouldn’t want to find yourself stranded out there,” Nora warns with a concerned look.

“Will do, thanks,” I reply, collecting my coffee and the brown paper bag filled with treats. Stepping back outside, I'm greeted by the crisp mountain air—a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the cafe.

As I walk back towards my car, Nora’s words echo in my mind. I blink several times and take a deep breath, the chill of the air sharp against my face. Memories of the Spur, accompanied by ten years of nightmares and scars, remind me just how perilous those roads can be.

*********************************************

As I cradle my coffee, its warmth contrasting with the chill of the air, I navigate the winding roads toward the Spur. Even after all these years, the sight of towering pine trees mixed with Douglas-fir and quaking aspen, dotted with the occasional burst of red maple, still feels like a homecoming.

I follow the directions from Google Maps, taking the next exit onto a narrow road that clings to the edge of the valley below. My hands tighten on the wheel as I drive with heightened caution, mindful of the road's notorious twists and turns, until I reach the entrance to the cabin.

Before me, the scene is a vivid echo of my memories—the stone driveway leading to a circular parking area, the sprawling wooden porch framed by white pine trees, and the A-frame cabin itself. Its rustic wooden panels, large windows, and welcoming red door appear just as I remember. Neatly stacked logs await use in the fireplace, and a balcony overlooking the entrance sports outdoor chairs and a large double glass sliding door that opens into a loft-style bedroom.

I exit the car and ascend the porch steps, lifting the welcome mat to retrieve the front door key—exactly where Olivia said it would be. My parents' longstanding friendship with Olivia and Paul turned this cabin into a yearly retreat when I was little.

Unable to contain my excitement, I leave my belongings in the car, unlock the massive red front door, and step inside. As I enter, a rush of anticipation tingles down my spine. I blink twice, taking in the open plan living space.

The main room, featuring a moderate-size lounge, a kitchen area, and a large stone fireplace, is surrounded by two well-worn leather couches. While decor upgrades are evident, the familiar ambiance remains. Placing the key on the marble kitchen bench, I ascend the wooden staircase to the master bedroom and bathroom.

Reaching the landing, I stifle a giggle at the sight of the oversized king bed made of recycled logs, a new addition to the loft-style bedroom. The room also boasts a matching mirrored dresser, nightstands, and a cushioned rocking chair that faces the balcony. I slide open a wooden barn door to reveal the master bathroom, now featuring a copper tub set against a large window.

Inhaling the fresh, nature-infused air through the open window, I let the peace wash over me, releasing tension and negativity until I'm nearly dizzy with relief. With a contented sigh, I decide it’s time to unpack.

....................................................................................................................

By 5:30 pm, I'm curled up in front of the roaring fireplace, soaking in the warmth and bracing myself for the flood of memories that always comes with being here.

Years have passed, but being back on the Spur, so close to where everything changed, hits harder this time. I'm here to find some closure and face those memories head-on.

I drift back to that day—the crash, my mom's desperate cries, my dad trying to reach me as the car flipped over. The authorities called it a freak accident, saying a tree fell out of nowhere. It was a miracle anyone walked away from it, especially me, with barely a scratch despite being thrown from the car. The doctors still can't figure out how I got away with just a couple of tiny puncture wounds and some minor fractures.

But the deeper scars are still there, the kind that don't show. If my parents were around, they'd tell me to shake off these dark thoughts and focus on now, on moving forward. Their words still push me, driving me to do well in my job and my studies.

Feeling the sting of loneliness, I groan and push myself up. It's time to do this. I head to the car, ready to confront the past and finally move past it.