The Cabin on Souder Hill Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Lonnie Busch

  E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover design by K. Jones

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-982585-48-8

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-982585-46-4

  Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  Chapter 1

  She waited until noon to phone the sheriff. At one point she drove down Pink Souder Road searching for Cliff, calling his name out the window, then returned to the cabin and waited. She pulled her mat from the closet and tried to do yoga but went to the freezer for the open carton of ice cream instead, then stared past the glass doors at the gray sky.

  The sheriff arrived shortly before two o’clock. He had the sturdy look of a man who’d spent the greater part of his life working outdoors. He introduced himself as Sheriff Louden Fisk.

  “And this here’s my deputy, Elmer Bogan,” the sheriff said. Even though Bogan was much younger, he was heavier, and sweating as if the eleven steps up to the cabin had been taxing.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” Michelle said, extending her hand. She nodded at the deputy. “My husband didn’t come back last night. Cliff. That’s his name.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Down the mountain.” Michelle pointed over the railing. “Around midnight. I was in bed. He walked out on the deck to get air, then came back in saying he saw a light down the mountain. Down there through the trees.”

  “A light?” the sheriff said. “What kind of light?”

  “One of those dusk-to-dawn lights,” Michelle said, feeling nervous talking to the police. She wasn’t sure why. “You know, like people have in their driveways. The kind on telephone poles.”

  The sheriff nodded. “You say he went down there in the middle of the night? With a flashlight? Is he an experienced hiker? Or outdoorsman?”

  “No, he’s a used car salesman.” She hadn’t intended for it to sound flip. “What I mean is . . . he’s never hiked. He’s not outdoorsy or anything.”

  Deputy Bogan stood by without a word, a sprinkle of perspiration on his upper lip.

  “You folks just come up on weekends and such?” the sheriff asked. “Or you live here year round?”

  “No, mostly just weekends. We bought the cabin last fall,” she said. The truth was, she’d had little to do with the decision. Cliff had come home from a car auction in North Carolina with a contract for a cabin in the mountains, less than three hours’ drive from Atlanta. That had precipitated another argument. Michelle liked the idea of the cabin—they could use some time together—but she hated that Cliff hadn’t consulted her first.

  “What was he wearing?” the sheriff asked.

  “Uh . . . a red cap, jeans . . . and a tan jacket,” she said.

  The sheriff walked to the far edge of the deck. Rain clouds stacked along the mountain peaks like enormous gray ships. A misty breeze wet the boards and railing.

  “He kept saying there was a house down there and that there wasn’t supposed to be one,” she continued “Then he said he heard noises or something. I was already in bed . . . I should have paid closer attention to what he was going on about . . . but I was exhausted from the drive up.”

  “I don’t see anything down there,” the sheriff said.

  “I don’t either, but that’s where he said it was,” Michelle said, zipping her coat. “Down there, through all those trees and rhododendron.”

  “Why would he go down there in the middle of the night?” Sheriff Fisk asked, seeming confused. “Why go down there at all? Was he vexed about something?”

  Michelle tried to explain again, the entire episode sounding so ridiculous she was embarrassed recounting it—Cliff standing at the edge of the deck pointing toward noises drifting up through the bare oaks and poplars, doors shutting, wood on wood, dull shadows of sound. “Down there,” Cliff had told Michelle. “The real estate agent said there wasn’t another house in any direction for a mile,” Cliff had said, pointing down the hill. “That’s no mile. I’m not driving three hours to listen to people banging around all night. I can stay in Atlanta for that.”

  Cliff’s mushrooming impatience with people, customers, and even her over the past several years had become taxing to Michelle. Cliff had never been unflappable, but it now seemed nothing could satisfy him. His irascibility worried her. It had been responsible for conflicts among his sales force, his lenders, and on one occasion, the Highway Patrol over a broken taillight.

  “Can you send out a search party or something?” Michelle said.

  “Well, why don’t the deputy and me take a ride down there first and see if we can’t find something,” Fisk said, adjusting his hat. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  She shook her head. She’d already driven down that road several times. There was nothing there. “I’ll wait here,” she said. “In case he comes back or calls.”

  The police car backed out of the driveway, made a slow arc onto the road, and headed down the mountain. As she slid the glass patio door closed, Michelle wondered what her life would be like if they didn’t find Cliff. She stood by the window recreating her days without him. Everything she’d ever wanted had involved him—family, a home, children—but her pristine vision of a perfect family life vanished as she’d learned over the years to settle. Cliff had agreed to a big family—she’d wanted at least three children—until they had Cassie. Then everything changed. He said one was enough, that he didn’t have room in his heart for another child, that Cassie was his entire world. “Remember how unsure you were before Cassie was born?” she’d told him. “And how that all changed in the delivery room, Cliff. Remember? That overwhelming rush of love you felt for our beautiful girl? Your heart has plenty of room for more children. The heart doesn’t set boundaries on love.” Cliff hadn’t responded, just turned away from her.

  Boundaries on love. What a queer notion that had seemed to Michelle. Maybe she’d been wrong. She certainly felt like she’d set boundaries on her love for Cliff since his affair.

  The sheriff and deputy returned shortly, but this time the sheriff came to the door by himself. The deputy waited in the police car. Sheriff Fisk shook his head. “Nothing. I was fairly certain there was no house down there below your place, only Mattie Souder’s old shack at the end of the road. But the way things are building up so fast I wasn’t sure anymore.”

  “Who’s Mattie Souder?” Michelle asked, recalling the dilapidated house. She had stood outside calling Cliff’s name, afraid to go in or even knock on the door.

  “Mattie hasn’t been there in years,” the sheriff said. “Not since her and Pink disappeared—Pink was her son. I thought maybe your husband might’ve holed up there if he was hurt, but there wasn’t nothing in Mattie’s old shack but mice and ringnecks.” The sheriff gave Michelle the gas pump version of the Pink Souder story.

  “Pink and his wife, Isabelle, were having some marital problems. One night, Isabelle just up and disappeared. Never even said anything to her sister, Claire. So when Claire reported her missing, we put on
a countywide search. State police pitched in when we came up empty. Widened the investigation. But there wasn’t much to go on, since the last person to see her was Pink. According to Claire there’d been a big argument or something, but that was it. Isabelle was gone. No witnesses. No phone call. No note. Nothing.”

  Fisk tightened his mouth and stared at the rain.

  “Not sure why, but the state police boys were convinced Pink had killed Isabelle and buried her on the property. But they never found her. Wasn’t long after that Mattie and Pink disappeared.”

  “The property?”

  “They had this whole place dug up,” the sheriff said. “Holes everywhere.”

  “What place?” Michelle said.

  “This place. Your yard out there, all the way to the road. This was Pink’s place,” the sheriff said. “Built it himself. Isabelle was gonna move over here soon as it was done.”

  Michelle was dumbstruck. Cliff hadn’t said anything about a murder. Maybe he didn’t know either.

  “I never believed Pink could kill anyone,” Fisk said. “Especially Isabelle. He loved that girl like crazy.” The sheriff smiled. “There aren’t any bodies buried here. I guarantee it. Folks make up some wild tales in these mountains. I heard one that had Mattie turning her boy, Pink, into an ass and riding him out of town like the Virgin Mary headed for Bethlehem.” He chuckled. “I don’t believe any of that hokum—spells and runes and whatnot. Those Wicca folks are no different from you or me . . .”

  “Wicca folks?” Michelle asked. “What’s Wicca?”

  “Uh, well . . .” Sheriff Fisk paused, scratching behind his ear. “They’re witches, I guess you’d call them. Maybe you’ve seen some of those signs on the outskirts of town for Wiccan supplies and such. It’s not like a secret society or—”

  “Witches?” Michelle asked. “Like, you mean . . . ?”

  “No, they don’t wear pointy black hats or ride around on brooms or nothing,” the sheriff said, chuckling softly. “You don’t need to worry none about any of that.”

  “I’ve never heard of—”

  “Pretty common in these hills. Well, maybe not common, but . . . You wouldn’t know them if you passed them in the grocery store. They’re no different than you and me.”

  Michelle felt momentarily transported back in time. Or to a time unknown to her. It was curious. Witches?

  “Tales spring up around these parts for God only knows what reason,” Fisk continued. “Probably reading too many of them Stephen King novels. Or drinking too much moonshine. Lulu—that was Mattie’s best friend—Lulu said Mattie had people in Virginia and went to stay with them for a while. She never came back, though.” The sheriff’s expression darkened, as if his mind was wrestling with something troublesome.

  “What about my husband?” Michelle said. “What do we do now? He could be lying somewhere unconscious.”

  “He’s probably all right, ma’am. Had us a twelve-year-old boy a few years back got separated from his scout troop over there in the Nantahala Forest. Gone four days. Everybody was out looking for him. Parents were worried sick. When we found him, he wasn’t a hundred yards from where they’d been camping. Walked in big circles for days. And he was just fine. A bit tired and hungry, but A-OK.”

  Michelle was not comforted by the story, imagining if it were Cassie lost in the woods. Cassie was only fifteen and Michelle couldn’t bear the thought of her being scared, alone, hungry.

  “I’ll round up some of the boys with dogs. We’ll search the area,” Fisk said. “Could be your husband got turned around in the dark. Can’t go too far round these parts anymore without coming to a road or highway. We’ll find him.” The sheriff tweaked the brim of his hat. “I need for you to stay close to the phone in case he calls though. Need anything from the grocery store?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, crossing her arms, not sure if she agreed with the sheriff’s assessment of the area, about the abundance of roads and highways. To her the area was damn remote. That’s what Cliff had loved about it, that their property was supposed to be surrounded by thousands of acres of national forest land, no one else for miles.

  “You better go on inside,” the sheriff said. “Chill’s setting in. And don’t you worry, we’ll find him.”

  *****

  Rain slashed at the deck as seven men started down the hill, three of them struggling back against leashes, their dogs burrowing close to the ground, seemingly barking at ghosts. Michelle watched from the back door until there was nothing left of the men and their hounds but the howling. An hour or so later, a helicopter rumbled past the cabin and Michelle thought they might have found Cliff until it cut down over the trees and out of sight. The sheriff knocked on the door around six that evening.

  “Howdy, ma’am. Any news?”

  Michelle shook her head, searching the sheriff’s eyes for answers. Rain dripped from the collar of his yellow slicker.

  “Well, we haven’t had much luck either. Bogan and me figure to wait until dark and see if we can’t locate exactly what you folks were looking at. Distances can be deceiving up here. Maybe the light was further away than you thought.”

  “How about the dogs?”

  The sheriff’s jaw clenched. “They had a scent for a while . . . but then . . .”

  “What?”

  “They spooked,” the sheriff said. “Started howling like they’d treed a coon . . . and we thought they’d found something. But then they commenced to whimpering. They were pretty scared over something . . .”

  Fisk walked down to the men in the driveway, told them they could go on home. They packed up their dogs, slamming tailgates and doors, spinning gravel as they left the driveway, taking—it felt to Michelle—all the hope with them. Encouraged earlier when the men arrived with the dogs, she’d been certain they would find Cliff. Watching them leave erased her optimism, left her anxious and guilty, even ashamed for taking a moment’s satisfaction in the notion that Cliff might be dead. Over the past few years she’d pictured Cliff’s overturned Cherokee, the wheels spinning, the phone call from the police. “What kind of person would imagine such things?” she thought. She was too embarrassed to even tell her sister, Darcy, about her morbid reverie.

  “We don’t need all that manpower tonight,” the sheriff told Michelle when he came back up.

  “Do you and Deputy Bogan want to wait inside?” Michelle asked.

  “No, ma’am, we’ll wait in the car. Won’t be long ’fore dark.”

  Michelle washed dishes, glancing out at the horizon, trying to speed the night. She decided to call her sister.

  “Hey, Darcy, it’s Michelle.”

  “How’s the getaway going?” Darcy said.

  “You have a minute to talk?”

  “Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”

  Michelle’s mind kept bouncing between things Sheriff Fisk had told her about Pink, and his wife. Was Isabelle her name? Michelle wasn’t sure. “It’s Cliff. He’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  Michelle told Darcy about the night before.

  “When I woke up, he wasn’t here,” she said. “I thought he’d gone for a walk this morning like he usually does, but when he wasn’t back by noon I got concerned. I called the sheriff.”

  “Do you want me to drive up?” Darcy asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m okay. The sheriff’s here.”

  Michelle couldn’t understand why, but her mind kept drifting back to Pink Souder, why he’d left town. And Isabelle? If she wasn’t dead, where was she? Something must have happened for authorities to think Pink had killed her.

  “Darcy, the sheriff told me the wildest story about the cabin, about this Pink Souder guy who built it,” Michelle said. “He was supposed to have killed his wife . . . and buried her here somewhere.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Yeah,” Miche
lle said, unable to understand her own interest in Pink Souder and his wife, and why was she making them her business? There was no need to find a place in her life for their drama. She had her own.

  “Anyway, the sheriff and a bunch of guys were up here with dogs looking for Cliff.”

  “Dogs? Wow. Are you worried?”

  “Well, yeah, Darcy. It’s like a fricking Brazilian rainforest up here. Don’t you remember how remote it is?”

  “You know he’ll show up. He probably found some chick hiking in the woods and—oh shit, Chelle, I’m sorry. That was fucked up. I’m so sorry.”

  Michelle said nothing. She hadn’t considered that. Maybe Glenda had driven up and Cliff’s whole light-down-the-hill chest-pounding and bluster bullshit was nothing more than a ruse to go to some motel in town so they could fuck their brains out. He could be there right now.

  “Chelle? Are you there? I didn’t mean to be such a bitch.”

  Michelle went to the nightstand and pulled out her emergency pack of Chesterfields. She fumbled with the lighter a moment then drew hard. She’d questioned her decision to stay after the affair. Had it grown from a desire for the marriage to work or merely the lack of courage to end it? Worrying about him now brought up a tangle of emotions she lacked the energy to unravel.

  “Yeah, no, I’m fine,” Michelle said, exhaling, the hurt rushing back.

  “You aren’t smoking again, are you? Michelle, you’re not a smoker.”

  “Fuck, Darcy, if he’s back with Glenda, I mean it . . . I . . .”

  “He’s not. Even Cliff’s not that screwed up.”

  Michelle drew hard again. “If he is, Darcy, I’m serious, Cassie and I are buying fucking Harleys and driving to California. And you can come with. You’ll get one too and—”

  “Harleys, Michelle? Really? Cassie’s only fifteen, so she can’t even drive one. And when I was dating Tank, you wouldn’t even take a ride on the back of his.”

  Michelle was only half-joking about the Harleys. But the thought of Cliff’s cheating provoked some renegade inside her. The idea of the motorcycles sounded freeing even though she was petrified of them.