The sun was already beaming through the windows the next morning, when Travis yawned through the bedroom door and went to the kitchen table for his phone. No service. He did notice, though, that it was already after 8:00 a.m.

Yep, Tommy was still sleeping. Sprawled all over the couch. Travis maneuvered his way around the boxes that he hadn't unpacked yet and nudged his sleeping brother with his foot. Tommy woke up squinting and stretched out. "Fuck, this thing is uncomfortable."

"Get up," Travis ordered. "It's after eight. I don't wanna pay for another day on that truck."

Tommy sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I was up half the night. Those fucking dogs."

"Dogs?" Travis looked confused. There weren't any neighbors for miles.

"You didn't hear that shit," Tommy asked surprisingly. "There were a bunch of 'em running around out there all fucking night."

Travis peered out the window. "No. I guess I didn't."

Tommy slipped his boots on and stood up aching. "Your couch fucking sucks." He clinched his lower back. "Probably took five years off my life. And why didn't you pack a t.v.?"

"I'll get one. A landline, too. I don't have service up here."

Travis noticed Tommy's bag of weed on the table. He picked it up. "Can I keep this?"

"Sure. I got more." Tommy always had more.

"Hey, thanks for everything," Travis said. And he meant that. His brother was the person he could always count on to keep him going. Like a trusted corner man when he felt like giving up. The guy that could talk him out of a suicide.

"No problem. I'm always here for you, Bro. You know that. Take it easy out here. I'll come back and check in next weekend."

Travis watched from the porch as Tommy awkwardly backed the moving truck down the driveway.

It was time to put things away. Travis went inside and sat down on the couch, sliding a box closer. "What's behind door number one," he pondered, pulling the cardboard flaps apart.

What would be in any of them, honestly? Amy had packed most of them for him. This vault included a top layer of photos, still in their frames. It was the two of them. It was them in the mountains, it was them at the beach. Smiling. Embracing. He sat them aside.

Beneath them was another, smaller box. It was sea shells they'd collected from one of their trips. She must've packed all kinds of shit in there. He kept digging. In a zip lock bag, was a collection of ticket stubs from every movie they'd ever paid to see together. Jesus, she'd saved them all. There was his favorite coffee cup.

He didn't need any of it. It was just a box of utter sadness. Reminders of a life he was trying to forget. His next chapter would have no use for any of it. It all seemed to anchor him down in the past.

There was a brown paper bag folded up, still inside the box. But, how could he go on, rummaging through such pain? He fought the urge, but soon, he succumbed. It was the only thing left in box number one. He bravely lifted the wrinkled bag out of the box and unfolded it. It was a pack of Marlboro Reds. Only three missing.

He had quit smoking seven years ago. When he told Amy he wanted to give it up, she hid his last pack from him. Even though there were times he'd torn the house apart looking for them, he never found them. And he never smoked again.

The fire was blazing with fury. The flames were twenty feet high and full of hate, misery and hurt. Leaping to the sky with vengeance as Travis hurled box after box into the pit, feeding the gluttonous blaze. Before one box was fully consumed, he would bring another from the cabin and heave it in.

When the final one ignited, he stood there feeling he had just won a battle. Even as he pulled an old, stale Marlboro from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it. An action of such weakness and defeat. Still, he felt like he stood victorious. And in that moment, he might have been.

He stood there as a statue, letting his pain burn up in the fire. He admired it, such as the girl in the painting admiring that lake. Nothing in those boxes could he ever have again. Nothing but that cigarette.

One last drag. He flicked the butt into the fire to burn up with the rest of the embers of his past. Now what? He returned to the cabin. He plunged onto the couch and laid there on his back. He scooted around briefly, trying to get comfortable. He scooted up. He moved over. He shifted his ass. "Ugh, this couch does fucking suck."

He allowed his head to fall to the side, lazily gazing out the window. Easily becoming hypnotized by the swaying pine. The long needles. The green in contrast with the blue sky. Therapeutic. So quiet. His eyelids slid over his stare.

THUD!!! He shot upright, eyes wide and focused on the door. The knock was aggressive and sudden. His heart was banging against his chest. "Hello," he shouted.

Nothing.

He sprung up to his feet and walked authoritatively toward the door. With his ear pressed against it, "Hello?"

Once again, nothing. He opened it. There was nobody there. He scanned left and right along the porch. He peered across the grass at his Jeep in the driveway. Nothing. Nobody.

What the hell was that? Was it a knock?

He paced briefly inside the cabin before sitting in one of the kitchen chairs. It had only been one day and he was already starting to develop some slight feelings of cabin fever. He wondered if the isolation would really be as good for him as he imagined. Restless already. That was quick. Maybe even a little fucking lonely. Already.

He needed something to do. All of his belongings, which he was intending to spend the day unpacking, were now a smoking mound of ash in the fire pit. He scooped his keys up from the table and rose like a boxer standing up for the next round. He started for the Jeep, but stopped short. He forgot to collect a partially burnt joint from the ash tray. Now, he could go.

He hadn't actually visited Timber Creek yet. He was elated to find that the shitty gravel road turned to pavement shortly before city limits. "Hmm," he said, pleasantly surprised. Maybe this wouldn't be the hillbilly hell he was expecting.

Charming. This place made other small towns seem bustling. Main Street showcased a few old relics. Buildings that had lined this street since the 1800's. He could only imagine what they were when they were originally built. But, now they're a barber shop, an antique store, and a local art exhibit. Bakery, resale, cafe. Things like that. All closed on a Sunday, apparently. Look at that, the Post Office.

The busiest section of Main Street only stretched about two blocks and then crossed the railroad tracks. There wasn't much after that, aside from a large gravel parking lot. Home to a little convenience store and a bar.

The two vehicles in front of the convenience store made it appear pretty lively, compared to the desolate tavern next to it. It was early. Maybe it's booming later.

Travis parked between an old, beat-up truck, missing the bed (it probably rusted off if the condition of the cab was any indication) and the other car. A tan Ford Tempo. Out-of-state tags. Vermont. A low tire on the driver side rear.

He set off the wind chime doorbell when he entered the store. That should've alerted the old man behind the counter to lift his eyes up from his magazine long enough for a greeting, but greeting customers must've been something he'd given up. He looked like a vintage piece of furniture that was added when they decorated the place. Frail and gray.

"Morning," Travis said, not getting a response.

He looked around and didn't see anyone else in the store. He was curious to know what brought someone here from Vermont. "Who does that Ford out there belong to?" The old man just kept staring at that magazine, blatantly ignoring him.

Travis snagged a bag of chips from one of the few shelves. He noticed the expiration date was from the previous year and compared it to the rest of the bags. "Hey, old timer, these things are gathering dust." Just as he should've expected, not a reaction from the old man.

He walked to the cooler and closed his hand around a bottle of Mountain Dew. It was warm. "You got anything cold," he asked the old clerk. This guy wasn't a talker.

He sat the chips and warm soda on the counter. This guy didn't even acknowledge his presence. "You know," Travis commented with a friendly grin, "For an attendant, you're not very attentive, and it doesn't seem like you tend to much."

"$4.50," the old man responded without looking up. His voice was dry as hell.

This all seemed odd to Travis, being from St. Louis, where people did things a tad more energetically. "You aren't even gonna ring that up?"

"I just did. $4.75."

"Wait a minute," Travis said, trying to figure this guy out. "You just said $4.50.'"

Eyes locked on his magazine, "You got hit with the pissing me off up-charge of twenty-five cents. You're at five bucks even right now."

Quick learner. He took five dollars out of his wallet, laid it on the counter, and grabbed his things. However, he stopped sharp just before walking out the door, deciding to leave the old man with some advice, "Ya know, somebody could just steal this shit right under your nose?"

With one hand holding onto his magazine, he used the other to reach down under the counter, and he raised up a sawed-off shot gun. Now, he looked up at Travis. And then he smiled. The craziest fucking smile. There was lunacy in his eyes. He started laughing like he just figured out the punch line of a joke.

There went that wind chime doorbell again, but this time, Travis was leaving.

The parking lot had acquired another visitor while he was inside. The sheriff. Travis had walked out just in time to catch him examining all the mud on his jeep. This guy was a heavy set gentleman, and his well-kept, thick, brown mustache alluded to how seriously he took his job. It didn't look like he saw a lot of action, though. Not the way his belly hung over his belt. Along with his puffy cheeks, there was plenty of evidence to prove that he preferred his breakfasts with an extra doughnut most days.

"Name's Travis," he announced, slowly approaching the officer. He gave breaking the ice his best shot. "Cheap car wash around here?"

"Rain's coming."

Great, Travis thought to himself. I've got a smart ass here. "Convenient," he chuckled. "My lucky break." He slid between the sheriff and the jeep door. "I'm just gonna...set this stuff...right...here," giving the cop the play by play as he put the chips and soda away.

The officer stepped back and introduced himself, "Sheriff Tuck Connelly. You just passing through?"

"Not exactly," Travis informed him. "I'm new around here."

"Well, that ain't no shit," Tuck said. "Where'd you get all this mud?"

"Just outside of town," Travis answered. "Up on Forest Hill."

"God damn, there ain't much up there."

"That," Travis shook a finger at him, "That ain't no shit. Just me and the trees. And one big ass deer, I guess. I'm in the old cabin up there."

"Oh, there's a lot of deer," Sheriff Tuck educated him. "And a few old cabins out there. They're few and far between, though. Only the one inhabitable. That must be you."

Travis nodded toward the convenience store and voiced some concern, "You know that old psycho has a gun in there?"

Tuck laughed, "Yeah. That's old Crazy Victor Moss. He's been held up in that store, I don't know, probably...60 something years. Giving a damn ain't his strongest ability. He's harmless. He'll get to know ya. Especially if you need anything. He's the only sum bitch you're getting it from. Lest you wanna drive an hour or so."

"My luck. I'm guessing that shitty truck is his. You know who drives this tan Tempo?"

"Oh, you mean ol' Vermont here? Don't know. It was left there about a week ago. Ran the plate, called the girl. Didn't get a hold of her though. I'd have it towed, but it'd be too much of a fight to get Bobby off his ass and down here with the wrecker."

Travis could only assume this guy was joking. Otherwise, he thought, this was some damn lazy police work. Why would that car be sitting there for a week? "Have you bothered to check with the wherever-hell-Vermont police and see if there's been a missing persons report filed?"

Tuck's mood shifted. He didn't like to have his integrity or ability questioned. He was all business when he postured up on Travis. He looked him directly in the eye. "What do you think? You think I can't do my job? I don't understand my position or my duties? I think it'd be in your best interest to leave the police work to me and keep your attitude in check. Especially if you're gonna be living 'round here."

Tuck walked to the front door of the store, tugging at his waistband. He warned Travis, "Be careful up there at that cabin." The wind chime sounded off as he opened the door muttering, "Lots of weird god damn shit goes on up there."

Travis was left standing in the parking lot, wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean. "A lot of weird shit goes on here, too," he said to himself, getting in his jeep.

On the way back to the cabin, he opened the bag of chips while he drove. Ugh, stale as fuck. He quickly folded the bag shut and took a drink of his piss warm soda.

The woods seemed to welcome him back, as the road sneaked back into the forest, the black top resorting back to gravel.

Something was different about the cabin, though. The front door was open. The driveway was empty. No other vehicles. He cautiously studied the open door from the driver's seat. He remembered shutting it behind him when he left. Didn't he? He left in a hurry, but he could have sworn.

He stepped out quietly. Not that stealth would preserve the secrecy of his presence at this point. The moist earth squished beneath his steps. It was eerily still outside. Such silence. Silence has been a strong characteristic for the cabin so far. Even the clicking of the jeep door gently closing seemed obnoxiously loud.

"Hello," he said, then pausing, waiting for a response. Nothing. He climbed the stairs to the porch and approached the open doorway.

"Hello?" He entered. Everything looked the same as it did when he left. He surveyed the living room and kitchen. He peaked into the bedroom through the partially open door. He continued to investigate the place, curious if he was really alone. He seemed to be. Everything was in order. So fucking strange.

There was, however, one thing that had been disturbed. The painting. The girl and the lake. It was hanging crooked on the wall, just as it was the first time he saw it. He searched the woods from the windows.

Back to the porch and down the steps. He walked around the outside of the cabin, inspecting the forest for movement. Listening carefully for the slightest sound.

He returned inside and straightened the painting once again. And once again, he admired the woman.

Just like Tuck predicted, the rain was coming. It began with a distant, but steady, low rumble of thunder. Travis walked out to the porch and could see the skies darkening. He went in and retrieved the old rocking chair and brought it out. The wood creaked supporting his weight. He rocked slowly.

He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Four missing. He contemplated. This time, Marlboro would lose the battle. Back in his pocket. Instead, he rushed back inside to the kitchen table and rushed through rolling a joint, before returning to the rocker to witness the arrival of the impending storm. Thank you, Tommy.

It was getting so dark for mid afternoon. A bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, and the thunder was almost instantaneous. It was a loud clap rather than a slow rumble. It was close. Drop by drop, he could hear the rain begin to tap on his metal roof. Sporadic at first. Almost rhythmic. It began showering the grass before becoming a downpour.

Travis exhaled a cloud of smoke and enjoyed watching the clumps of mud sliding down and dropping from his jeep. "Cheapest car wash in town," he said, taking another hit. "Good call, Tuck."

The hours rolled by. The rain hadn't relented much by later that evening. Travis was now sitting up on the couch, with his right arm resting over the top of his guitar, lightly strumming the song he'd been working on. Where was he going to go with it. This riff that he couldn't get out of his head. Words he couldn't find. But, he put the notes together and let it walk. He was letting it flow out. He was the conduit. He was going to play it until it grew. Forming itself into what it was meant to become.

The knock on the door was unexpected. Three raps. Mid riff, he stopped playing. He sat his guitar down and got up to look out the window toward the driveway. Through the rain and evening darkness, he could make out his jeep, but nothing else.

Then, another knock. Three more raps. Stronger this time. He went straight to the door and jerked it open. There was nobody there. He stepped outside and searched through the rain that was feeding the tiny, little waterfalls that rolled off the roof, across the length of the porch. There was nobody.

"What the hell?" He stood in bewilderment.

Who could that have been? Was the weed fucking with him? Did he really even hear two separate sets of knocks on the door? He went back inside and latched the lock. When he turned around, his focus was immediately drawn to the painting of the girl and the lake. Crooked again. Now, it was getting weird. Maybe a little spooky even. He went over and adjusted the frame once more.

The rest of the night went incident free, but the happenings from earlier kept him uneasy. His mind wouldn't rest. The open door when he arrived home. The mysterious knocking. The crooked painting. That lunatic, Crazy Victor Moss. The sheriff. Even the abandoned car from Vermont. Still, he had to sleep.

It was 2:14 a.m. when he looked at the clock on his phone. Awoken by the dogs. The ones Tommy was talking about. At least three of them. Barking their asses off right outside, running around the cabin. It was hard to believe that he'd slept through this kind of commotion the night before.

He flung the blanket off and peered through the single bedroom window. The rain had stopped, the moon was bright, but he couldn't see them. They made their rounds all around the cabin before Travis could hear their racket disappear off into the woods. He assumed they were chasing that deer he and Tommy came across. At least, that's what he convinced himself of so that he could get some sleep.

He let himself collapse, face first, onto the bed. He was intent to sleep through whatever the hell was going on out there tonight. So, that's just what he did. This one was over.