Chapter 7 The Flood

Back within the log walls, a cold dread began to settle in. The cabin, once her sanctuary, now felt exposed, vulnerable. She found herself checking locks twice, peering out the windows into the encroaching twilight. The sounds of the forest, once soothing, now seemed menacing; every creak, every rustle, a potential threat.

She caught herself wishing Ethan would come around more often. As much as he irritated her, his presence and his strength would be a source of comfort. Her regret at extending her stay festered. What had she been thinking? Whether it was just her mind playing tricks on her or something sinister going on just beyond what she could see and analyze, things were no longer peaceful.

As the incidents continued to pile up, a faint, almost imperceptible handprint on her dusty kitchen window, a strange, acrid smell outside the cabin one morning, which dissipated before she could identify it. Then the faint but undeniable impression of a footprint in the soft earth near her porch, too large and clearly defined to be an animal’s. Each one chipped away at her rational defenses, leaving her raw and exposed.

Sleep became a luxury, fitful and broken by phantom noises and waking dreams. Her meticulous nature, once a source of calm, now served to magnify every anomaly, every shift in the environment. She started documenting the incidents, a data analyst’s attempt to quantify the abstract, to find a pattern in the chaos. But the only pattern she found was the undeniable escalation of her fear.

Determined not to allow fear to paralyze her, Clara looked around the cabin, at the stacks of boxes still untouched, the shelves still laden with Bea’s eclectic collections. Her jaw set. It was time. Time to stop being a victim of circumstance, and to become the architect of her own escape. The leisurely pace was over. The explorations into the woods ceased. Her focus narrowed to a laser point. She would sort, pack, and discard with methodical urgency.

It was time to wrap things up and get out of there.

For the first time in many nights, Clara had been able to sleep soundly, most likely due to the sheer exhaustion of not sleeping for almost ten nights. As she felt consciousness begin to take root, she thought she heard a faint gurgling sound, initially dismissed as the cabin settling. After some minutes, however, the sound grew louder, morphing into an unmistakable rush. Clara’s eyes snapped open. Not a whisper, not the wind. It was the distinct sound of water, and it was close. Too close.

She swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet meeting a shockingly cold, damp floorboard. Her heart lurched. “Impossible,” she muttered, her voice a thin tremor in the vast silence. It was as if the cabin itself was conspiring against her, holding her hostage just when the finish line was in sight. Just when I’m about to get things wrapped up.

Clara followed the damp trail and the gurgling sound, her breath catching in her throat as she entered the kitchen. The rustic pine floor, usually a warm, inviting expanse, was a shimmering, dark lake. Water, cold and ominous, seeped from beneath the faded linoleum near the stove, spreading inexorably across the room. It mirrored the frantic pre-dawn light, turning the kitchen into a murky, distorted reflection of itself.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through her. A burst pipe. Under the floor. In the isolated vastness of the mountains, there was no building superintendent to call, no emergency number to dial for immediate assistance. This was her problem, and hers alone. The thought filled her with a profound sense of helplessness.

She waded through the icy water, retrieving the bucket and mop from the pantry, her mind racing. The water needed to be stopped, but where was the main shut-off? Aunt Beatrice had been self-sufficient to a fault, but her practical wisdom had not extended to a comprehensive owner’s manual for the cabin.

Deputy Miller. He had been so solicitous when she’d arrived, offering assistance for anything she might need. “Small town, Ms. Vance,” he’d said, his eyes a little too keen, a little too assessing. “We look out for each other as best we can.”

Her fingers fumbled with her phone, having taken down the number for the Sheriff’s office from the side of Deputy Miller’s SUV.  She dialed the number. It was answered by a dispatcher.

“I need to speak to Deputy Miller, please?”

After some moments, she heard his voice on the line. “Deputy Miller.”

“Deputy, it’s Clara Vance,” she began, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice, but a shiver ran down her spine as the cold water soaked her socks. “I… I have a problem. There’s a flood in the kitchen. I think a pipe burst under the floor.”

A brief silence. Then, his voice, calm and efficient, “Turn off the main water feed into the house, Ms. Vance. I’ll send my cousin, Jerry, he’s a good plumber. He’ll be out as soon as he can.”

“The main… water feed?” Clara echoed, bewildered.

“Outside, Ms. Vance. Probably near the gas tanks. Look for an insulated box with a valve inside.”

He hung up. Clara stood in the frigid water, the phone still clutched in her hand. A box with a valve inside, near the gas tanks, she repeated to herself. The sheer absurdity of her situation pressed down on her. Back in Denver, she would have made a call to the building manager, and within minutes, a uniformed super would have arrived, tools in hand and a stoic expression on his face. Here, she was slogging through rising water toward the door to go search for a cryptic box in the pre-dawn chill.

She pulled on a thick sweater, rain boots, and a waterproof shell, grabbing a flashlight. The air outside was a brutal slap of cold, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. The cabin felt like a besieged fortress. She circled the structure, her flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating thickets of brush at the edge of the clearing, a prime place for a bear or other predator to leap out from.

Eventually, she found the box right near the propane tanks, just as Deputy Miller had suggested. It was made of wood with a top that had to be pulled off with some force due to the thick insulation packing its lid and walls. There was the valve, like the water spigot in her grandmother’s garden. With a grunt of effort, she twisted it, feeling the satisfying resistance as the flow ceased. The gurgling inside the cabin slowly faded, replaced by the persistent drip of residual water.