The Cabin’s Secret

2024-06-032024-06-03 jpweidemoyer

[Ad in The Scranton Times]

February 1, 1895

For Rent

Secluded cabin in Pocono Mts

Perfect for aspiring authors

Published work GUARNTEED

Only asking for $1.50/night

Minimum three nights stay

Interested parties send letter to:

222 Hilltop Rd,

Scranton, PA 18503

February 4, 1895
20:19

I placed the above ad in our local newspaper this past Monday (February 2, 1895) . It is now Monday the 4th, and I have received four letters of interest for my cabin. I believe I have narrowed it down to the lucky aspiring author of interest. They are from the NYC metro area, so they will surely be in for a treat upon visiting my cabin. Which truly is a perfect match for someone of such dreams and aspirations as becoming a published author. I shall use my background and extensive network in the publishing industry in Philadelphia to get them signed.

I will be meeting Mr. Edgar on Friday at Hotel Jermyn at 17:00 PM. It will be nearing nightfall promptly by then, but my carriage is fitted with the latest in lantern fashion for safe travels. I am truly excited for what kind of journey will unfold before us. Mr. Edgar reads as an enthusiastic man in his mid twenties who has just gotten out of a marriage of nearly a decade. So I reckon that he will be using this time for some real soul cleansing. A truly perfect match, as I stated.

I will report back to my diary by this hour next week.

February 5, 1895
22:10

I arrived a mere two minutes late and the cabin owner was not too pleased and nearly ready to cancel my cabin rental. I had come all this way, and nearly for nothing. But alas, we made it in good enough time. And I must say – the ad didn’t include much for a description of the cabin, but it is quite marvelous. It is indeed secluded. And departing at night, I have no idea where we are. He rode quite hastily and dangerously the entire journey up the narrow path. Never saying a word. He – who is he anyway. He never did give me his name. A peculiar fellow, if I might say.

-Edgar

February 6, 1895
22:48

It snowed up here all day. Nothing much to do but to drink and write. And there is plenty of a gentleman’s selection of fine liquors to select from. And for the writing implements – there is a very fine Ford Typewriter on the desk. With spare ink and ribbons and other misc. parts galore.

And what a marvelous panoramic view of the wilderness. To which point I have not yet gotten to explore. But there really is no need. There is a rack beside the outhouse full of firewood. There must be a full winters’ worth to fuel this small fireplace in this smaller cabin. But it sure is quaint. And ironically, having just jotted that last sentence down in my journal, I am feeling a bit faint. I think that is’ time I call it a night. I’m quite pleased with my progress thus far. Published author. I could really get used to the sounds of that. My ex-wife will surely have cursed that very day!

-Edgar

February 7, 1895
23:31

Another full day of heavy snow. Unable to even see the trail or by which direction it even flows. And speaking of flowing – how could I forget to include the magnificent opening that I have found beneath the bedroom floor. There is a stream that flows right underneath the cabin. This must’ve been used as an old fishing cabin. I didn’t see any fish flowing, however. Luckily there is plenty of food stashed away. Again – enough for an entire months’ worth of supplies. The cabin owner, however peculiar, has certainly earned my respect as a world-class host and gentleman.

The final night here, and I have written some of my finest works. I shall pull an all-nighter. I do not wish to reflect back on this opportunity and regret not putting in all of my energy into it.

And speaking of energy, there is a strange presence that has just appeared in the room. It was a shadowy figure, but I’m sure it was only just the flickering of the candle and the liquor talking.

I tried to open up the windows, but they are all locked shut. Peculiar, but quite understandable.

The bell just struck twelve midnight. Thank heaven, I have another six hours or more to write. Oh how am I ever going to best this writing? How will any other man for that matter? What started off as only the intention of a short story has evolved into what will surely become one of this country’s finest novels. An achievement only made by the finest of explorers of the ages. This novel will be something taught at University, to even have such an institution in my name. Every single stroke now has the ink glowing off the page. Everything is as it should be. Perfect. The pacing is brilliant, the setting is idealistic, the story is something of the likes never been written. And the characters – the characters alone will be something revered for centuries. This book’s greatest achievement will undoubtedly be the inability for one to categorize it. It is too great to be labeled as simply one genre. It transcends all genres. Taking just the right amount of each to mix a perfect recipe of intrigue, romance, adventure, horror, drama, sci-fi, and mystery.

I can barely keep up the with how fast my mind is forcing my hand to type out the keys now. I have lost count at how many pages I have placed on the table beside me. All of which are gold. There may not be gold flowing through the stream below the cabin, but there is pure gold here.

I can’t even explain just how perfect this story has become. It is all coming together just as perfectly as it began. It is unimaginable, unbelievable, yet is undeniably – a true masterpiece.

And just like that. I have started to feel ill. I thought I had been careful not to indulge in too much liquid gold whilst writing, but perhaps I have had my fair of shots for one evening. I had better lie down if I’m going to continue this forward.

Again – I see a strange apparition floating across on the bedroom wall. I just tried getting up, but I am strangely paralyzed. Perhaps it is something I ate? I only had but a few shots of whiskey. So it mustn’t be that. I have never been one to fall ill from partaking in the fine art of drinking.

What was that noise? And the shadowy apparition has now placed itself beside me on the bed. I can feel it’s cold hands placed upon my shoulder. I can feel…I can feel…I can feel…

-E

February 7, 1895
6:19

Mr. Edgar – what can be said. You truly have written an undeniable true masterpiece. It’s really quite a shame that you will not be around to see it published, however. I grew fondly of you. Despite your being two minutes late – I could tell you had gentleman qualities about you.

But I am also a man of gentleman qualities. Your work will be published. And it will go onto be considered one of the greatest achievements in writing that man has ever and will ever know.

Your ex-wife was right to curse you, however. For she was right about one thing. The curse. Well, to be quite honest it’s much less of a curse as it is a secret. But it is only I, and only I alone that knows its true secret. Your body will now flow just as you described the gold in the stream. Only it was never gold, but instead copper that flowed through these hills and this abandoned cabin.

And now I must be on my way back into the city. Down the same copper trail my grandfather laid out. The very same one you made your last voyage on. A journey many more aspiring authors will take as well.