A Strange Man Wanted to Use My Deer Stand, I Wish I Never Found Out Why
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I had just put the coffee on when I heard the rumble of an old engine, and I looked out the front window to see it making its way down the drive. It was just after 6 a.m. The sun was barely breaking over the horizon. I had just finished my move into a new house, trying to put things back together through the wreckage of a far from pleasant divorce. After months of paperwork and going back and forth with lawyers, this was my first weekend to take a load off and enjoy it.

until the truck pulled in. It was a slow coast and away someone would arrive at their grandmother's house, almost making themselves at home. I stood there for a while in disbelief, taking in the faded paint and rusted rocker panels of their crew cab as it sauntered in. At first I hoped the truck was just trying to turn around, but instead of swinging in front of the garage and backing away, the vehicle slowed to a stop and a man got out. I wanted to scowl.

I could already feel the random visitor spoiling my coffee and sunrise. And the way he trounced to the front door, almost excitedly, confused me more than anything. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, dressed in layers of denim and Carhartt. There was a giddy excitement to his walk, like he couldn't wait to get to the door. The way he waltzed up the gravel unfortunately meant that he wasn't lost.

It was too early for a salesman or someone spreading the good word. This person was sure they were supposed to be here, comfortable in the thought that they were in the right place. I couldn't help but head to the door. Despite the odd discomfort I felt from such an early visitor, I lurked in the dark and opened the screen door, watching them practically bounce up the steps.

Through the little glass window, I watched them straighten their jacket, smooth their mustache, and raise a fist to knock on the door. Before they could wrap their knuckles, I opened it. Their look of genuine excitement faltered immediately and was replaced by a confused apprehension. Their jolly demeanor melted before me like a costume falling away. "Can I help you?" I asked, a little abrasive.

The man froze, fist still posed. His eyes frantically looked me up and down, then past me. I shuffled to block his view. "Uh, uh, hey! Hello there!" he exclaimed awkwardly, straightening himself. Despite his quick transition into the "friendly neighbor," there was an odd agitation nipping at him. When I didn't say anything, he cleared his throat. "Is, uh, Roger home?" "I wasn't aware he'd have company today."

He fidgeted for a moment, before making a clear effort to stand more still. "I'm really sorry to be the one to tell you. Roger passed away a few months ago. I just recently closed up on the home and moved in," I said awkwardly. The man looked like I was playing a prank on him at first. His mouth opening in preparation for the laugh, the confused apprehension washed over quickly, replaced by a look of genuine loss. "Oh, you're serious?" "Unfortunately, I am.

He left no will, and the realtor checked repeatedly for next of kin, but it looked like he left no family behind. "I'm sorry for your loss." "Wow! Wow! This is really unexpected! He, uh, he always seemed to be in such good health, in such high spirits! I can't believe it! He was a dear friend! We went way back!" I nodded sympathetically, but I couldn't help but think of the picture I had seen of the previous owner.

He looked every bit of a haggard 80. The man scratched his head and cleared his throat, and for a moment, his eyes darted off to the left of me, like he was trying to see through the house. I followed his gaze and saw nothing but the faded siding and drawn curtains. Was he trying to look through the windows? "I'm sorry for your loss. The realtor said he was a good guy, really active in the community, feeding the homeless, stuff like that. Lost a good one for sure.

I said, really wanting to just close the door and be done. But I couldn't quite find the words to respectfully dismiss him. The man chewed his lip for a moment before returning his attention to me. "Ah, yeah, he could really run with the young'uns. He always seemed to keep in touch with his youth, that rascal," he said with a grin before offering his hand. "Name's Clint." I shook it reluctantly. "Nice to meet you."

"Say," he was already continuing, "the reason I come up here was for hunting. Roger would let me use his deer stand out back, past the field. He was a bit of a mentor to me, actually. Taught me all I know," he said, placing a hand over his heart, "like some sort of pledge." "Oh yeah?" I said, raising my eyebrows, deliberately sighing on the inside. I knew where this was going.

"If you wouldn't mind, could I by chance use the old deer stand again? I won't mosey around the property, I swear. Just for a few hours. I already got my tags and everything," he said, perking up. I took a deep breath. Behind me, the coffee pot beeped. If I didn't squash this now, it would continue to be a thorn in my side, perhaps forever. "Actually, I'm gonna have to tell you no, friend.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," I said, watching all of his enthusiasm melt in an instant. "I beg your pardon? It was a three-hour drive! I'm just asking for a little courtesy here, having already made the trip," he said, barely keeping his composure. It was like I had slapped him. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience." "Inconvenience? I've been coming here to hunt for years! Years!"

His voice echoed in the early morning. I found myself holding the doorknob tighter. "Yes, I understand that. No, I don't think you do. This is all I got outside of work. I'm not asking the world here. You won't even know I'm there. I can just go back to the stand, sit for a couple hours, then I'll be on my way." I felt kind of shitty, looking into his pleading eyes, knowing I was going to tell him no.

But the way I looked at it, if I gave in now, he would be back. Who knew how many for old times' sake that would be. "The thing is, I can't let you use the deer stand," I said, trying to keep straight. "You're kidding," he said through clenched teeth, his hands curling into fists. Behind the quickly fading mask of kindness, I could see a kindling rage. "Yeah.

I already put the coffee on. I'm going out in just a moment, actually. Was about to get dressed. I lied, hooking a thumb to the kitchen. Clint's eyes glazed over as he glanced toward the kitchen, before turning back to me with a blank face. He held the look for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"Bullshit!" he said, staring me down. I decided I had run out of fake kindness as well. "Look, old man. You can either get off my fucking property or I can call the police, and they can escort you three hours back home." "Roger would be rolling over in his grave," he started, then stopped as I pulled out my phone. "Choice is yours," I said, punching in the three numbers. Clint backed down immediately, throwing his hands up like I was overreacting.

He did the same slow walk back to his truck. A disgusted scowl, letting me know I had wronged him unfairly. By the time he reached for the door of his vehicle, I closed the front door and locked it, only to creep into the next room and peep out the window discreetly. The phone never left my hand. The angry old man started his truck and sat there for a moment, defeated and dead eyes bored into my house with a blank expression.

When he started to scream, I couldn't help but feel goosebumps. Clint beat the steering wheel with hatred and shouted as loud as he could, and I watched in silence as his eyes popped to the point of bursting. He tore out of the driveway then, tires eating up the gravel and spinning out until he made it to the main road, all the while shouting his unheard insults. I felt uneasy even after he was gone. Even when walking to the kitchen, I could still feel his lingering rage.

and as I poured a cup of coffee, I couldn't help but feel a chill. The strangest thing of all, even though he arrived alone, it looked like he was yelling at the back seat. The deer stand looked to be barely standing. Erected at the wood's edge, the thing was a nightmare of old lumber, rusted nails, and frayed plywood. It looked like it might have been nice at some point, but the years against the elements and lack of repair were starting to show.

The longer I looked at it, the less I wanted to actually get in. When I saw the deer stand from the house, it didn't look too bad, aside from how it creepily lurked just outside the tree line. The only opening was the side entrance and a rectangular viewport in the front, like a little box under a slanted roof to help with the rain runoff. I had never been much of a hunter, but the stand gave me a cozy treehouse vibe I hadn't felt since I was a kid.

Against my better judgment, I readjusted the sling for my shotgun and started climbing the rungs. The old wood groaned against my weight. Once inside, I could hear the wind whistle through the cracks, giving me a chill as I looked around the inside. The walls were covered in markings, some in marker, others carved in.

A single black folding chair sat in front of the viewport, and as I ducked in, I helped myself to a seat. The deer stand groaned in response. When I swiveled around to get comfortable, my boots scattered little things at my feet. The floor was littered with spent ammunition, spent shotgun shells, rifle casings of all sizes, even torn strands of arrow fletching. Over a hundred rounds had been fired and never picked up.

I'd have to make a note to clean that up later if I didn't decide to tear the damn thing down. The scrawling along the wall was interesting as well. I got the impression they were celebratory carvings and such to commemorate kills, even going as far as giving a nickname above the date. The dates themselves were all over the place, with no rhyme or reason. Tracy, October 12th, 2003. Silver, January 5th, 1998.

Toothless, November 29th, 2005. The dates went on and on. Other nicknames like Big Bertha and Fucking Bitch could be seen on the wall. There were two different sets of handwriting. Permanent marker was used along with paint sticks and knife etching. Whoever had been making notes had been doing it since before I was born. I looked away from the writings and unslung the shotgun, propping it up on the viewport.

It was a Remington 870 Super Mag, a gift I'd received from my father well over a decade ago. My career as an outdoorsman could be chalked up to a hunter's education course I took when I was a kid. I still had the sense to run a questionable boar snake through it and load it with a handful of slugs, but propping it up now felt silly.

Dust still clung in the places where my half-assed wipe down had missed, and I didn't even know if the scope was sighted in. In my defense, I had never planned on actually hunting. I was more of making a show of it. It's not like I expected Clint to come back. It kind of felt like I was marking my territory, and it seemed like a better idea than sitting inside and doom scrolling on my phone. A cold wind blew across the fields.

The mangled remains of last year's bean crops shifted around me. Farmers had worked both sides of the property I now owned, another thing I had already planned to stop as the new owner. Shrugging against the chill, I leaned into the scope and started surveying my property. I looked at my house. It was so clear through the scope I could look through my own windows. The thought was creepy, knowing if I had let Clint back here, he could have watched me all morning.

with a gun accurate enough to hit me from here, no less. Unfortunately, most of the actual yard I had was clearly in front. Grass, deer stand, then the trees, with the rising and fall of farmed fields on either side. Getting bored quickly, I started to roam, panning the scope horizontally until the scenery turned to a long blend of ruined beanstalks. Just as I wondered if I should actually look for a deer, something caught my eye.

At first, I thought I had imagined it since I had never seen anything but the fields when I first toured the property. About a half a mile away just over the hill, I could see the little roof of a shack sticking out amongst a cluster of dead trees. I stared at it for a while, wondering what someone would use such a thing for, and what I could potentially use it for, since it was on my property.

There wasn't another house for over a mile, and the placement of it felt… strange. Being as early as it was, I decided I would go check it out. Shouldering the gun once more, I climbed out of the rickety deer stand and started in the direction of it, from the ground. I couldn't even see it, and I had never spotted it from the road in all my trips during the move. It was like it was built to be tucked out of sight.

I cursed the cold assaulting my face, but thanked it for the ground under my boots. If it had been just a little warmer, the mud would have made the trek exhausting. I took a moment to admire the scenery as I walked, kicking at the broken beanstalks while the trees loomed in the distance. I liked it out here, and soon I started to have pleasant thoughts of a summer breeze, and how green the forest would look when the leaves returned. That was, until I saw the truck.

Clint's red pickup was parked in front of the little structure, and he was nowhere to be found. What the fuck? I felt for my phone immediately, pulling a glove off before unlocking the screen. Service was practically non-existent, and I found myself looking back in the direction of the house. It looked much smaller than I anticipated. I had walked longer than I thought. I decided I would just confront him here.

Maybe he had some belongings here and our conversation had gotten heated before he could come clean about it. I tried to keep the sinister thoughts away and give him the benefit of the doubt. Either way, if I could confront him here and get him to leave, this would hopefully be the last I saw him. Approaching the truck, I felt aware of the gun's dead weight. Part of me wanted to be holding it. "Clint?" I called, my voice feeling weak in the expanse of the field.

Only the wind answered. I started towards the door and stopped, my eyes drifting down to the fluttering glass below the shack's door. There was a trickle of blood in the grass, a bright red pattering that stood out in the sunlight. The trail continued up the door itself, and when the other details started to pour in, I felt my stomach twist into knots. The door to the shack was covered in faded scratch marks. It swayed in the wind, leaving nothing but a dark room within.

Laying in the grass was a rusted padlock, along with the latch that had broken away from the wood. Someone had bashed it until it broke open. I looked toward my house, so far in the distance. I could run back, but it would be around ten minutes before I could get the police on the phone. As I mulled it over in my head, a noise echoed from within the shack and carried over the hills. It was a scream. A woman's, from the sound of it.

Staring into the dark at the shack, I unslung the shotgun and rapped at the pump. Readying a slug in the chamber, clicking off the safety with my thumb, I felt sick to my stomach. Whoever it was, they sounded terrified. Using the shotgun's long barrel, I held the door open.

Daylight poured inside, cutting through a haze of dust. The cramped walls of the shack were lined with shelves of junk. There were jars of nails, old coffee cans, and tools so corroded they were fused to the wood. The smell came next. A rot so heavy it flooded my lungs and I gagged. Looking through the dust, I could see the source. Just as another scream assaulted my ears, there was an open hatch in the corner, with a rug tossed to the side.

The scream died out, and I was left staring at it, the wind whistling as the gun shook in my hands. I checked my phone again, this time out of desperation. No service. Looking down, I could see nothing but the start of a rusted ladder leading to darkness. I would have to go in. Choking back another gag, I gingerly knelt and started down the ladder, holding the gun muzzle up as I made the descent.

My legs shook as my feet reluctantly found purchase, each step engulfing me in the world below the hatch. When the soles of my shoes finally touched earth, I felt the crude crunch of gravel on stone. The corridor underground only ran one way. The only light in the tunnel was a candle every 20 feet. It was a nearly blind descent. With a final look at the light above, I swallowed hard and started creeping down.

the shotgun pointing ahead. I considered using my phone for light, but considering how my hands were shaking, I didn't think I could mentally handle juggling both it and the firearm. I took slow, steady steps. I could hear a whimpering ahead, followed by the jingle of what sounded like chains. I kept pushing through the dark, clutching the gun so tight my fingers hurt. After what felt like an eternity pushing forward, the tunnel opened up to a dimly lit expanse.

More candles appeared in the space and were just enough to see the horror I had been dreading the whole time. A woman was lying on the floor, her wrists collected before her in a wrap of chains. The chains were attached to an iron loop bolted onto the floor, secured together by a padlock. Her clothes were heavily stained, and I could barely make out the outline of a hooded sweatshirt and leggings.

I approached slowly, haunted by the fact that Clint was nowhere to be seen. The woman looked at me weakly, and when she tried to scurry away, I held a finger to my lips. She stopped, but continued to look at me wildly with one eye. The other one had been horribly bruised and was swollen shut. "Are you alright?" I asked, foolishly. She shook her head. "Where is he?" She shrugged and mumbled something that sounded like "generator."

I tried the chains, like I could magically free her without a key. I was sweating. My hands continued to shake as I scrambled around with no plan. I looked at the shotgun and asked a question I didn't want to know the answer to. "Does he have a gun?" I whispered, and she shook her head again. Her head lolled to the side, like she was trying not to fall asleep. The words she mouthed made me want to vomit. "Burst."

It was then I noticed her hands, the source of the heavy stains. There was a hole in each of her palms, nearly the size of quarters. In the distance, I heard the cough and squeal of a generator, followed by a blinding light. Strings of bulbs illuminated the tunnel. They illuminated more unspeakable horror. A corridor of stone stained almost entirely red. Cages with withered contents, tools hanging from nails, and discarded clothing.

The sudden light kicked up a flurry of flies, and the buzzing made my skin crawl. None of that mattered now. My mind raced for a solution. I didn't have the key for the lock, and I didn't want to leave her alone to go find it. After a moment of panicking, I stood and told the woman to cover her ears. She shook her head at first, but when she saw me raise the gun, she pressed her fingers over them and clamped her eyes shut. The ringing was instantaneous. A deafening snap so loud I didn't even feel the gun kick.

The padlock exploded along with the chunk of the ground, and the chains started to unravel with the slack. I helped the woman out of the chains, all the while repeating the same two phrases through my shattered hearing. I was holding my phone out to her. At some point, it slipped into her open hands. "Run! Get out of here!" The woman must have gotten the message. As she started immediately for the ladder, I watched with a hint of relief, her silent silhouette getting further away as I got my bearings.

As happy as I was that the slug had freed her, the feeling faded as quickly as it came. If I hadn't pulled the trigger, I would have heard him coming. I would have heard the drill. The pain was unimaginable, and the sensation of my flesh swirling inside and away from me all at once was tenfold what I felt in my ears.

I could feel the rumble in my throat, but I couldn't hear my scream. And for a moment, I swung the gun wildly to save myself. I felt the barrel knock something hard, and the drill bit angled through the fat in my side before pulling away. I felt for the damage, and I felt the hot gush on my fingers. I felt the agonizing spout that had been bored into my love handle. I spun around to find him, my hands working desperately to cycle the gun. In the ringing hell still from the last shot, I searched to find him.

Clint was leaning against the wall, one hand clutching his temple, but it wasn't his face. His face was not a wolf's, but wolves' several blood-stained pelts, snouts, and empty eyeholes brought to a point in the center. A homemade nightmare of a mask. At some point, he had shed his clothes, and his only other belonging appeared to be a large cordless drill at his side, still spinning with my blood.

a drill that was pointing at me as he charged again. I pulled the trigger. The shotgun bucked at my hip, and the ringing intensified immediately. Clint's hand and the drill exploded together, a burst of red sparks and fingers that brought him to his knees. He held the twisted stump in front of him like an offering, holding it up before peeling the mask from his head.

His face was pained and he was shouting. It seemed like he was begging, trying to reason, trying to appeal in some way. But I couldn't keep my eyes on his frail body and teary eyes. All I could see was the horror and gore around him, the disturbing evidence of a foul, foul hobby.

My hands worked on their own, feeding the final slug into the dusty shotgun. Clint waved wildly, shouting something I didn't need to hear. As I leveled the barrel with his head, I thought of the woman and hoped she made it up the ladder. I pulled the trigger and the waving stopped. My head was splitting in two. I couldn't remember climbing up the ladder, but I remember not having to help her up.

I remember the feeling of blood cold on the wind, trickling down a soaked pant leg. I remember seeing the flashing lights and being unable to hear them. It wasn't until I woke up in the hospital that I could recall what actually happened. There were over a dozen badges from several counties waiting for me to wake up, waiting for my statement. It wasn't until they repeatedly confirmed my identity that they told me what had happened.

They told me the woman, who I found was Brittany Carlson, had made it to the road by the time the police arrived. She was barely standing by the time they showed up and kept urging the police to save the hunter. The good one, not the bad one. I guess she had been abducted three towns over when Clint was on his way to visit his dear friend Roger. Judging by what forensics had found in the tunnel, this had been an annual ritual for the two of them for a long, long time.

The tunnel was nearly 30 acres long, comprising various passages and rooms, "fun rooms" according to some of the texts and written messages left behind over the years between the two friends. It's rumored Roger had started excavating it as early as the 70s, given his capabilities in landscaping and standing in the community.

Despite the number of missing persons cases in the neighboring states, Roger was never considered a suspect and was often seen as the loving, caring, grandfatherly type, despite never having children of his own. Clinton Maybrook was found to be a resident of Wellington, Florida, a 16-hour drive away. He had made the same drive annually in his red pickup across several routes that were flagged in possible abduction cases over the last 20 years.

He was a janitor at a local high school in the area and was often referred to as "cagey" and "high-strung" from his coworkers and had been reprimanded twice for misconduct both with students and staff. I had to go over the story with the police several times. Most of it was happenstance, really. Right place at the wrong time sort of thing.

I could tell I was considered to be a potential accomplice for a while. But with the amount of damning evidence found against Roger and Clint, the physical evidence of my presence, and the surviving victim's testimony, I've been cleared for some time. It took them months to go over the tunnel completely. At some point, I got used to seeing the lights and crews out there at night, but I never bothered to go back. I don't plan on ever stepping foot over there either.

and as soon as I'm allowed, I'm going to have the whole thing demolished. As far as the deer stand, a sledgehammer and a bonfire made quick work of it. Last I heard, there were 78 confirmed bodies found in the tunnel, ranging from ages 15 to 45. It's being rumored that all abductions were from out of state and brought to Rogers' property, where they would poach them from the deer stand like animals.

I kept up with it on the news for a while, but once they started discussing the field dressing tools they started finding, I eventually stopped in an attempt to maintain some sanity. Although I'm mostly healed, I still hear the ringing sometimes. The shotgun was eventually released to me once I was cleared of any charges, and I now keep it clean, oiled, and loaded by the door at all times.

I haven't had any shady visitors since, but I feel there might come a day when I'll need it again. The ringing is mostly gone, but there's some damage that I think will be permanent. A light tinnitus, they say, but it doesn't help me sleep at night. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and mistake it for a drill.