Originally Published April 24, 2025 in Dug Up Magazine
Isaiah preferred planes, hated being stuck in a car crawling over the earth like a bug, but air travel was not an option. The town of Pine Ridge was secluded, appearing on the map as a speck in an ocean of green amidst the mountains north of the state. His boss Jerry, going on about cost cutting and thin margins, insisted he rent a car and make the drive.
Now, five hours on, Isaiah was getting cranky. His thoughts kept returning to Eva, and their newborn daughter, Ella. This was the first time he’d left them home alone overnight.
The last hour had been torture, his back was starting to cramp up and his left leg had gone numb. The rental sedan felt stuffy even with the crisp fall air leaking in through the cracked window.Isaiah was sure he could have handled this acquisition over the phone, but Jerry had been set on an in person visit.
“This town is old school,” he’de said, “the Sherman deal could set us up for half a decade. Old growth from some of the oldest stands in the Sierras, most sought after trees on the West Coast. Be sure to give old man Sherman a handshake and you tell him how much money he’ll be makin’!” Jerry was still snickering as Isaiah walked out of the office.
Isaiah dreaded the whole thing, hated being forced to fake small town charm, but whispers of a promotion to head of acquisitions and the idea of money in his daughters college fund were incentive enough.
Pine Ridge was home to less than a thousand people and quite far off the highway, which made it prohibitive to any major hotels. Tourists were scarce despite the beautiful valleys and abundant forests. As a result Isaiah booked a room at the only motel in town, the “White Fir Lodge”. It didn't scream luxury but he’d only be there one night.
After a bend in the road, a sign flew by, Pine Ridge - 5 Miles.
The last bit of orange sun was obscured by a rise of pinetops in his rearview. Isaiah was on and off his brakes, doing his best to navigate erratic switchbacks as he descended into the cool valley.
The road leveled out and disappeared into thickening forest, on either side towering pines rose, nearly blotting out the sky, leaving only a thin filament of violet, hedged by walls of trees.
Isaiah eased the car forward, massive boughs spanning over the road like bridges. His headlights were swallowed on either side by the dense black forest. Finally there was a break in the relentless trees. A grove opened to his right, in the center was a giant stump, larger than any Isaiah had seen, larger than he imagined a tree could grow. There was no sign of the fallen corpse. Atop this stump lay a smaller but still massive trunk as large as a mature Sequoia. On it were carved large and detailed images of bears, spiders and what appeared to be a woman wearing an odd dress which blended seamlessly into the tree's bark, below it was carved, “Welcome to Pine Ridge”.
This grand assemblage was lit from below by the anachronistic orange glow of sulfur bulbs, leaving the woods behind in deep shadows.
Isaiah pulled past the sign and glimpsed another duo of lights up the street. The forest retreated and a dozen or so buildings of various size and age lined the road, cast in deep shadows by the two tall orange lamps.
Isaiah, shifted in his seat and cracked his neck.
He pressed on the brakes and reached for his phone - no service.
Not surprised, he tossed the phone back in the passenger seat, eased off the break and idled down the main, and perhaps only street. A few buildings showed signs of life; lights on in windows, shadows milling behind drawn curtains.
Isaiah checked his watch, 10pm, well past a small town's bedtime.
He examined each storefront attempting to find the “White Pine”, but the sign he saw was green and white neon of the “Pine Ridge Mercantile” glowing from behind a dusty window.
The road stretched a few hundred yards before disappearing into the waiting black maw of forest. Isaiah turned the car around and exhaled slowly in frustration.
The air had cooled and he’d rolled up his windows, but now his car felt stagnant, confining. He rolled them down, expecting a chorus of buzzing and chirps, the woods were silent but for the sweeping of branches in a calm breeze.
Isaiah retrieved his phone from the bucket seat, hoping to check his email for the address of the Motel. He unlocked the screen and cracked his back while searching, but the GPS maps wouldn't load. He tossed his phone in frustration, cursing under his breath.
When he looked up, a woman was standing right in front of his car. He let out an “Ahp!” and jumped back in his seat, nearly pissing himself.
The woman stood rigid, her upper body awash in the spotlight of his high beams, the rest of her obscured by the car's hood. Her hair was a tangled mess of gray and black bursting from her small head. Her features were tight and pale, eyes more slate than blue. An ancient brown cardigan hung off her skeletal frame.
His breath was still caught in his throat when she called, “Isaiah? Isaiah Turner?!” Her high pitched voice cracked under the strain.
Isaiah hesitated a moment then answered “that's me,” pairing his apprehensive tone with an awkward wave. Realizing his headlights were probably blinding the woman, he flipped them off. She became a silhouette, backlit by the two streetlights.
For a moment Isaiah thought he saw something beneath the woman - a large writhing mass, but just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.
The woman floated to the window of Isaiah's car with a surprising grace before clasping her hand like a pearlescent talon on the open windowsill.
“So sorry to startle you,” the woman said through a smile.
The skin on her face was as white as her hands, stretched tight as her grin. Something was off, and he soon realized each of her irises were populated with black dots, could be mistaken for secondary, wandering pupils.
“I’m Eleanor,” the woman continued, “owner and operator of the White Pine Lodge. Sorry about the sign, I meant to turn it on but got lost in my weaving. I heard your car and came out to meet you.”
Caught off guard by her sudden appearance, Isaiah was disarmed by Eleanor’s hospitality and his concerned expression relaxed into a smile.
“That’s very thoughtful. It’s been a long drive and I'd love to get settled in,” he said, itching to get out of the car and into his room, call Eva and let her know he’d made it.
Eleanor crouched and leaned in, almost through the window.
Her left arm stretched ahead, a protracted index finger pointing toward a dark building on the right, “The lodge is up there. Park out front for the night, door’s open, I'll meet you inside!”
Isaiah leaned forward, trying to discern the motel from the other facades in the shadowy streetlight. By the time he asked to confirm, Eleanor had disappeared into the shadows behind one of the buildings to his left.
He pulled ahead, scanning the buildings when he saw a large sign painted brown and yellow. It read “White Pine Lodge” in the wavy, chiseled letters of the Park Service.
He pulled onto a gravely strip that approximated parking, swung open the door and emerged from the suffocating cocoon, stretching his arms and legs before grabbing his bags. The air was cool but dense. A low fog now hung where the road disappeared at the edge of town.
The White Pine was a large two story log cabin, the logs that made up the walls looked to be the real thing - massive and ancient, adding a historic weight to the place. A small plaque claimed the building was constructed before the turn of the last century.
He took a few steps onto a porch stretching the length of the building, complete with a rocking chair and small bench. The lights in the lobby were off. Isaiah tried one of the doors, found it unlocked and stumbled awkwardly through the door.
The door shut behind him with a snap! Casting the room in a darkness only punctuated by the orange light leaking through the shades. He fumbled for a lightswitch but found nothing. The room smelled musty, Isaiah could feel the particles connecting with the beads of anxious sweat forming on his brow. His shirt collar tightened at his neck and his pants crept down his waist. He just wanted to get out of his damn clothes and relax!
He dropped his luggage, relieving his aching shoulders, then started shuffling about the room attempting to find a lightswitch. At one point he stepped through a cobweb, started shouting and foolishly backed into what felt like a bookcase. He pulled out his phone to use the light, but it died just after he touched the screen…he’d forgotten to charge it in the car.
“Damnit!” Isaiah shouted, unconcerned with who he woke up, wondering if anyone else was even staying at the motel.
Unexpectedly, the lights flared to life. Isaiah threw up his hands, squinting in the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjusted he found himself standing in the entrance of a coat room. The garments hanging in the alcove spanning a range of decades, smelling of stagnant fabric, covered in cobwebs and dust corresponding to their age.
He turned to find Eleanor occupying another alcove across the room, just behind the counter, the hallway behind her pitch black. The lobby itself was part museum - dark wood walls were covered in shelves holding black and white photos, rusting logging implements and faded brass fixtures - not to mention the cobwebs. Isaiah figured they added to the hotel's “rustic charm.”
“Mr. Turner, what on earth are you doing in the coatroom?” Eleanor called, scurrying behind the desk, “Wander much farther and you'll get lost in a web of hallways!”
Isaiah bumped into the doorframe trying to make his way across the lobby. The dimensions of the building were confining, and combined with the clutter of the room he felt suddenly claustrophobic.
Behind the desk, Eleanor's fingers played across the keyboard of an ancient computer. Isaiah passed her his I.D. and credit card. In the light her cardigan shined a rainbow of natural colors, more of a thick silk than wool. She squinted behind her glasses and the light reflected threefold, bouncing between the lenses and the monitor - the glare lending Eleanor a few extra pairs of eyes.
The mouse clicked incessantly as Isaiah looked down at his phone checking the time, only to be reminded it was dead. He rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders - neither relieved his frustration. He did notice a clock ticking on the wall, the numbers worn, reading a quarter to eleven. Ella was already in bed, Eva maybe even falling asleep herself…
Isaiah exhaled in obvious exasperation.
Eleanor looked up, if only for a moment. Those reflections stacking onto each other many eyes all looking at Isaiah, the moment uncomfortably long.
Then her eyes shot back to the screen and she continued slapping at the keys.
The typing suddenly ceased and Eleanor looked up, reached out, and handed Isaiah a single key attached to a red plastic keyring. The name of the motel was engraved in white and a large number “5” sat above the stencil of a fir.
“You’re in five, top of the steps and to the right,” Eleanor said with peculiar venom.
Isaiah glared at the narrow stairs then at his luggage, “Do you happen to have anything on the first floor?” he asked, trying to mask his frustration with an artificial grin.
“No vacancies on the first floor tonight, but five is lovely,” she said, not bothering to look up from the computer.
Isaiah considered the empty parking spots out front and decided not to challenge Eleanor. Instead he took a deep breath, picked up his luggage and stumbled over to the steps. His back was in knots, his shoulders starting to cramp.
The staircase to the left of the lobby was lined with worn red carpet and green wallpaper. Barely wider than his shoulders, Isaiah had to turn his body to the side, hold his bags awkwardly and shimmy up the steps. There was barely room to pivot on a small landing before ascending another small flight which turned right once more before opening on a hallway lined with the same deep red carpet, while the walls were left a stained, natural pine. Four doors were recessed into the walls with a fifth at the end of the hall, dim sconces hung just above each door, shadows occupying the space between.
Isaiah walked slowly, luggage bouncing between his thighs and the walls.
“5” was stenciled in yellow on the first door to his right, painted dark brown. The key felt ancient, its grooves struggled in the tumbler before the bolt came free. The door swung open on theatrically squeaky hinges. The lights in the room were off. Isaiah stepped over the threshold and another cobweb clung to his face and shoulder.
“Shit!” he shouted, jumping back and spitting, clawing at his face.
He reached for a lightswitch and felt only smooth, paneled walls. He shuffled to his right and his hand eventually flipped a switch, a fixture above the bed came on, bathing the room in weak, scattered light.
Isaiah found himself in one of the smallest hotel rooms he could imagine.
The door opened onto a wall to his left, the bed directly ahead, a narrow walkway around it led to a narrow, dimly lit corridor on the opposite side. The entire room was wallpapered that same billiard green, a strange contrast to the faded red carpet. The bed took up most of the room, at its foot was a small dresser with the tiniest flatscreen he’d ever seen on top. Cobwebs stretched from the fixture above his bed to the corners of the room.
Isaiah set his luggage down and shut the door. Despite the cool air outside, the room was hot and humid. He flicked another switch and the recess lit up, revealing a small toilet and sink, with another tiny partition off to the left containing a shower.
He couldn't believe he’d paid two hundred dollars for this.
The White Pine charged twice the bargain rates, and he could barely walk around without bumping into a wall - at least a Motel 6 had full size TV’s and luggage racks. Isaiah wasn't large but found himself playing contortionist accessing the pastel green sink and soft pink toilet. The stand up shower was cheaply tiled and smelled of mildew.
He plugged in his phone before taking off his shoes and lying down. He surfed the few available channels, trying to get comfortable on the springy bed and landing on a rerun of a classic sitcom.
After a few minutes he checked his phone, it powered on and read past eleven, but he had no signal. He would have to step out to call Eva, so he let the phone charge and opened wifi, selected “whitepinelodge_guest”, then entered the password from the small printout Eleanor had handed him.
”Wifi Not Available”- flashed on the screen. He smacked a palm against his forehead and closed his eyes then picked up a pillow in which to scream.
Isaiah slipped on his shoes, walked out of his room half dressed, marched down the poorly lit hallway and down the steps to the lobby. The lights were still on but Eleanor was nowhere to be seen, the lobby still and silent.
“Unbelievable,” Isaiah muttered, ringing the bell on the desk.
“Hello!?” He called, his voice muffled by the stuffy room.
He waited a few seconds before walking to the front door in hopes of acquiring a signal outside. He fumbled with the latch, cursing before the lock came free and the door swung open. He stepped out onto the patio and into the thick, cool air.
The only illumination came from the two streetlights. A sliver of stars arced high above, the rest of the sky obscured by the tall old growth surrounding the town.
His phone mustered another bar and he immediately dialed Eva. The phone rang for what seemed like too long. He pulled it away from his ear, checking if he still had service.
“Hel - o, -aiah” Eva’s voice crackled distant through the receiver.
Isaiah jerked the phone back to his ear, “Eva, are you there?”
Silence hung at the other end of the line.
He hung up, dialed again. The phone beeped - busy. He managed to suppress a scream.
Isaiah wanted to smash his phone, charge into the hotel and demand a refund, leave White Pine and tell Jerry to shove the Sherman deal up his ass. But that meant no promotion, no college fund for Ella.
Instead he took a deep breath, then walked back up the steps and into the motel. He shut the door behind him, fumbling again with the lock and wondered why everything had to be so irritating. Eventually the lock fell into place and he turned to walk toward his room.
Isaiah caught something in the corner of his eye.
He turned to his left and started, yelping in surprise.
Eleanor was standing in the alcove behind the desk, half shrouded in shadow. So still she could have been there when he came down the steps.
Isaiah exhaled, his anger suddenly stifled by fear and relief.
“Eleanor, you scared the shit out of me,” he said, approaching the counter.
She didn't move, her expression unchanged.
“Eleanor?” Isaiah asked, leaning forward cautiously.
“Mr. Turner. How can I be of assistance?” Her face shot through with a rigid smile as she skittered with strange speed from the alcove to behind her computer.
Caught off-guard, Isaiah answered, “The internet…my phone. I can't get a signal and I need to call my wife. Could I please use yours’?”
“Oh my,” Eleanor shook her head, “I'm sorry but we don't have a phone…it costs too much to keep up the lines, everyone has cell phones now. With that and the internet…” She shrugged and trailed off, gesturing at Isaiah's phone.
“Yeah, but I'm not getting any signal? And your internet doesn't-”, he could feel himself starting to yell and stopped mid sentence. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, there was nothing Eleanor could do for him.
“Thanks for the help Eleanor,” Isaiah said sarcastically, turning upstairs.
“Have a good evening Mr. Turner,” Eleanor called cheerfully as he shambled up the steps. When Ella was born Isaiah had stopped drinking, but all he wanted right now was a cold beer, something to set him at ease - he doubted there was a bar open within fifty miles.
The room had grown warmer, stuffier. He nearly knocked his head against the angled ceiling as he shuffled into the bathroom to try and open a window, only managing to crack it, the panes rusted shut.
He decided to relax with a hot shower - reaching to turn the knob, his hand caught on another strand of sticky webs. He jerked it away, smacking it on the tile wall in surprise.
“God Damnit!” he screamed long and hard, shaking the cobwebs off his hand, then turned on the shower light and cleared the rest, wondering the last time the room had been occupied.
He rinsed off under the weak stream and tried to rationalize how the hell “The Pine” stayed in business. The motel's biggest strength was its being the only game in town, maybe in the whole county.
A laugh track played over another episode of the sitcom as Isaiah prepared for bed, laying his clothes out then packing up anything he wouldn't need the next morning. He flicked off the light and layed down, set the alarm on his phone successfully and thanked god something worked. He drifted in and out of sleep, trying to pay attention to the TV before turning it off altogether. Orange street light shined through the bathroom window, filtered by the aperture of the window into a burning rectangle on the wall to his right.
For what felt like an hour he tossed and turned. He thought he was hearing things shuffling and tapping in the hallway. The sheets were tight and scratchy, the room was too hot. Eventually he fell asleep.
#
Isaiah is hanging prostate above the town, strung between the trees, each of his limbs bound by elastic white fiber, bobbing up and down with each hard breath. His body is parallel to the street and the town of White Pine is a diorama cast in sepia below. Boughs of giant firs frame his view, reaching into the town like probing, hairy legs.
He can't scream.
Slowly, in the buildings that line the street, lights begin to flick on.
Dark shadows emerge from the homes, slowly aggregating in the street under Isaiah. He struggles against the strong fiber, it grows tighter. His hands begin to go numb, muscles burn. He tries again to scream.
The shadows below crane their heads, looking up at him.
Then a vibration. First from the fiber attached to his right arm, then his right leg.
Those silhouettes below are now thirty or forty strong, jostling about like a hive until they form an unmistakable shape, two triangles touching at the tip - an hourglass.
His right arm is now buzzing, the fiber bouncing with consistent, staccato tension. His leg feels like it's about to be torn from its socket with every pull.
The vibrations start to shake his entire body.
From the hourglass of shadows below come masticating whispers that swell into a chorus of howls, joyful whooping - cheers.
Isaiah’s breathing speeds up and becomes shallow, his heart pounds in his chest.
Then a sting.
Pain surges at the base of his spine, fire spreads to the tips of his limbs.
The sounds of the crowd swells to a wet roar as agony overcomes his senses - his vision fades to black, sound dissolves to silence.
#
Isaiah awoke drenched in sweat.
He felt he’d woken to a world in which he’d had too many drinks at a bar down the street, head pounding and sweaty. A dream lingered just at the edges of his thoughts.
Isaiah opened his eyes - something was different.
There had been a change in his room. The theme of the dream faded as he became more aware. He realized the orange glow from the window no longer lit the wall. A timer, he thought in his waking haze, the streetlights were probably on a timer.
He wanted to look for his phone, but he could barely move his arms, they felt tight. He realized that his back was cramped, his legs asleep. He willed his arms to fumble on the bed and finally found his phone, clicking at the screen - it remained black.
Dead again? He thought he'd put it on the charger…
“Shit,” Isaiah whispered, grinding his teeth. What the hell was going on?
He moved to sit up but felt buried in sand, his whole body growing impossibly heavy. The dream crept back into the corners of his mind, along with a trickle of dread.
There was a change in what little light was left in the room and his attention was drawn to the wall opposite the bathroom hall. There were two small splashes of sulfur light - the streetlights were still on but something big was blocking the light.
Isaiah heard shallow breathing.
He listened for a minute, maybe two. The breathing continued quietly, in an uncanny rhythm that reminded him of chaotic water droplets descending a window, ants fleeing from a poisoned nest.
“Hello?” he called, opening his jaw was difficult, his throat was tight and his voice came out scratchy and weak.
The light on the wall shifted ever so slightly.
Now he was sure there was someone there, hidding in the shadows.
“Hello?” he called again. This time his voice croaked, little more than a whisper. His jaw was slow to shut. His neck stiffened, half cocked to the left and still looking in the direction of the bathroom hall.
What the hell was happening?
“Isaiah,” the voice that addressed him was thin and wet, but familiar. He would have recoiled in fear but his muscles were no longer his own, conquered by a rigid spasticity.
The silhouette leaned forward and the light reflected off the sharp ridges of her face. Her white hair was transparent, forehead dotted with orbs of black.
And her thin and hoarse voice called through the clacking of wet keys, “I'm glad to have you, Mr. Turner.”
Isaiah lay frozen, finding himself unable to scream.
Eleanors head slowly floated into the room, the bulk of her body and legs writhing behind, casting shadows thick as pillars on the opposite wall. The lights from outside threatened to reveal her whole, hideous form. Isaiah wanted to close his eyes more than anything in the world, but couldn't.
Eleanors head plunged to the floor, disappearing with the rest of her bulk from the hall as the orange light came streaming in. His blood pounded as he anticipated what would come next as sounds of shuffling and bumping came from the foot of the bed, but his neck was frozen, he was unable to look up.
He waited for razor sharp teeth to gnash at his ankles, for his legs to be torn off, one by one. Instead a sound like a slick rope slowly unspooled, refocusing his attention.
Then came contact.
It was constrictive but gentle, an unholy massage creeping up his legs, binding them to each other with the tight, elastic fiber from his dream. The pressure came from what felt like massive, hairy stumps creeping up his thighs, over his waist. Another set of stumps lifted his now frozen body, he began to float above the bed as the fiber wound tighter.
His wrists were pulled tight to his hips, arms pressed against his sides. The chorus of wet keys crept closer but remained just out of sight. White wisps of hair breached into view, rising above his stomach.
Then he saw Eleanor’s true and horrible smile.
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