In a Cottage in a Wood

The two were lost at dusk as snow fell. Marching uphill in the ankle-deep drifts, they let the cadence of their conversation match the rhythm of their steps.

“You know what happens when people find a house in the woods, right?” he asked.

“Alf,” she answered, “You know what happens when hikers lose their way in a blizzard, right?” She often began with his name when talking to him as if she knew more than he did. “They freeze. They die. People find them half rotten in the spring thaw.”

He caught her mood. “Bears nibble their icy little fingers,” he laughed, grabbing her hand.

“Like popsicles,” she answered. The more ghoulishly they talked, the braver they felt. Finally, they stamped their feet on the porch. One of the floor boards cracked.

“Will the door creak?” she asked as she grasped the knob. “Don’t they usually creak in the movies?”

“It will creak,” he predicted, and it did.

“Look at all the stuff!” she said when they were inside. “Alf, it’s one of those houses where people left all of a sudden and abandoned their stuff.”

“Unless they’re still here,” he added. “We’d better look.”

“Shall I come with you?” she asked.

“Depends on whether you want to find the corpses with me or be alone when the creep sneaks up behind you and kisses,” he bent down, “your neck.” She swatted him, and they went exploring. There were only two rooms, filled with furniture and household debris. Still curious, they began searching drawers and shelves.

“Alf, we should eat a little bit while there’s still light to see by.” He knew she was right, so they each ate an energy bar and an apple.

He fiddled with the drawers of a dresser painted what might have been turquoise blue in brighter light. One was full of loose photographs, mostly black and white. Together they examined them. As night fell, they pulled the drawer out and carried it to a window where they could make use of the moonlight. At first, they ridiculed the plain folks in the photos.

“American Gothic,” he snorted, about a man in overalls.

“The land of the free and the home of the brave,” she quipped at some photos of soldiers.

They discovered a packet of pictures of children playing in the snow.

He said, “I remember my first snow. I couldn’t figure out why when you rolled a snowball, it just kept picking up more snow, and you know how after while a big snowball just pulls up all the snow and you see the grass underneath again?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I remember.”

“Wait!” he cried.

“What?”

“This is me,” he breathed. “This kid.” It indicated a bundled-up toddler. “It’s me.”

“Alf, you’re crazy.” She took the photo from him. The child might have been about two years old. “Didn’t you grow up in Baltimore? That’s what—two thousand miles east of here?”

“I had that snow suit,” he insisted. The suit looked dark and lumpy. She said they must have been made by the same company, bought in different stores.

“Muriel,” he said, “my mother knitted it. She knitted it for me. It’s one of a kind. It was green.” She looked hard and admitted she saw a resemblance. She asked whether he remembered any of the people in the group of photos. He did not. He set the photo of himself aside and they continued examining the rest.

“Anything look familiar?” she asked. He shook his head. They sifted through the others more slowly, more solemnly, without the jokes, until she caught her breath and held up a three by five elementary school portrait.

“This one’s me,” she whispered. He said nothing, but he nodded. It looked like Muriel. “Do we have to stay till morning?”

He answered, “We have no choice.” He thought things might look different in daylight, but he repeated, “We just have no choice.”

***

Ann Birch lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Her recent stories have appeared in The Ocotillo Review, Change Seven, Funicular and Half and One.