The Paradise You Call Summer

The cabin in the woods was abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burns in the window. The flame flickers and dances like a hypnotizing snake. Higher and higher, the fire rises until finally, it begins.

A parade like no other.

Squeaking from old age and rust, the cabin’s front door opens. Rotten vines and withered flowers decorate the perimeters of the door. Dust and moss cover the window frames. A twisted path of unruly plants, overgrown, unkempt bushes, and piles of moss surround the entryway. The state of the cabin, however, does not seem to bother the parade’s performers.

Down the open campsite, the parade marches, twirls, or prances in their tight, sparkly costumes with dry, crackling leaves around their waists and wilted flower collars on their necks. They wear extravagant, tall hats with blackened branches poking from the sides.

Strangely enough, there are no booming drums or lively songs to stir the campers out of sleep on this warm summer night. Merely the sighs of the wind, the buzzing of insects, and the hums of leaves dancing in the arms of a warm breeze.

The performers weave their way through the path in silence. Their leader, wearing a cape embroidered with flowers that had seen better years, carries the candle in their hands. Behind the holder of the candlestick cartwheels some of the members, while others throw their hands in the air, imitating juggling gestures. They are unseen and unheard of by everyone.

Everyone except for you, that is. The idiot trapped inside a box.

It was all supposed to be a dare. A dangerous dare. And all because you tried to impress the Stonewell twins, Jamesia and Jana. They were the most popular girls in the high school you all attended.

“If you want to come to our party next week, go inside the box and stay for thirty minutes!” Jana had said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

When nighttime had fallen, and the hooting of owls began, you slipped out of your sleeping bag alongside the girls. The three of you left the safety and warmth of the tent, then snuck to a wooden box at the edge of some trees, where the snacks were hidden to keep wild animals at bay. After emptying it of its contents, you climbed inside and folded your knees to your chest, giddy with excitement. Jana and Jamesia had never paid attention to you, but you were determined to become friends with them. To sit at their table, attend wild parties, drink, and gossip about crushes.

Chains rattled against the box, and the unmistakable click! of a lock split the air. The twins promised to return and free you once the time was up. And you knew that if you passed this challenge, your social life would improve. You would finally become popular and, most importantly, fit in.

But the sisters never returned.

You had whimpered, screamed, and scratched at the box’s surface. Scratched until your nails bled and throbbed with pain. Nonetheless, no matter how much you’d struggled, the lid refused to budge for more than a few inches—just enough to view the campsite, but not enough to slide your entire body out.

Minutes or hours could have passed; you couldn’t tell. Your legs were beginning to cramp, and prickling sensations were climbing all over your body. If someone doesn’t wake up soon, I’m going to suffocate! I’m really going to die! The thought poisoned your mind, causing your heart to hammer wildly against your ribcage. Ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump!

That was when you first heard movement among the trees, followed by the scuttling of leaves.

Randy, the youth retreat leader, had told the group about the shabby cabin in the woods, and the strange, secluded family who’d lived there hundreds of years prior. Seven girls, nine boys, and their parents. No one knew what had happened, but one morning, all of them were found dead around the kitchen table. Flies had been hovering over the untouched meal on their table, and maggots had nested inside whatever they desired. But what made the story stranger, Randy had added in a haunting whisper, was the fact that there was a large bouquet of colorful wildflowers sitting at the center of the table. The children and their parents each held a single flower from the bouquet, wearing an eternal smile.

Most kids had laughed at the story, dismissing it as ridiculous, but you had felt a chill creeping up your spine. Jamesia’s dark eyes bore into yours, which compelled you to laugh with your classmates. No way did you want her to think you were a loser and a coward.

Afterward, Randy had encouraged everyone to spend the last night of the retreat near the desolate shack, where only a line of trees and a couple of hundred steps separated it from the campsite. The purpose was to celebrate the end of the two-week retreat and to – in Randy’s words – “embrace and admire nature.”

But instead of becoming one with nature, you decided to embrace a stupid wooden box. So, when the candle at the window suddenly lit, and when the costumed figures began to emerge from the door, hope flared in your chest. Perhaps, they would be able to get you out of this suffocating prison?

“Help!” Your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse from all the shouting you’d done earlier. You pull your fist up to pound against the bloody walls again, but stop when you notice Randy crawling out of his tent.

He brings himself upwards and staggers towards the campfire that had been put out after rounds of scary stories. Then, he stops and silently stands in front of it. One by one, the rest of the campers leave their tents, dragging themselves around Randy. Their chests lift and fall, and their heads are slumped over their shoulders in what could only be described as a deep slumber.

The Stonewell sisters are the last to join the group circling the campfire. As Jana and Jamesia take their place, the candle-bearer faces the rest of the troop.

“My lovely wife and children, we are here to celebrate the beauty of summer.” His voice is like chalk against a blackboard: raw, piercing, and ear-shattering. You fight back the urge to cry out.

The family claps as the man pushes past your classmates and approaches the sticks and embers on the ground. The tip of his burning candle kisses the nearest stick. Fire sparks and spreads, devouring its remaining fuel. It roars and shoots through the air as if it had a mind of its own. The sudden light gives you a clear look at the performers’ faces.

Once, when you were a young child, your mother had sat you down on her lap and said: “Dear, you are never to judge another person by their appearance. It is mean and unkind.”

You nodded then, and off you went, back to the park with your friends. The memories of your mother and the promise you’d made to her shatter instantly upon taking in the features of a monster, his wife, and their sixteen children.

Where their eyes should have been, there are dead flowers, stems seemingly rooted deep inside. Their noses are small, carved tree branches, and their mouths – oh, those smiling, open mouths – spill out a substance you quickly recognize as dirt. Horror and disgust twist your stomach when worms fall out of their dirt-caked mouths, landing in clumps against their feet. Still, they continue to dance, prance, cheer, and sing the songs of silence.

Jana Stonewell is the first to fall into the hungry flames.

You yell out, but quickly muffle your voice with your hands, terrified that the monsters might come for you next. The lid snaps shut above your head, and you wait in absolute dread and darkness. Tears sting your eyes and slide down your cheeks. After a while, you lift the lid again, unable to stop watching the horrifying show.

The remaining camp members are falling like logs into the ravenous fire. The scent of burning bodies engulfs your nose, and a previous dinner threatens to climb out your throat.

The flower family pirouette and twirls, dancing around a fire fueled by the bodies of the girls you’d tried so hard to befriend, the retreat leader who’d narrated around the campfire only a few hours earlier, and the classmates you’d never see again.

The monsters reach into the flames, closer, closer until their fingers brush against burning bodies. They pull out the limbs of the fallen and tear them with ease. The cracking of bones resonates in the clearing. Children and mother peel at the skin and flesh, searching and ripping and tossing until they find what they are looking for: bones with sharpened tips.

One of the children grabs a melting head from the flames and stabs it inside the pointed bone. Blood cascades like a fountain of red chocolate under the spiked head. Then, they slap the peeled-back pieces of flesh and skin on the melting head. The rest of the family follow and place their bloody snacks over the fire, roasting them until they darken to crisps.

The candle-bearer graciously accepts a bone-head from one of his children. “Let us celebrate the start of a warm and peaceful season,” he says, after taking a bite from his meal, “Let the trees, plants, and flowers bloom. Let the sun and its warmth bless our lands. Praise our Summer Goddess, who knocked on our door and chose us to represent the season three hundred years ago! Praise be! We offer those sacrifices to you, our Goddess, and thank you for blessing the world with life, the promise of daylight, and the beauty of nature.”

They all throw their heads back and smile, sharp teeth poking out of a cake of dirt, blood, and flesh.

Then, they sink their teeth into human s’mores.

You clamp your hands over your ears, close your eyes, and grit your teeth. Racked sobs take over your cramped body. You count to one hundred. Two hundred. Four hundred. Praying that this is all a nightmare, that you’ll wake up soon, safe in your sleeping bag and –

Light slips into the cracks of the box. You slowly open your tear-stained eyes, unsure of where you are until you try standing. You hit your head against the lid and, once more, plunge into misery. But, wait. What did your eyes just catch? It takes all of your might to peer back outside.

The family is gone. The campfire has died. There seem to be no traces of activity in the area. No sleeping bags, no belongings, no tents, no campers.

Nothing. No one.

No one except for you, that is. The idiot trapped inside a box.

The cabin, that lovely, little cabin, is still there. And the candle is at the window, alight and inviting.

“No…Please, no…” Your voice is a feeble, little whimper. You bring a bloody and bruised hand to knock against the box, to push upward with all your might, but it does not budge past the small opening between the heavy chains and lock.

Dawn creeps behind the trees, covering the sky with a blanket of yellow, pink, and red.

“Somebody, please...”

And the cabin and its surrounding area come to life.

The vines and flowers stretch and grow back, colorful and joyous. Birds chirp and fly in the distance, singing summertime songs and another glorious day’s arrival.

“Help! Help me!” You thrash around frantically, wanting to escape this wretched coffin, pulling at your hair, digging your nails deep inside your skin.

Suffocating.

Sweating.

Dying.

And through your wild and useless racket, it starts to press. The box shrinks around you, squeezing like a tight hug. The expanding vines and plants slither against the lid, around the four sharp corners. Embracing you tighter. And tighter. Green wraps around the box like a holiday present. Another gift for the sun.

You don’t see the candle’s light flickering. Once, twice. You are still crying when the fire finally dies. The sun gradually changes the strokes of paint on the bright sky—a mixture of orange and gold. Birds sing loud, happy melodies over your petrified, sorrowful screams. The family of devils and their Summer Goddess have certainly created a paradise.

Pity it may take you a bit longer to reach.