He’d laugh just like we did, even making a few bets himself to add to the fun. Ultimately, though, none of us cashed out.
He lived to be 100 years old. His mind stayed young all the way to the very end, but it was still pretty devastating to watch his body become frail and brittle.
For the most part, my family more celebrated his life than mourned it. I mean, it’s difficult to feel shocked when someone whose age is in the triple digits dies.
We still missed him, though, of course. His stories, his laugh, his presence altogether.
The thing that I missed the most, though, was hearing about his hunting trips.
It became almost like a tradition, going over to visit him after he got back from a week out in the woods. He’d always make me some sweet tea and cook us up some of his famous fried chicken, and we’d sit for hours while he rambled about his hunt.
It was like talking about it was one of the greatest joys in his life. His eyes would get warm. He’d speak softly once he started, but as he continued, his old voice would grow louder, more theatrical as he enunciated specific events.
“One of the bastards almost got away.”
“Hunted ’em down all week.”
“Finally caught ’em. Got some nice steaks out of it, too.”
Every visit after these trips, he’d send me out with bags of meat. Steaks, chops, hell, even some beef jerky if he had some handy.
It was like our thing. Of all his grandchildren, I was the only one who cared to listen. It came as no surprise to me when he left me that cabin.
He always told me he would. Told me I was the only one who’d care enough to use it. When I got told it was officially mine, I just honestly couldn’t wait to see the thing.
He kept it so private. It was like his private place. Somewhere he could go to escape the noise. And he wanted to pass that on to me. Needless to say, I couldn’t have been happier.
On the drive to the cabin, I felt a sense of warmth in my soul as suburbia turned into sprawling acres of trees and wildlife. It was about a two-hour drive, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to see it. And when I did, my mouth fell open.
It. Was. Gorgeous.
Stained oak wood, a beautiful handcrafted porch swing, and a flowerbed that expanded across the length of the porch.
The cabin overlooked the river, was surrounded by nothing but trees, and the serenity of it made me realize why it meant so much to my grandfather.
The first thing I did was cook up some of his famous fried chicken. I enjoyed it along with a glass of sweet tea as I took in the beauty of the interior.
The hardwood floors were completely scuff-free. There seemed to be a deer head hanging on every wall. The smell was of pine and mountain air, and my favorite part, by far, was the fireplace. Well, that, and the fact that the cabin itself was remarkably clean.
I honestly wish I could’ve sat by a fire and just reminisced on life or whatever, but in the mid-summer heat, a fire would’ve been insanity.
So I just sat there, eating my chicken by an empty fireplace while I thought about my grandpa.
As I ate, I couldn’t help but notice a book that sat on the mantle above the fireplace.
I cocked my head at it. The spine didn’t have anything embroidered on it, but when I picked it up, I could see that it was a guest book.
Grandpa never mentioned hunting with anybody when he came up here, so automatically I knew something was strange.
I opened the book and, to my surprise, nearly every page had been filled.
“Mark DeSantis. January 6th, 1973 - stubborn bastard.”
“Emily Reyes. December 18th, 1976 - quick but not quick enough.”
“David Clifford. February 9th, 1980 - nearly reached the river.”
Each name contained a date. I don’t know why I didn’t think anything of it. I was curious, sure, but not as terrified as I should’ve been.
Even still, I carried that curiosity back home with me. Back to civilization. And back to cellular service.
The name “David Clifford” stuck with me for some reason. I could’ve sworn I had seen it before.
I looked it up, not knowing what to expect. But what I read has made me think of my grandfather a bit differently.
Because, apparently…
David Clifford went missing in Appalachia more than 46 years ago.
February 6th, 1980.
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