CREATIVE NONFICTION

Riverwood
Micah James

Down winding roads and cedar tunnels rested the cliffside
abode of Riverwood. Its drive was steep, its river torrential, and its
trees full of mystique. Comfortable familiarity and the creeping
unknown simultaneously characterized that family homestead. For an
unconstrained child, the line between fiction and reality is so thin that
it is entirely reasonable for one to hop over the line and back again
easily, as if it didn’t exist at all. The starkness of reason was no match
for seven young cousins with imaginative minds and the freedom of
time; nor should it have been, in a place as enchanting as Riverwood.
From the peeling porch where we shared many meals, you could
look across to the grove of cedar, fir, and ferns, and should you have
a keen eye, you might spy the distant shape of our haunted place: the
decrepit cabin of Grumpy Grump. There were numerous creatures
of myth and beast whose existences were told to us in warning of
lethal rapids and dangerous trestles, but this character was a being of
our own ingenious creation. He was not to be seen save for shadowy
glimpses amongst the angular silhouettes lingering at the edges of
flickering firelight, here one moment and gone the next. When
exactly He came to reside in that crumbling cabin and our trembling
minds is uncertain, but his grasp on us was thorny and unyielding.
None of us had bravery enough to go there alone, although older
brothers would boast through goosebumps and haughty laughs
that they had gotten close. It was not until one fateful autumn day
that we rallied a peer pressure forceful enough to embark on our
exploration. Our usual ringleader had this brilliant idea, of course,
and nudged that boastful talk into action. The plan was hatched in
the morning over breakfast and under our breath. Parents needed
not to be consulted, for this was a mission that we could not risk

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being thwarted, even if some of us secretly wished for it. The early
afternoon was spent gathering courage and concocting our plan.
An order of eldest to youngest was agreed upon for our expedition,
placing myself in the rear. It was a wise decision. I might as well
admit that though my imaginative capabilities were on par with my
elders, my tolerance for horror and ‘spooks’ had proven to be the
least of the group.
The actual appearance of our destination’s inhabitant was not as
clear to us. No one seemed to agree on it, but each description was
given equal space in our minds as a possibility. One thought he was
short and round with dragging limbs, two horns, and fangs like razor
blades. Another argued he was more like a crocodile, but conceded on
the point of his teeth. My opinion was of lackluster appeal compared
to these, as I simply imagined an old man worn with time and crooked
with hatred for all children. His hair was grey and ran in slimy trickles
down a greasy head to curl up at an old, sun-bleached bandana around
his neck. His perpetually rain-soaked coat was slate grey and full of
tears and stains. His trousers and boots were of an equally rank state,
with a suggestion of red splattered up from the soles. His face was
the hardest to picture: no eyes could match the hatred in his, no nose
quite accurately centred that asymmetry, and no mouth as snarled and
peeling could come close to what his must be. He was all that was
shadow, grime, and mud stain in that wood by the river.
With this in our minds, we crept single-file past the edge of the trees
and left the safety of sunlight. With every sense heightened like the hairs
on our necks, we trekked through snapping twigs and squawking birds,
the dull thunder of the rapids nearby a reminder of the danger in our
surroundings. The cabin emerged from the trees much larger than I had
imagined and seemed to loom over us as we approached its slanting
porch and torn screen door. There was no turning back now for fear of
being labeled a chicken for the rest of eternity.

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The door creaked indignantly on rusted hinges as we filed into
the small room. Dusty cobwebs clung to every surface and draped
the corners, piquing a slightly more rational fear of the many-legged
residents of the cabin. Our shoes scraped against shreds of old
newspapers littering the wooden floor. A broken chair leaned on its
side near the wall and next to it was a ladder. Through a doorway
there was a small back room which was briefly investigated, but I
remained by the doorway, eyes fixed on the small opening to the loft
at the top of the ladder. Returning somewhat dissatisfied from the
other room, the others decided that if He was in this house there was
only one last place to look.
Elevated whispers accused and denied trepidations at length until
someone was chosen to make the ascent. Filled with relief, tinged with
disappointed curiosity, I moved closer to the door for an easy escape
route. Meanwhile, the unlucky tribute pulled himself up, the ladder
creaking under his weight. The air was still with our hitched breaths,
but our ears were deafened by our thumping hearts. At long last, on
the top rung he leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. At once
his face flashed into something either bewildered or cunning, I could
never quite decide, and he leapt from the ladder, screaming as he
shoved through us and out the cabin, the door squealing shut behind
him. This, of course, set us all off like a shot, howling like maniacs
out of the cabin and through the trees. We collapsed, panting and
heaving in the cool, fresh air of the homestead porch where a lunch
of grilled cheese and onion sandwiches were getting cold awaiting us.
No amount of prying and prodding could get that cousin to
reveal just what he had seen at the top of that ladder, and none of
us dared even entertain the thought of returning to see for ourselves.
We unanimously decided that satisfying our curiosity wasn’t worth the
risk. Before long, pride returned, fronts were put up, and reasonable
arguments for ‘no such thing’ occurred at length. Even still, all through
the evening our teeth were set on edge and every eye was seen flicking
to and away from the dusky form of Grumpy Grump’s cabin.

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