Occasionally a story comes to me that I want to tell. Those ideas typically come from prompts. This one came from a prompt that wasn’t a prompt. Comments and constructive criticism will be appreciated. Here is a story about:

The House Down the Mountain

The roughly paved road winds up the mountain, steep drop-offs to the side demand Rick’s full attention. We don’t talk. We are relieved when we finally arrive at the turn to take us to our rental cabin.

It isn’t a rustic, woodsy cabin but rather a beautiful log a-frame chalet. It is dusk and the sun is setting over the mountain so we only get a glimpse of the stunning vistas that we will enjoy from our home for the next 10 days.

By the time we unpack and settle in it is well past midnight. Exhausted we fall into bed. Sleep comes quickly.

We are awakened by the sun as it crests the mountains and casts a shimmer on the lake far below. Cabins dot the east shore and only one lone house is seen far below our chalet. It is weather-worn and dilapidated; broken windows lead us to believe it is abandoned.

With no cell service or internet, Rick and I spend our time relaxing. We drink coffee and bask in the sun on the expansive deck. We have long philosophical conversations on life and craft stories about the house down the mountain. We eat candlelight dinners, sip wine by the fire and make love.

For the first several days there is no activity at the house down below, but then late one evening we see headlights and a truck pulls up to the back of the house. Lit only by moonlight it appears they are unloading some type of equipment. Then the truck drives away. This happens several days in a row. We can’t see if they are taking anything away or if anyone stays in the house. Our stories grow.

KABOOM! Black smoke fills the air and flames shoot skyward from the house down the mountain. Then a loud, insistent knock on the door further shatters our perfect world.