At the end of the dirt track is a clearing with an obviously old and hopefully abandoned cabin. Ridge has commented about these old forgotten family hunting cabins that are scattered across the county, but this is my first experience seeing one firsthand. I'm not impressed.
"Time to go," Kevin says, not giving me time to object. Again, he's the one holding the gun. I guess he gets to decide when we leave and where we go.
The wooden porch steps creak and moan as we walk up them. The middles bend and I worry about falling through, but Kevin runs up them directly behind me not at all worried. Inside the cabin is empty. Old dusty cobwebs have settled in all the corners, and our feet leave prints as we walk across the floor. At the end of the large open space I assume to be a living room is a
