I can hear the distant sputtering of the generator shutting down through the shabby wooden walls of the outhouse. The hazy yellow beam slowly backs away through the peephole as the generator releases its final gasp, plunging the outhouse into a murky purple darkness. The constricting walls loom over me, fully adorned with an eclectic collection of antique trinkets, framed paintings, and taxidermy animal heads. I rise warily and peer out through the slit in the door. Nothing. A thick, rolling overcast obstructs the moon’s pale blue glow, and without the generator’s power, the once vibrant string lights hang limply in dark branches. A howling wind breaks the stillness, rattling the rusty chain lock holding the wood door closed. A flimsy metal chain.
I shrink back and sit down on the wooden ledge. The stale scent of pine lingers from the tub of wood shavings brightly labelled “after-use coverings,” housed beside extra toilet paper rolls. My fingers fidget anxiously, tracing erratic circles through piles of sawdust left on the shelf. I don’t notice when the glass eyes above me begin to wander. A chill whispers on my shoulder as they shift their gaze downwards, their intrigue lingering on my form in cold distaste. Another rush of wind snaps my attention towards the door as the air whistles through the cracks in the brittle walls. I tremble, on edge, my ribcage tense as I take in timid, shallow breaths until the wind dies down again. As the air surrounding the outhouse grows quiet, I allow a shaky sigh to escape my lungs; it seems to echo in the silence, bouncing up and up between the cramped walls. My gaze tracks its path along the dark, splintered wood before it’s captured by the painted eyes of the coyote head mounted above the doorframe. Its eyes fixed on mine with a smirk.
***
“They will respond to you if you howl at them,” she said matter of factly.
“Who, the Coyotes?” I ask, eyes fixed on my marshmallow skewered above the campfire.
“Yeah,” she gestures behind her to the dark trees. “They’re back there somewhere. We used to hear them all the time after dark.” She glances at us around the fire before looking down and taking another sip of her cider.
“We should try it. Someone howl right now,” a playful voice chimes in, jokingly. They rise from the log and throw more fresh mint into the flames. “The bugs are starting to get annoying.” They add, swatting the air around their face dramatically before sitting back down.
“How many different cricket noises can you hear right now?” a quieter voice asks, addressing nobody in particular. I glance at her sprawled out on her back, lying in the grass, her eyes fixed inquisitively on the moon. We all take a moment to ponder the question. I shift my gaze up at the star-dusted sky and focus on the symphony of sounds, trying to decipher the differing chirps and chimes of crickets from the distant croaks of toads and the soft crackles of the campfire.
“Four,” I state plainly, returning my focus to the fire and rotating my marshmallow to reveal the golden crust forming on one side.
“I only hear three,” the first voice challenges with a smirk, taking the last sip of her cider. She shook the can to verify its emptiness before placing it between her palms and, with a clap of her hands, crushed it with a distinct crunch. I watched her throw the crumpled disc aside before reaching for the cooler to produce another can.
“I only heard three at first, too,” the third voice offers graciously. “But listen.” They hold up their hand like a conductor, ready to initiate the orchestra’s performance. We fall silent, considering the three distinct but constant chatters of crickets hiding in the brush, when, briefly, a shrill chime echoes rhythmically overtop of the chorus. “There,” they say, pointing a finger up when the sound rings again, “it’s not as frequent as the others.”
“I don’t understand how you guys are so good at that,” the fourth voice remarks bashfully. She sits up slowly from her place on the grass to warm her hands around the fire. “The forest is so much louder than I’m used to, it all sounds the same to me.” She trails off when a cold white flash dances across the sky from behind us. We turn instinctively to look at the rising storm clouds in the distance as the deep rumble resounds from the sky. A sharp gust of wind rushes through the clearing, strong enough to cause one of the campfire logs to tumble out of place. The fire’s warm glow dampens slightly with the loss.
The third voice chuckles nervously, “It’s not going to rain on us, is it?” they ask, getting up again to tend to the fallen fire.
“It’s not supposed to,” I say, examining my marshmallow for flaws in the dimming light before finally removing it from the stick. “I doubt those clouds will go over us.” I place my melted marshmallow on a graham cracker laced with chocolate and take a bite. “Even if they do, there is no rain in the forecast. We should be fine.”
“That’s good,” they nod. “We have a few more logs left, so we can probably keep this fire going a little longer if you guys are up for it.”
“Oh, I could stay out here all night,” the first voice snickers. “Besides, none of you have howled for the coyotes yet.”
***
The ceiling is leaking. I tilt my head back slowly, eyes glazed over; I watch the droplets protrude from each crack in the wood before collapsing to the outhouse floor in small puddles. A blank flash from outside forces itself through each tiny crack in the wood, illuminating the mounted animals’ sinister silhouettes circling the walls as if cornering their prey. A rumble growls through the vibrating air, causing the trinkets on the walls to sway and clink together with the force. It wasn’t supposed to rain. The coyote sizes me up with a snarl from its vantage point on the wall. It’s too loud now. I close my eyes. The screeching wind, the frantic tinks and clicks of swinging metal and rusted chains, the laboured creaking of the wood structure, all over the top of occasional deep roars of thunder. Four sounds, I breathe and relax the tension in my shoulders. Only four.
A moment of respite, but only a moment. My eyes snap open with the sound of gravel scuffling outside. The movement sounds feral, desperate. My wide eyes meet the hunting stares from above. The scuffling gets louder and louder as those glass eyes size me up. Something hits the door with a slight thud that muffles all the other sounds, and I hear whatever it is fall and settle on the gravel outside the doorframe. With my ears ringing, I stand slowly, creeping hesitantly towards the peephole. The scuffling starts again, but slower, softer, as if the movement is more controlled, a prowl. I recheck the chain lock holding the door shut and lean toward the peephole.
Crunch.
One, distinct, metal crunch.
Hannah Paterson is a third-year English major with a concentration in Creative Writing at Carleton. Throughout her time at school, she has had the pleasure of engaging in several creative writing classes focusing on a wide variety of genres. Over the past year, she has become increasingly interested in writing poetry and was involved in writing, editing, and designing a poetry anthology dedicated to Seamus Heaney with her Celtic Literatures class in 2024.
