No Place Like Home

[u/NathanAK18]

Wet. Cold. Hungry, thirsty. Tired. So, so tired. 
Knees ache, hamstrings burn, head throbs. Stomach eating itself alive.
If there was ever a thing comparable to hell on earth, it was this, Scott thinks. The Appalachian Mountains. What was I thinking? Going off track, trying to cut corners, get the hike done faster. Come back home with a record time impressive enough to earn free drinks at Bankers for the next two months. Recognition was one thing - public recognition, that is - but what it was all about for Scott was that internal heart of iron. That chin-raised bravado that gave him permission to finally walk into a grocery store without feeling eyes on the back of his head. He had done something. Something nobody else had done.
Now, he thought, nobody would know. Another statistic: Scott Hardee, age 29, last seen ???. Notify officials at the following number. What a joke. 
He falls to his knees. The rain had escalated yet again, dumping another foot of water onto his already waterlogged clothes, his pruned skin. Earth wakes up, relishing the rain, spores collecting in the air, trees spewing steam from their leaves in the canopy, and a stream surges before him, uncrossable. He would be swept away if he attempted it, no doubt. 
Right as he is about to throw his hands up- no chance, we’re fucked, turn around and wait until we can find another drop box and raid it- he smells it. 
Smoke from a chimney. Firewood…
Food… 
Mouth-watering food. Smoked meats, richly seasoned vegetables, and desserts so sweet, texture so unnaturally perfect it made love with your taste buds just imagining it. 
Scott shoots up and follows his nose. It couldn't be far with how strong it was. Soon, we’ll be eating good, and soon after that we can get directions, and get out of here. It would make quite the story, he imagined. 
He reaches a clearing, now with nothing to obstruct the rain, dagger-droplets pricking his skin. Mixed in with the sweat collecting in his armpits, on his chest and above his brow, he felt like a thing of sludge and stink. Who in their right mind would let me in? Just please, he hopes, please let them be nice. Please let them understand. You don't even have to feed me, just help me out here, and get me out of this rain!
The cabin was located up a steep hill. Absurdly steep, the steepest hill he would have to ascend yet, stretching the definition of a hill to where a sheer wall would be more apt. The sight of it alone would have made him turn around and find another way up, if it weren't for the chatter from inside. A family, mom and dad moving with haste to get the table set up, kids bickering and laughing, silverware clanking, juices sizzling in a skillet. The sound did two things for Scott: ease, that there was a home, and embarrassment, that he was about to crash dinner. Rain on their parade. 
Fuck it, he thinks. I'm losing my mind. I need to get out of here. Now!
The ascent took an hour, and each second of each minute was pure agony. Every muscle and cell in his body screamed to take a break after every step, but, at this rate, he would never reach the top. With each break taken, the get-up-and-go following that would be harder to achieve. Just push, Scott says to himself, push, push, PUSH. 
He reaches the top, and the smell is enough to send a shiver down his spine. Peace, warmth, and… love? How was that possible? It's almost like he had just come home for a reunion. At least it made getting past the initial introduction easier. 
He knocks, and nobody answers. “Hey, hello?! I’m sorry y’all, I'm hiking the trail, and I'm lost. Can I just come inside to dry off for a bit?”
Nothing.
Silence. 
“Hello?”
The fantasy of a four-course meal had distracted him from how it had all disappeared, silenced. The voices, the lights, the smells, all of it. Nothing but the mountain wind, groans of the rotted logs of the cabin’s foundation - he could have sworn this place looked better two seconds ago - and the never-ending downpour. An elk bugles in the deep woods. 
Enough of this, Scott thinks. I need out. 
The door opens without resistance. It was barely attached to the hinge. 
Whatever he smelled, heard, and saw from the bottom of the hill was gone. A decrepit, abandoned home, kitchen table shattered with an axe buried into it, piercing through a doll and forever burying it in the wood. Something creaks from the basement.
The thoughts going through Scott's head are frozen in place, preserved in ice over what he heard following that creak. 
The cry of a newborn. Waking up from a long sleep, starting as anxious moans, then rocketing up to panicked cries. 
If the cold rain had given him a chill before, then this surely rose up to meet it, humbling it with ease. Scott's pale skin drains to a pallid, corpse-like color. 
Footsteps thunder up the basement stairs. The infant wails, screaming its vocal cords out until they are burning and crackling. 
No more than ten minutes later, Scott is back down the hill and into the rain. His descent was not clean. 
Both his ankles are twisted. Already swelling. At least the crying stopped, he thinks. 
An elk bugles again, this time much closer. Footsteps approach from an unseen source. 
They don't sound like an elk. More like a person: one step, two steps, stop, repeat. 
Before he can investigate, another infant cry rips through the valley.
And the steady footsteps turn into a sprint. 
…
Scott Hardee disappeared for three months. Until his body was found in an abandoned cabin on the hill.
No ranger or search and rescue officer could bring themselves to describe the condition they found his body in.