“Bye honey, be safe!” says my mother as she gives me a squeeze on the shoulders. 

“I will ma, see you in a week!” The cold wind stings on my face as the door opens revealing our front yard which has been blanketed by a soft, delicate layer of white. My sleeping and duffel bags rattle cumbersomely against my legs as I waddle towards my red prius. After tossing my luggage haphazardly into the trunk, I hustle towards the driver side door. Once I sit down I rub my hands furiously together, and blow into them desperately trying to warm myself up. The trusty ol’ car grumbles as I crank the ignition key; the heat begins to blast. 

I remove the GPS off the window pane and begin typing in my destination. I told my ma’ that I was going to my friend Louis’s house in Washington to catch up. Instead, the destination I enter is located in the rural mountains of California. I need some time to recuperate from school and just paint for a week, so I chose the most remote, peaceful location I could find. The room I rented out was from, coincidently, another artist like myself. His AirBnb page describes it to be in a secluded, small cabin on the top of a mountain which he works from. There weren’t any reviews when I booked, but the price was so appealing that I couldn’t resist. He’s probably just new to the website.

I press on the gas and start on my way. The tall buildings begin to shorten into suburban homes, and then the suburban homes disappear as well. Soon all that is left are small farm houses every three miles or so. Two hours into my trip the sky piercing California mountains poke into the horizon. At first they are just faint images resembling their true nature, but they continue to grow with time and become monsters. The hills roll by one after another until the light begins to disappear. Each area is more remote than the next and I no longer even see farmland anymore. All around is just grass, rocks, trees, and empty space. 

Is this GPS taking me to the right spot? 

By now the sun has been covered with a blanket and the only light left comes from 

my headlights and an occasional plane that flies over my head. I can barely even see 30 ft ahead of me; I’ve just been following the dotted lines of the road while occasionally referencing the GPS. My neck takes a craned position to make sure I won’t go shooting off the road at 70 miles per hour. 

The roads have gotten sketchier ever since the farms have disappeared. Smooth driving highways are long gone; dirt detours have become commonplace. The route I’m taking clearly has not been maintained for many years and the paint has begun to scratch off. The dotted lines in the middle of the road have gotten sporadic, appearing only occasionally. Asphalt which I was previously driving on is now uneven, cracked, and old. I carefully check the GPS to make sure my location is correct. It’s still right. I continue to drive on, the ever same darkness continues to engulf my car. 

After driving for some time, I look to see how much longer it will be until I reach the cabin. Air rushes out of my lungs in a sigh of relief as the black letters display that only ten minutes are left. Nevertheless, there isn’t even a hint of any life in the area. 

“You have arrived at your destination on the left,” a woman’s voice from the GPS says. 

I apply pressure to the brakes and the car slowly comes to a stop. I turn my head to the left and am met with the same darkness as earlier. Squinting my eyes I discover that there is a thin dirt road to my left, barely large enough to fit my car in. Where is the cabin? I can’t see the end of the path, but I guess it must be the driveway. I turn into the dirt road and drive for about 50 ft when the road comes to an abrupt end. 

What the heck?! Why does the driveway just stop? I turn my headlights off and search wildly for any resemblance of light. Utter blackness. Everything is silent, not even a cricket is chirping. My hands begin to moisten with sweat and my heart beats faster with every second I sit in my seat. 

Screw this, I’m leaving! 

I fumble in the darkness for my keys, and twist the ignition of the car, hit the gas pedal, and try to back out as quickly as possible. Midway through my Nokia flip phone rings. I finish backing my car to the end of the path and stop my car again to check who’s calling me at midnight. 364-224-8898. My mind fumbles for any remembrance of where this number is from. It feels so familiar but I can’t put a finger on it. The blue light from the phone screen flashes in the tune of the ringtone, spreading inside my car. A couple rings later I move my hand towards the phone and hit the button with a green telephone. 

“Hello?” There is no response.

“Hello? Who is this?” I ask again.

“This is the owner of the AirBnb room you purchased,” a deep voice responds.

“Oh, hey I was just about to leave. Where is the cabin? My GPS says I’m near your house but I can’t find it.”

“The GPS is probably right, other people have had problems with this before.” My house is over a small hill to your left, so you can’t see it. You need to get out of your car and walk here.”

“To my left?” I can’t see anything there. 

“Yes.” The deep voice says.

I end the call, park my car, and get out. The darkness is unsettling. I grab my belongings quickly and climb up a small hill to my left, exactly as the owner said there would be. My body tingles with anticipation, it feels so vulnerable out in the open like this without being able to see anything.

My muscles loosen when I reach the top of the hill. The faint glow of a fireplace illuminates the direct area, which had previously been hidden by the small hill. My feet crunch over the snow as I walk towards the wood cabin. The cabin is only one story tall and has two large windows at the front. The curtains hide the interior from me from the outside.

The porch creaks when my boots press down on them. My knuckles rattle on the hardwood door as I knock. I wait ten seconds and then knock again. The door swings open and the first thing I see is the end of the hallway. I have to look down to see a short man, barely up to my shoulders in front of me. The contrast to the earlier voice on the phone is amusing. I was imagining a massive man with a beard to appear in front of me. Instead, it’s a runt with flip flops, khakis, and a dress shirt, with a painting smock on top of his outfit. The smock is smeared with a red liquid which I assume is paint. 

“Come on in” the same deep voice booms. 

I walk through the doorway and take off my boots.

“Hi my name is John, nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the man says generically with a straight face, unflinching. Not even a smile appears. He continues with, “Your room is down the hall, I’ll walk you there.”

“Great!” I say with a smile. Walking down the hallway I notice it is lined with incredibly detailed portraits of people. There are five on each side. Some are of women, others are of men, none are children. All the people in the paintings share one characteristic. They all give off a hippie vibe, the type of vibe which comes from people who have no family and travel the country by themselves to find their “inner peace.” I hope I’m not one of them, I think as I smile. Even more curious is that the portraits are all painted in red, not a single other color shows up except the white canvas the portraits are painted on. The silence has lasted too long, so I give a compliment.

“These are awesome!” I say to the man. 

“Thanks.” He says in the same robotic voice.

“Why are they all painted in red?” I add in an attempt to break the ice.

“I find that it captures the person I’m drawing the best.” He responds monotonously. 

We walk together to the end of the hallway in silence. It is unnervingly awkward, but the owner doesn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest. When we reach the end of the hall he pushes the door open to reveal a small room with no windows that is about the size of a large walk-in closet. In the corner is a twin sized mattress with dark red covers. 

“This is your room. I’m going to go back to work.” 

“Ok, goodnight.”

“Yes, goodnight.” The man says with a smile. His skin folds unnaturally in a smile which seems too tight to be normal.

After he walks away I enter the room and close the door as quickly as possible. Instinctively my hand moves to the handle to try and lock it, but there is no lock. Whatever. 

I put my bags down and turned off the light. I collapse onto the bed and cover myself up. The covers are bumpy at certain patches and have clearly been resown before, but my eyes slowly close from exhaustion nonetheless…

2 days later…

The door swings open to unveil a man whose appearance doesn’t fit his voice.  He is wearing flip flops, khakis, a dress shirt and a smock covering it all. The smock has red paint smeared all over it. 

“Come on in.” The man says plainly.

“Ok, thanks. Saving the planet eh bro? I love people who drive Prius’ ” 

“The room is at the end of the hallway. I will walk you there.”

“Umm … Ok,”The walls are lined with portraits of people I’ve never seen before. On the left side there are five paintings and on the right there are six. The portraits are all painted in red. 

“You love red huh?” 

“It’s a beautiful color.” 

Interestingly, all except one of the portraits show a similar characteristic. The others appear to be the type of people who travel the country by themselves, the hippie type, kinda like me I guess.  However, the one near the end of the hallway is of a well dressed young man, who appears to be a little older than the age of 20. He has a nice dress shirt on and his hair is well combed.

When we’ve finally reached the end of the hallway the owner opens a door and says, “This is your room.”

“Ok thanks.”

I enter the small room with no windows and turn on the lights. In the corner is a small bed with a sickly red colored blanket and pillow that had clearly been resown many times. I put my bags down, turn off the lights. My eyes feel heavy from a long day of driving...