montgomery's miscellany

The following story appeared to me, entirely formed, in a dream I had on the 3rd of May, 2026

That which I am about to now tell you occurred 50 years ago in the summer of 1926. I hope that you will show grace to an old man and not think too little of me, even though I may appear in this story a coward and a murderer. I reveal this to you in writing now, as I have neither the stomach to speak it to your face nor did I have it in me to reveal it earlier. I hope that as I lay dying, writing this to you will lift this burden on my conscience and I may die sanctified and worthy of heaven.

It was a balmy July day in Toronto when my friend and business partner Thomas informed me that he had purchased a cottage in a secluded area along the shore of lake Muskoka. Like so many others, we had made a killing betting on the Toronto Stock Exchange that year and Thomas was determined to enjoy that wealth while he had it. The cottage, he told me, was an old residence that the previous owner had inherited and wanted nothing to do with. The cottage – he was told – had become too remote on account of the nearby beach being removed from the restored route of the passenger ship RMS Segwun, and the new owner had no good memories of the place anyhow.

Thomas invited me up on account of my new Ford. He planned for us to have the car shipped up to Gravenhurst on a freight train as we arrived simultaneously by passenger car. We'd then drive it from the town into the bush, where he assured me dirt trails had been cleared, at which point we'd arrive at the cottage and spend a week there in relaxation. I assented to the plan as I was eager to both drive my new car and to spend a week away from the city.

It turned out getting the Ford on the train was expensive, but we had money to spend, and we rode the way up in first class. The train ride was pleasant, as the Northern Railway always was in those days, and we dined, smoked, and played cards with refined gentlemen all the way up to the lake. Disembarking, we bid farewell to our fellow riders, made empty promises to look them up on such and such day and have tea at such and such restaurant in Toronto, collected our vehicle, loaded it up at the general store, and puttered into the Muskoka woods.

It took several bug-bitten hours to arrive at the cottage, the Model T getting stuck in the trail multiple times and needing to be pushed. Nonetheless, we made it before night, and the cottage finally came into view as the sun was setting. The view in that moment of the orange and pink sky over the blue water was beautiful, and the cottage itself was a handsome cabin made of logs mortared together with a white infill of some kind. A wooden staircase wound down the face of a short cliff to a dock below, at which was tied up a pair of sport canoes. Eager to rest after a day of travel, we unloaded our supplies, supped, and laid down to sleep.

The first day was pleasant. Rashers for breakfast at dawn, a quick dive into the lake, and some fishing. We decided to canoe before lunch and explore the sheltered bay the cottage was nestled in. As we pulled the oars, we drifted along the base of the short granite cliff Thomas' cottage sat upon which slowly melted into a beach with a neglected dock jutting from it, presumably the old passenger harbour. Past this beach, on a wooden chair on another dock, sat a greying old man in a faded sack coat and a straw hat. As we cruised past, he hailed us. We manoeuvred ourselves with some effort until we were stopped a few yards from his chair.

We exchanged pleasantries, he asked us if we were the new owners of the Hamilton house – which Thomas confirmed – and he welcomed us. It turned out the old man lived here and had lived here for many decades, wifeless, he regretted to inform us, but financially secure from years spent as the operator of a successful general store during Gravenhurst's early tourism boom. He offered us home-made bread and jam, which we happily accepted before rowing onward. We lunched beneath a wind-swept pine on a small rocky island at the mouth of the bay, laughing at a funny joke that would take too long to explain here and would probably be not half as funny if you were not there in the moment. Sated and rested, we rowed home for some tea or coffee.

Late in the day, we were suddenly resolved to hike. Packing our satchels with snacks and some sketch-pads and pencils, we began to explore the forest. If you have never left Toronto, it may come as a surprise how rocky the terrain of Muskoka is. The lush pine forest is interrupted frequently by squat hills of granite. Marvelling at the natural beauty, we sketched whatever caught our fancy and pressed deeper and deeper into the woods.

As the sun sat fat and heavy in the evening sky, we came across an interesting sight. A large boulder had been pushed – or possibly pulled – along the side of a stone hill. We surmised that this pushing – or possibly this pulling – had occurred in the distant past, as the gouge left behind had been overgrown and worn nearly back to flatness. Curiousity overcame us, and we became determined to shift the rock and reveal what lay behind it. We managed it in short order, with an ingenious system involving a rope looped around tree branches and a fallen sapling as a lever, and the boulder slipped away from the mouth of a smooth granite cave.

How deep the cave went, we would never know, as at the mouth of this cave lay a large burlap sack. The sack smelled woody, like cedar or pine, and I felt no danger lay in opening it and seeing what treasures lay inside. As I undid the knot and pulled the sack open, I was at first unsure what it was. It was a dark hairy mass, and as my eyes adjusted to the light of the cave, I finally recognized what I was looking at. A person – a woman by the looks of it – had been stuffed in this sack decades ago and been mummified in the intervening years. I recognized her as a woman from the long hair and the dried out and tattered dress she was wearing. Her skin was dry and pulled tight over her bones and her eyes were empty sockets. The cause of the poor woman's death was obvious: a hole had been gashed in her head and her jaw shattered.

I yelped and leapt backwards from the sack, an action which toppled it over and spilled the skinny corpse out onto the floor of the cave. Thomas ran into the cave to see what was the matter and was clearly as shocked as I. For the first time in many years, I felt an incredible urge to pray. I fell to my knees, and prayed for the dead woman. I did not know why, but I felt that I had to beg God and the woman to forgive me for disturbing her rest. With my swift and panicked prayer complete, I heard a woman's sob from deep in the cave. That proved too much for me and I fled from the cursed hill. Thomas and I ran as hard and as long as we ever had. Streaked with sweat, panting and red, we returned to the cottage as the last light of day disappeared.

We debated and conferred on what to do. We were certain we could retrace our path back to the corpse in daylight, but certainly not at night. We also could not drive back to town in the countryside darkness without getting lost or stuck. Finally, a plan began to form. At dawn, we would pack our things, drive to town and inform the police. Then, we would take the earliest train back to Toronto and forget the whole affair. Satisfied that we had arrived at the just course of action, we resolved to sleep but quickly found that we could not bring ourselves to lay down. The lamps were left lit in and around the cottage and I paced nervously, unable to remove the image of the dead woman from my mind. Thomas sat at the parlour table, playing and replaying endless games of solitaire.

It was at around one o'clock in the morning when a loud knock was made on the door of the cottage. Thomas and I jumped, staring at each other wide eyed, for who could be calling at this hour? I called out a demand of identification and the reply was only a louder set of knocks. Thomas crept over to the kitchen and palmed an iron pan as I walked slowly over to the door. I opened it and shrieked, as I was met with the shattered and eyeless visage of the dead woman we had seen six hours earlier. I fell promptly on my rear, and Thomas rushed the mummy, swinging the pan down at her shoulder. The creature caught it, twisted it from his grasp, and threw it to the side, stepping over me and into the cottage, closing the door behind her as she did so with a shocking politeness.

I rose to my feet and Thomas and I stood on either sides of the dead woman, blanched and wide-eyed. She stared at neither of us, her gaze was instead out of the rear window of the cottage, towards the cliff and the bay below. All three of us were silent for a moment, Thomas and I transfixed with fear. The mummy swayed and finally rasped out a command:

Follow.

As if pulled along by string, Thomas and I obeyed. We walked behind her, out of the cottage, and around the lip of the cliff towards the beach. All the while, my mind screamed at my body to run. Run anywhere. But I could not do it. It was as if the creature had taken control of my body and I was just a passenger in it. Finally, we arrived at the door of the cottage of the old man we had seen earlier that day. The creature knocked on the door.

A few moments later, the door creaked open and the old man – bleary eyed and holding a lamp – appeared. He said nothing before his eyes widened and the mummy tackled him to the floor of his cabin. Astride him, she closed her hands around his throat and began to suffocate him. The man begged and pleaded for our help, but Thomas and I did nothing. Eventually, with the desperate strength of a man avoiding death, he leveraged the woman off of him and tried to rise. I do not know why, but I was suddenly blindly angry. Thomas and I fell on the man, beating him with our fists. He may have been strong enough to overcome a corpse, but the concerted effort of two athletic young men proved too much. The corpse joined us, and in short order the old man was dead.

Panting and red, our knuckles raw and bloody, Thomas and I stood up and stared at the scene of the crime we had just committed. I was overwhelmed with horror and guilt. My self pity was interrupted by the creature, who stood up, her shattered jaw hanging slack and her eyeless pits staring into my soul. A voice rumbled from within her for the second time that night.

Thank you.

And the corpse collapsed beside the old man, sighing as whatever supernatural force had animated it left.

Thomas and I have never spoken of the events of that night in the decades since. We returned to Toronto first thing the next morning and Thomas sold the cottage, never visiting it again. I imagine even now that the bones of the old man and the murdered mummy still lie next to each other on the floor of that decaying cottage. I do not feel guilty about the murder we committed. Paradoxically, it is that guiltlessness about which I feel the most guilty.

Regards.