Chapter 3: The Forest Cabin Secret

404: “See? Management said someone heard it.”

404’s relief was almost palpable, but it didn’t make me feel any better. The confirmation only made things feel more real.

301: “So what if someone heard it? Maybe someone’s remodeling. People are so inconsiderate.”

The classic neighborly complaint—never mind the chainsaw-wielding bear, it’s the noise that’s the problem. I almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh.

404: “But my kid said he was going to find Benny. Only Benny can handle Grumpy Gus!”

The same names. The same story. No way this was a coincidence.

504: “You actually believe what kids say? What kind of parent are you?”

I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to fire back. The judgment in their words stung, even though they weren’t aimed at me.

404: “How can you say that? Don’t you have kids?”

The chat was getting heated. I could almost hear the raised voices through the screen.

504: “Heh, actually I don’t.”

I shook my head. That explained a lot. Some things you just couldn’t understand until you had a child of your own.

Reading the group chat, I didn’t know if I should chime in. But my son’s behavior had really shaken me.

I hovered over the reply button, my thumb trembling. Should I say something?

So, I added 404 on Messenger directly:

I typed out a quick message, trying to sound casual. My heart hammered as I waited for a response.

“Hi, did you also hear the chainsaw?”

The typing indicator popped up immediately. I could feel the other parent’s anxiety through the screen.

404: “Yeah, did you hear it too? Do you have a kid? Did your kid say anything weird?”

The questions came rapid-fire, the desperation clear. I hesitated, wondering how much to share.

404 was anxious, firing off three questions in a row.

I could almost picture them pacing their living room, phone clutched tight, waiting for answers that made sense. I took a deep breath, trying to decide how much to reveal.

I thought it over and decided not to tell 404 everything—there might be more to this.

I didn’t want to scare them, or tip my hand too soon. Maybe there was a logical explanation. I typed slowly, choosing my words with care.

After a pause, I told 404, “I heard the chainsaw. My kid said Benny told him there’s a honey waterfall.”

I hit send, my thumb hovering over the screen. It felt like a confession, like sharing a secret code.

404: “So it’s not just us. What on earth is going on?”

The relief and confusion in their message mirrored my own. I stared at the blinking cursor, searching for answers I didn’t have.

I replied, “Don’t worry, maybe it’s just some meme that’s going around with the kids right now?”

I tried to sound reassuring, even though I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. Not for a second. Maybe it was all just playground gossip, some viral joke I hadn’t heard about yet.

404 thought that was possible too, so the conversation ended there.

We both wanted to believe it was harmless, that our kids were just playing pretend. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple.

Similar things had happened before: kids would watch certain cartoons or YouTube channels, then share secret codes among themselves. The way they talked sounded weird, but it was usually innocent. I figured this was probably the same.

I tried to convince myself, remembering the time my son and his friends spent a week talking in pirate voices after a marathon of old cartoons. "Arrr, matey!" they’d shout, running around the apartment with paper hats and plastic swords. Maybe this was just another phase. Still, the memory of the bear’s grin lingered in my mind.

I called my son over: “Is Benny your new secret?”

He shuffled over, eyes downcast, clutching his stuffed dog. I knelt to his level, trying to sound playful.

He nodded. “Benny asked me to keep the secret that I can see him.”

He leaned in, voice small, almost conspiratorial. He glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid someone might overhear. The hairs on my arms stood up.

I asked again, “Is Benny the black bear with the chainsaw?”

He shook his head. “Benny’s a really gentle bear. He only holds honey.”

He said it with such conviction, I almost believed him. His eyes softened, and for a moment, he was just my little boy again. I let out a shaky breath.

Then my son asked, “Daddy, can you see Benny too? Can Daddy go to the forest cabin?”

His words were hopeful, almost pleading. I forced a smile, ruffling his hair. "Maybe one day, buddy."

Kids’ thoughts are always a bit scattered, and I couldn’t get any useful information.

He wandered off, humming to himself. I watched him go, feeling helpless. The answers I needed were just out of reach.

After thinking about it, I messaged my child’s preschool teacher:

I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Ms. Carter. She’d always been attentive, quick to notice when something was off with the kids.

“Ms. Carter, has my son shown any strange behavior recently?”

My thumb hovered over the send button for a second. I hesitated, then hit send. The wait for her reply felt endless.

I saw the “typing…” notification, and a few minutes later, the teacher replied, “No, he’s been normal. Is something wrong?”

Her response was quick, but I could sense the concern behind her words. She was worried. I could tell.

I thought for a moment, then told the teacher everything in detail. I even sent a picture of the pinholes on his stomach.

I took a deep breath and typed it all out, my fingers flying over the keys. The bear, the chainsaw, the picture book, the pinholes—I laid it all bare. I attached the photo, my hands shaking.