there's a bear in the woods, can you see it?

a forest setting, a familiar trail, tired limbs. it's sometime past midday, and you’re five miles down a path you’ve traveled more times than you can count. you’re crouched at a riverbank, flipping stones over to watch the crawfish scurry away into the current. the water feels cold on your fingers, the summer heat feels warm. a drawstring bag hangs loose around your shoulders, full of the protein bars your mom always buys. inside there’s also some bug spray and some sunscreen, and a metal water bottle that makes anything inside it taste like pennies. 

you turn your face to the sky, letting the dotted sunlight warm your face. the sound of a cooing mourning dove hums in the distance. the best thing about this trail is how quiet it is. you’re alone with your thoughts here. you look back down at the river; your hands are still submerged in water.

a bug flies by, too loud in your ears. the buzzing catches you by surprise, and you whip your head around to watch it fly away. you begin to feel something nagging at you, something itching the nape of your neck. you ignore it initially; you’ve had a surprise guest or two here before. sometimes a couple veers off the main trail and onto the path you took to get here, trying to find a secret place to indulge in the woods. it’s always a fun surprise for everyone involved. you let a few seconds go by, scanning around the bank to see if maybe someone did go exploring and found the same spot. but nothing appears to have changed about your surroundings. the world around you goes quiet again, and you focus back on the running water below you.

it doesn’t stay quiet for long.

a lone deer bursts out of the forest in front of you, spooked by something you can’t see. you fall back in surprise, and it barely misses your head as it kicks over the ground and into the forest behind you. something is wrong. you can’t shake off this feeling, not any longer. you hear the deer gallop away, so you turn around to watch it as it runs into the woods. after it disappears, you begin to frantically scan your surroundings, newly hyperaware of every slight change in view. a branch in your peripheral sways with the wind, so you whip your head around to look at it. some reeds in the other side of your vision also begin to move, so again you switch over to confirm that it is nothing. but fear encroaches your nerves. every minor movement could be something, or someone. seemingly from nothing, you begin to hear a voice calling to you, and your subconscious begins to flare and spark.

there’s a bear in the woods, can you see it?

you look around, scanning your surroundings in quick darts and glances. 

it’s there. a little lower. through those trees. do you see it? yes, there. 

your breath catches in your throat when you finally see it. it’s low to the ground, strong form arched to the sky, brown hair running along its spine, cutting slits into the fog of the daylight. you haven’t seen a bear here before, not in the many times you’ve been traveling here on your own. you wipe your eyes quickly, praying it’s just a trick of the light. it isn’t.

can you see it? its outline? its massive shoulders? its drooling mouth and its expression, square and dark? can you see it?

it’s obvious now that you think about it, looking through the narrow wood and angry branches. i know you can see it. you follow its gaze as it watches the water somewhere to the right of you. a canoer floats gently in the water, a reel cast to their side.

it hasn’t spotted you yet. you pull your foot back against the ground, trying to leverage your weight in a way to get out of sight of the beast. the sound of the gravel beneath betrays you, and you can hear the quiet tension snap. a heavy blink. a huff. a rough turn of the head. and with a droning tone, you hear the voice calling out to you again: it sees you. 

the air shifts, it huffs again, and your first instinct is to run. moments go by where you start to consider your next steps, calculations of distance and acceleration spinning around in your head. the bear doesn’t move, it just stares at you, its mouth is hanging open slightly, and its teeth are a noticeable yellow even with the distance. you look up slightly, and you make eye contact. his eyes, as dangerous as they should be, are soft and elegant. they look like shattered marbles as they reflect the fragmented light from the trees around the beast. black voids devoid of any feeling. it blinks, and you flinch, purely on instinct. long, aching seconds pass by with the pollen as you stare at each other. 

the bear breaks eye contact and turns its head back towards the canoer. it’s eyeing the other man’s movements while you stay monitoring the lout. distantly you hear the reel being cast out again, the sound of the line sharp and shrill. you dare to look away from one to the other, wondering if you should alert the man in the distance. the flaring of the hair on the back of your neck reminds you of the danger that poses for you. and martyrs are not made from fallen trees, rotting away in the woods. 

gnats buzz around in a whirring halo. horseflies nip and bite you as your feet dig into the gravel of the rocky bank below. you hear the water lapping, and you can almost hear the fog as it grows denser, and denser, and denser still. you hear a branch crack to your left, you look over to see what caused it, and in a horrifying moment, you notice the canoer is long gone, not even a stray ripple left in his wake. you begin to question if he was even there to begin with, whether he was a lie crafted by your subconscious to give you some comfort in the moment. but it doesn’t matter anymore. it’s only you two now.

can you see him now? his tilted head and his twitching grin?

you look back at the being in front of you. his eyes are watching your every breath, and the thumping in your chest rises louder in your ears with every second that goes by. you aren’t sure because of the distance, but it almost looks like he’s smiling at you.

without breaking eye contact, he begins to move in your direction, large, surefire steps leaving deep marks on the ground under his feet. you don’t know which instinct to trust, fight or flight at a standstill. he slides down the bank and into the river, unbothered by the temperature. he lifts his pale skinny legs out of the water with every step, urging closer, and closer, stepping down unevenly when he brings them back down on the rocky riverbed. the air feels like a washcloth down your throat. 

the fibers in your muscles pull at your marionette body. you bolt back in the direction you came, falling slightly on the uneven terrain. you race up the riverbank and into the wooded path behind you, and thundering footsteps begin to echo around you as a chase ensues. it doesn’t matter what branch snags your arm, what bush catches your leg, you just keep running. you don’t turn back, for fear of tripping, or for fear of acknowledging your fate. woodchips fly off like bullets from the soles of your feet with every step. a particular branch grabs your arm, and you feel the skin tear and the air around you blow against it.

keep running, he’s catching up to you.

you make it about half a mile before he catches you by the sleeve of your arm, the moment slowed down to a single grain of sand. you both hit the ground hard. the impact causes you to wheeze out a pained sound, your lungs compressed into the dirt. a blur of limbs and clothing and debris from the forest floor are the only things you can make out. you feel like every second spent fighting him is like lead, heavy liquid fragments of time. you feel his hand shift on your side, nausea storming your gut. you grab and scratch at any exposed skin you can reach, shoving his face and chest as far away as you can. you feel his hand travel lower, and you scream.

you grab the back of his shirt for some leverage, and during the fighting you tear a hole into the fabric. he growls out a noise, grabbing the arm that just tore his shirt and planting it into the dirt under you. you can feel rocks and twigs biting into your forearm, and you can feel bruises forming around your wrist. the waistband of your shorts snaps back against your waist as he tries to grab it and fails due to your thrashing. your vision is blurry with tears, and your muscles are starting to get sore from the relentless pushing and holding to keep yourself safe. he grabs one of your legs by the back of the knees and lifts it up to your chest. this might be your only way out.

the second he gets your leg high enough you lodge your boot against his body and kick him in the stomach hard enough to wind him. he falls off your body from the impact, crashing down flat on his back. you crawl away on all fours, reaching for your bag, discarded in the chaos. you hear him behind you, hacking, coughing, and shifting against the ground. you dig and shove through your belongings until out falls a can of bear spray you knew had packed just in case you might run into something like this. you prayed you’d never have to use it. you rip the cap off and flip back around, aiming it in his direction, only to see that he has backed away three paces from you.

he’s standing as he was earlier, hunched over, watching you, a blank look covering his face like a shroud. he sees the can of bear spray, and his back straightens up. he reaches a hand around and pats his open back, probably noticing the tear in his shirt. he looks back at you, visibly frustrated. he huffs again, smirking this time. you keep the can steady pointed at him, blinking as seldomly as you can. he takes a step back, then another. the farther he gets the more oxygen you feel returning to your head. 

he scoffs one more time, turns and runs off, his filthy hiking boots stomping against the ground below him. the hole in his shirt waving behind him like a mercy flag, with what little strength you find in your limbs, you lift yourself on your elbows to watch him go, his footprints like bite marks in the gravel. he carries himself away, leaving you lying there, each breath shaking as it escapes you. the can is now discarded at your side, cap still off, primed and ready.

the world goes quiet once again. and it stays like that for

in a moment, you’ll get yourself up. you’ll grab the can, and your bag, and the little parts of your soul scattered onto the ground, and you’ll carry yourself back onto the main path. you’ll make your way back to your car, you’ll get inside, lock the door, and stare at the wheel for an hour before your brain catches up to you. it'll be quiet for about an hour. the birds will chirp, the wind will blow, and you’ll sit and replay it, over and over, the memory burrowing deeper the more you try to rationalize it as something it wasn’t.

the future will be laid out in front of you like a board game. each colorful stop is someone you’ll have to tell this story to, someone else to explain yourself to. but no one will believe you. they won’t believe that it was a bear, a brown hairy bear, that bear. they won’t. 

“there’s no bears in those woods, you’re lying. you’re just making it up for attention.” they’ll say in disbelief. 

they’ll accuse you of defamation and perjury. deceit and treason. you’ll almost hear the gavel banging right then and there. so you’ll shudder and cry for a while. your arms and legs will begin to burn from the cuts and bruises and sunburn from the day. you’ll scratch and cry and moan into the leather of the seats. then you’ll stop. you’ll rasp out a cough, maybe swallow down some bile. you’ll blink once, twice, and then you’ll start your car. 

you’ll go home, and you’ll never see those crawfish, or that riverbank, ever again. you won’t even truly remember how you got home. and as the adrenaline wears off later that night, when you think you’re safe in your bed, you’ll hear that voice again, speaking to you one last time:

there’s a man in the woods, can you see him?