Hhh

There’s Something In These Woods

be seen through the second floor window, despite there being nothing but hay above.

Kids say they hear whispers in the cornfields. The tall ears tower over them. They say they hear everything, spoken or otherwise.

Cows roam around the countryside, they belong to a neighbor. We don't know where the neighbor lives, no one has ever met him.

The deer will stop and stare into the headlights when they run in the road, as deer are prone to do. But it’s different, they look a bit odd, their legs are a little too long, their teeth a little too sharp, and their eyes are slightly empty, lacking something intangible. They walk strangely, like they aren't used to this form. There is something eldritch about how they seem to not remember how they're supposed to act.

Coyotes yip, they sound so close, they scratch at the windows, no matter what floor you sleep on.

There is an electric fence, you can feel it, even from a distance, you can hear the buzz, like dying fluorescence. The adults say that it’s off, that there is no power source that connects to it. The children listen, it seems reasonable, it couldn’t possibly be on. There is no livestock on the other side, so what would it be trying to keep out or keep in, if not cows or pigs or the like?

Certain spots around the farm cause four wheelers and mopeds to cut out, to stall. No one can figure out why. There's a sense of vulnerability when you can’t find a reason and have no means of getting away.

The wind tells stories, but no one cares to listen.

Some nights you will hear cicadas and birds and rustling of grass, until the moment you open the door. An eerie silence will flood your homes and it will seem to take up every space with the lack of being.

They tell us that no matter what you see out the windows at night, ignore it, ignore them.

You must never forget, every single night without fail, to draw the blinds, lock the windows and doors, turn off all the lights and refrain from making too much noise.

When you journey down to the river, come home before the sun sets. When you drive through the forest, be wary, the people you hear don't need help, they aren't people at all. Many have made that mistake and for many it was a fatal one.

There is something strange about this little town, to which I visit every summer. Though it is never voiced, seemingly out of fear, we all agree there is an old and dangerous evil out there, and it should not be disturbed. It can be seen in the way the townsfolk stare as you pass. The way the streets empty when the sirens sound every night and fill again after the church bells ring in the morning. You can feel it in the way everyone obeys the same unwritten rules. My grandparents live on a large farm, secluded to the point of isolation. The neighbors lacked any warmth and their visits as few and far between as their plots of land. My grandparent’s generational home is set up as such: The main house is in the center and a long gravel driveway leads out towards the low maintenance road, to the right of the house is the machinery barn and the workshop, to the left is the garage. Out back things are on a more spacious scale. A large corn field seems to stretch indefinitely over rolling hills. The top of the frontmost treeline of the shelter belt can just be made out over the stocks. The backyard consists of dying grass and a line of thick pine trees to block the wind and sounds from the forest and beyond.

When I muster the energy to make the journey through the cornfield, I sometimes enjoy laying in the forest, only during the day that is. It’s not advisable to be out in the forest before dawn or after dusk, or anywhere, but the forest especially so. Though my grandfather fumes at the fact, I like to lay in the shelter belt which is set at the far end of the corn field. It’s just me, my grandmother, and my grandfather at the house. I go to lie with the trees when I’m lonely. I feel at peace sleeping with the birches watching over me. There’s a presence in the woods, an unexplainable presence. Not necessarily warm but not malicious either. It sends the occasional chills down one’s spine, but company is company.

As I mentioned, I lay on the ground, hard but still inviting. The slight cold, a respite from the heat of the midday sun. The leaves work as a cushion, softening under me. I can feel the pulse of the earth beneath me. The wind blows rhythmically, like breathing, moving the leaves back and forth. It’s comforting. I roll the thin jacket I was carrying into a ball and rest my head on it. I like to close my eyes and let the warmth and sense of peace wash over me, and sleep in the arms of the ancient flora. It helps to know we're just a small blip in history, nothing we do is of consequence. Some dislike that thought, but I find solace in the fact that my mistakes don't mean a thing. The ever connected mother nature was here long before us, and will be here long after we're gone. The trees, old and wise, will eventually watch the fall of this society and the start of anew.

I enjoy watching the leaves move with the wind and form shaped above me. If you stare for too long you’ll see faces, pictures, stories even, in the dying foliage. It's dry outside, not uncomfortably so. There's an indescribable scent of belonging, unable to be placed and all too fleeting. The breeze carries the smell of plants and nature, something primitive that you cannot put your finger on, something old and undisturbed. Something to be protected, worshiped, but at the very least obeyed.

It’s warm outside but the air is a kind of crisp that bites, so much so that it leaves an earthy taste in your mouth. When I close my eyes, I still know where everything is. I can hear the zephyr of these woods whistling through the miniature plants and towering trees. It brushes past my ears and pushes my hair. I find comfort in the fact that I'm not alone, a sort of self-destructive curiosity plagues me.

Society is cruel and unaccepting, full of people, each individual. The forest feels like one whole living thing. If you lay with the vines and twigs long enough, the verdure and fungi take you as their own. I’ve never had the privilege of that though. I wish to be put there when I'm gone. I want to live on as a part of this infinitely connected family. I want flowers to grow in my lungs replacing the air, I want my ribs to be wrapped in vines, I want fungi to grow where my thoughts used to be, I want my heart to be taken and put to better use. I wish to be there when I’m gone. How easy and peaceful it would be to simply not think. But, for now, I’m here and I should start to walk, to get inside before sunset.

I should, I really should, but today my thoughts are stronger than ever, I feel something calling me, begging me not to go. I wonder what would happen if I continued to lay here, after the stars came out and the sun dipped below the horizon. Curiosity and empathy gets the best of me. I lean against a tree and listen as the cicadas sing their songs, the moon shines down. I cannot see the house from here, nor the light from it. The stars look exquisite with no man-made pollution. I close my eyes, just for a moment.

When I open them the sense of company is gone, the cicadas are silent, the only sound is the wind blowing against the branches on the trees. An unnatural chill permeates through the air. I feel a pit in my stomach, and start to second guess the rationality of my plan, which is starting to seem dangerous. For the first time in all my years I feel terror, true primal fear. My heart races. There is something here with me, no longer placid. Its presence is hostile, malevolent, bloodthirsty!

I stand up and make a run for it, tripping over branches, just a few more steps tillthe forest edge, just a few more steps till safety. I’ll be fine if I can just reach the cornfield. Time passes as I attempt to keep running, one minute, then two, then five. My feet slip in the mud, roots seem to reach out of nowhere, grabbing my ankles. My face stings and salty tears leak into small cuts from branches. My lungs burn and my heart races. I’m still in the forest. How?! I collapse to my knees, arms wrapped around me. The sense of dread mixes with hopelessness. I’m stuck here in the forest and I’m going to die. I know, I don’t know how, but I know. I’m really going to die here.

I start to breathe faster as I hear steps behind me. I look back and try to scream, but my voice dies in my throat. Tears roll down my face and I try to get back up, but my legs have given out, my whole body shakes and I feel so weak, like the very life is being sucked out of me. The thing stares into my very soul. It makes me feel vulnerable like it sees into my mind, under the layers of my skin. I look down at my forearm and something like parasites or vines or worms crawl under my skin. Frantic, I claw at my wrists and scream in terror, nails scraping off layers of skin. Not wanting to keep my eyes off of the creature, I raise my head. Its eyes are pits sunken into its decaying head. I cover my mouth with a trembling, dirt covered hand. The monster is towering over me, its head a skull of some sort, its body an emaciated, elongated mass of bones and flesh, that's not right for this world. Its ribs are covered in some sort of sinewy muscle-like layer. Its bones protrude in odd angles. Its arms are stretched and drag on the forest floor. Its tissue is sloughing off as it steps forward, revealing a hollow abdomen and black sludge the consistency of tar. Maggots wriggle through its forearms. It’s rotted from the inside out.

Then the sickly sweet smell of death washes over me, nauseating. A wave of primordial disgust and fear comes with the odor like none other, like decaying pungent meat and fecal matter. Its insatiable hunger is so palpable it’s a solid real thing. I’m frozen, the sense of terror, helplessness. I feel so small, insignificant in front of this horrifying thing. Instead of fight or flight which I know would do nothing, my body chooses to freeze. Not a single thing I can do now would save my life. I become a trembling statue of a girl, not a living breathing thing. The fear completely dehumanizes me. I’m not a person, I'm not a child, I'm a toy, I'm its prey.

It tilts its head, the huge antlers protruding from its skull dripping with something that makes me sick. A visceral feeling of dread overtakes me. The way it leans to the side is similar to the way a dog when you talk to them, almost harmless; But then its jaw unhinges and it smiles revealing rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth. It knows it's going to get me. It’s playing with me, it’s amused. It pulls its pointed claws back and strikes me in the abdomen. With so little effort it slams me into a tree at least ten feet away. I can’t breathe, I look down and a rib is sticking out from my chest. Panic. Where its hand had struck me, long gashes ripped through my shirt.

There's something hanging down, laying beside me, pink and wet, almost glossy. I try to stand and start to, despite the pain, hobble away. There's this horrible pulling feeling that wrenches my gut. That thing is still dragging, but it’s longer now. The terrifying notion finally hits me, that’s my stomach hanging out of me. I gag and double over, throwing up clots of blood, maggots crawl around in the piles of vomit. I fall and look behind me. Sobbing and trying to piece words together begging for my life, but everything seems incoherent. The world is getting smaller. It lets out a roaring sound resembling a laugh. It grabs my arm and lifts me into the air like a doll. It touches its claws to a point and makes contact with my head.

Everything gets warm for a moment, like a nice hot shower, then all too quickly frigidly cold, like hypothermia and pins and needles. My arms won't listen to me, I can't feel my body. It’s horrifying but I can't scream. I’m nauseous and heavy, my vision starts to narrow, the edges blurring, all the colors disappear. Then it goes dark. All I can think is I don't want to die. I don’t feel the pain I had a minute ago, I don't feel anything. I can’t feel anything. The sounds of nature fade into tinnitus in my ears then it's so quiet, a morbid silence. I start to fade, my very mind shutting off, I’m slipping away. Everything gets more dull and dark and quiet, until there's nothing left.

There was a body found in the shelter belt, hidden among the trees. They say she had tried to run away, drunk or on some sort of narcotics, like most teenagers these days. They say she tripped, hit her head on a rock. Sometimes we see her walking through the foliage with a large fist-sized hole running completely through her forehead. It was not and is not plausible, nor does it obey any laws of nature most people think they know. Despite the repulsion, we don't question it. We

never questioned it.