Isabel and I have been friends since fourth grade. We were two people from two separate worlds, way out of the other’s orbit, until they came together and we realized how compatible we were. Through high school, our favorite activity was hiking and camping together in the local forests in our state. The most specific I’m willing to get is that we’re the north-eastern United States.
When this event took place, it was June, and we had both graduated from our dismal high school in our sleepy town. I think it was this that greatly influenced our decision to go camping for a week in the wilderness. Our ideal lives had our paths diverging far from each other. And for years, that was always fine. Like most childhood friends, we were under the impression that no matter where we went, we would always find one another. We lived by the motto all best friends live by: ride or die, friends until the end. Isabel aspired to be a film director; I was applying for colleges to embark on my lifelong passion for teaching. But now reality loomed before us, and we agreed on one more adventure to do us justice.
Our parents, admittedly, weren’t keen on us going out for as long as we were. Even though at this point, we were legal adults, we still lived at home. But we told them everything would be fine, the way it was on all of our other trips. And, though reluctant, they let us. And so, with our equipment crammed in Isabel’s black honda, we set off.
I don’t remember how long we hiked. Long enough for us to find a clearing a few miles off in the woods, and as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, we decided here was a suitable spot to set up camp. The light was limited as it was, and through the dense foliage overhead, it wasn’t a smart idea to keep hiking in the darkness.
Setting up our tents, we laughed and joked about the previous years in school, and even now as I’m writing this, nearly thirty years later, it’s heartwarming. We were so young, and we still felt like we were on top of the world the way all teenagers do, especially when you’re at the cusp of full-on adulthood.
After this point, my memories become hazy. I’m sure we sat around a fire for a while, but it’s gone to me. All I recall is waking up to the sound of footsteps around my tent, heavy and deliberate, snapping sticks and crunching the leaves. I tried to go back to sleep and found I couldn’t. It soon got annoying, and I sat up. “Izzy?”
The steps outside ceased. “No, not Izzy,” the voice came from beyond the mesh walls. “She’s not here anymore.”
Immediately fear gripped my heart, and I remember the way my fingernails dug into my palms. “What do you mean?”
The tone of the speaker didn’t change. I remember the strange sensation that flowed over me as it spoke. And I say it because that’s the only way to describe it, really. The voice wasn’t deep enough to confirm it was a man, but it wasn’t too light to confirm it was a woman. It was just a smooth, silky, monotone voice of an entity. “I’m here to tell you everything,” it said.
As the thing said this, I found my fear abated into strange tranquility. I can’t describe it. It’s almost like laughing gas if you’ve ever been administered that substance for a dental procedure. Everything was just… slower, and I found I didn’t care much. Which was absurd, even today, considering there is a person outside my tent, and Isabel and I were alone for miles. But honest to God, I can’t remember feeling disturbed in the slightest. “Anything?” I asked.
“Anything,” it confirmed. “Like your father, for instance?”
I remember feeling stirred by this, and for a moment I was almost snapped out of whatever stupor had befallen me. “You never knew your father,” it said. “John Coleman, age 24 when you were born. Yes, I know John well. He gifted you your adventurous spirit.”
“Where is he?” I whispered.
I was surprised it heard me. “He’s gone,” it replied. “Gone shortly after you were born. Fatherhood was not for him, I’m afraid.” It replied, voice pitched low as though I was a child. “If you’d like, we could go search for him.”
This is where my memory fades again. The next thing I remember is standing in the middle of a patch of dense trees with voices yelling all around. When I turned, I could see men in hiking gear running toward me, asking where I had been and what had happened. Perhaps still dazed, I stared at them. I was confused. It had only been a day since Izzy and I had left. I remember the voice of one of the searchers clearly. “No,” he had said, grabbing my arm with a light of concern in his eye. “Will, it’s been six days.”
And then it seemed the daze had shattered, and I was coherent. I remember registering how they all stared at me now. Horrified, disturbed, afraid.
They led me back to the campsite. In whatever trance I was in, I had managed to wander ten miles from the campsite. When we found what remained of it, I remember running to the nearest bush and heaving though there was nothing to come up. A blood bath awaited us, the tents trashed, our gear strewn about. Isabel was nowhere in sight.
The hospital and the endless interrogations are all a blur to me. Accused of her murder until they dropped it, realizing there was nothing on me or left as evidence to indicate that I had harmed Isabel. And eventually, everyone seemed to come to the consensus that I had swallowed some hallucinogenic berry that made me believe I had to search for my damned absent father. And I was willing to let them believe that. Because I know they can never be told the truth.
I’m hellbent on it and I know no one will believe me. It talked to Isabel, too. And it too told her everything. And then, it told her too much.