When I was a young boy, I spent much of my time at my aunt and uncle’s house. My mother worked often, and my aunt was always willing to babysit for her. After school, on weekends, even entire summers I spent there, playing outside and helping my uncle with work around the yard. I have so many good memories of that place, but my favorite part had always been the massive forest surrounding the house, enveloping the property in an air of mystery and excitement for my vibrant imagination. A dirt road driveway snaked its way through the forest, slowly ascending a low hill where the house sat at the zenith. The trees of the endless forest were tall and thick, with branches that splintered out from the trunk in fractals reaching up to the heavens. The air itself smelled of damp, musky wood mixed with undertones of the smell of decay that dwelled beneath the leaves which comprised the forest’s floor. Unseen reaches echoed with the sounds of distant life, though I rarely experienced any of it myself outside of the odd squirrel here and there.
I used to explore those woods all the time, creating worlds to take part in as I did. Often I would pick up a stick, knowing in my heart that it was truly a magic sword which could only be wielded by the brave, and I would fight off the monsters who threatened my woodland kingdom. When I came upon an unfamiliar part of the forest, I imagined myself an explorer discovering the ruins of a lost and forgotten civilization buried deep in the growth. The only thing I seemed to lack was another person to share these places, another warrior or explorer to adventure with and partake in the glory of victory.
I never went into the forest at night during those years. It was vast—impossibly vast, my aunt would tell me—and there was no way to know what lurked in the shadows. So even on the clearest nights when the trees invited the full moon into their domain, bathing the landscape in pale blue light, I would not venture beyond the threshold. This unease, this uncertainty… this fear lasted well into my teenage years, even as I played more video games and went on more dates, and spent less time adventuring in the forest.
The first time I went into the forest at night, I was about to enter my senior year of high school. My aunt’s dog, Pretzel, had escaped into the woods and I chased after him. He was a smaller dog, some sort of terrier mixed with a cornucopia of other breeds, with sandy brown fur that faded to darker brown near his belly and paws. This made him especially difficult to see in the forest that, even in the heart of summertime, seemed to be perpetuated in autumn. I ran carefree through the forest, my feet deftly picking out safe spots to land even in the total darkness of the night. All of my adventuring had left me so familiar with the landscape that it was as natural for me to dodge low branches and thickets of overgrowth as it was to move freely through open space. It felt like I had spent hours chasing the sound of Pretzel’s excited paws dashing through fallen leaves and broken sticks, and eventually I had to stop for a breath. I wasn’t totally unfit then, having played plenty of sports when I was younger, but it had been a long time since I’d chosen the gym over a controller or a book.
“Pretzel!” I shouted after finally catching my breath, my resounding voice seeming to fill the emptiness surrounding me. “Come here, boy! Come here, Pretzel!” I tried to whistle and click and pat, I tried summoning the dog in every way I’d ever known how, but still he did not come to me.
There was an eerie silence that fell over the forest once I stopped calling for Pretzel. It was almost as if the world had been frozen in time. Even the usual sounds of the forest which I had come to tune out were absent, and it felt for all the world that I was entirely alone in this sentient wasteland. I could feel the throes of panic encroaching upon me, my heart beating so incredibly fast that I felt sure it might burst from my chest at any moment. I took a few deep breaths and began to pace, focusing on the sound I intentionally made. My feet crushed the brittle leaves underneath with a satisfying and comforting crunch, overpowering the oppressive silence.
My panic abated after a few moments and I prepared to face that intimidating silence with all the bravery I could muster. As the last whispers of the crunching leaves faded away, they were replaced by another sound. A familiar sound—of paws hurrying through the forest like they were trying to escape a prison. I took off after what I hoped was Pretzel, running full-sprint and trying my best to echo-locate the beloved pup as the darkness around me seemed to grow thicker and thicker. When I did manage to catch up to the dog, it was because he had stopped running. We were in a small glade, and though the moonlight should have been vibrant within its circle, it was the darkest part of the forest I had seen yet. Pretzel was stood still near the center, bristled and growling at something lurking beyond my sight.
At first, my attention was focused on the dog, his growls tinged with terror. I stared at Pretzel for what seemed like a long while, feeling his own fear seep into me. Paranoia began to take hold—I felt like we were being watched by an unseen voyeur who reveled in our anxiety. My eyes darted around wildly, and I even turned in quick circles to be sure that I had taken stock of the whole glade. Finally, I noticed what it was that had Pretzel on guard. There were two trees near the edge of the glade—barren, pale, sick-looking things that had grown in such a way that their crooked, spindly branches had come together to form a distorted arch. Even then, it stood out to me as some kind of gateway. A door into the void. Inside that door, radiating from it and filling the place with its emptiness was the darkest darkness I had ever seen. A darkness that seemed to suffocate the light surrounding it, devouring everything that dared come near until it had consumed the world.
I could not see through that darkness. It was as solid as stone, though when I recovered my senses and moved around it, I could see beyond the trees from either of their open sides. That darkness seemed to call to me, though. Whispers emanated from it, quiet and personal promises of comfort and peace were I simply to step inside the gate. It was so powerfully alluring that I could feel my feet yearning to walk toward it, my body aching for its embrace even as all of my instinct resisted. Involuntarily, I reached out with my left hand, perhaps hoping I could merely touch the void and be satisfied that I’d answered its call. My hand seemed to hover in nothingness, alone in an infinite expanse, grasping at something that was not there.
Pretzel barked—a loud, harsh yip that broke through the now-cacophonous whispers—and I could feel the jolt of shock pass through every cell of my being as I broke free of the call. I shook the trance of the archway from my head and scooped up the little dog, his entire body vibrating with the low rumble of his fiercest growls and persistent barks. We made way toward the house, my heart pounding and my mind filled with terror as I rushed through the forest as quickly as I could. The darkness seemed almost gray now in comparison to the stark blackness from the gate. In the shadows I could see figures approaching with jerky, unnatural movements that could have been something from a low-budget stop-motion movie, though I relent that this may have been the paranoia playing tricks on my eyes.
The forest felt like a maze then, my former familiarity lost in the all-consuming terror. No matter how far I traveled, my surroundings looked exactly the same. Tree after tree all leered at me. If they had had mouths they would have been stretched violently in wicked grins. I could feel that the forest was taunting me, I knew that it was delighting in my fear. All the while, Pretzel growled in my arms, doing what he could to protect me from this openly hostile environment.
I became certain that I would never find my way out of the forest. Pretzel seemed to sense this too, as his growls and barks had been reduced to a quiet whine. The shadow figures seemed to be flashing past all around us, lingering on the edges of the deepest parts of the darkness. I stopped and shut my eyes, feeling lost and helpless and wishing for the light of the sun, the light of the moon, the light of even a single beam to burn a path through the wretched forest. A sound like rushing wind filled my ears, though I could feel nothing against my exposed skin. When I opened my eyes, the shadow figures were gone, and the darkness had seemed to retreat slightly. Shining through what remained of that oblivion, was a speck of distant light. My legs moved on their own, and I ran toward it, Pretzel bouncing in my arms as I propelled us toward salvation.
When we finally broke through the tree line, my aunt was stood on the porch shining a large, bright flashlight through the stretch of yard which separated the back of the house from the forest’s edge, calling out for the dog and me. I came running up onto the porch, my arms wrapped tightly around Pretzel and my chest heaving with painful pants. My aunt was startled and worried, but I didn’t tell her about the strange silence, or the gate of darkness, or that her light had been a guiding beacon which allowed us to escape the forest that night. She was thankful to have us returned safely, and I was thankful to be in the clutches of the familiar once again. We didn’t need to discuss things, I suppose, because she never did ask any more questions about it.