D’you ever feel like the forest is alive?
I’d laughed when Kieran had posed the question a few weeks earlier.
It’s a place full of living things, Kier. Of course you’d think that.
Replaying the conversation we’d had that day, my face crumpled into a cringe. The response I’d given was shallow, telling of ignorance that stemmed from a lack of thought.
All I really had to do was give his words a little more weight. Sure, our town was full of life too, but it lacked the same sentience the forest radiated on the fated evening I’d ventured into it alone.
Perhaps it was because of the way the amber light of the Sun settled upon the trees, or how the wind jostled the leaves and whipped them about carelessly. How the birds twittered away in branches above, which, on occasion, would part to reveal striking hues of fiery orange painted across the sky, with clouds stroked delicately against the backdrop in feathery trails. The only unnatural sound breaking the serenity was that of my plodding feet against the earth, and I felt as though I’d entered more than a place, but a presence; that of Mother Nature herself.
It was late, I was aware of that fact. Kieran’s sudden unavailability had scalded my temper, and I’d paced around in my room for far too long weighing up whether to even visit the clearing. In the end, a busy week to come joined forces with a sheer need to seize petty vengeance, and I’d grabbed a pair of bolt cutters and a torch before storming into the forest. I’d left my phone at home having forgotten to charge it, making it dead weight for an adventure that I intended on keeping light.
That glade was a place both of us had a claim to. We’ve spent many hours in the woods, yes, but to find what we did in a corner so inconspicuous, that made it all the more special. Like crossing paths with hidden history manifest, perched on the edge of the wild.
Its contents, though, were a matter of first come, first serve. Kieran would reach second, that much I’d make sure of.
And so, bristling with feverish energy, I’d trekked through the trees for hours on end, at first lost in my thoughts, which remained broiling with frustration at how events had panned out. Anger, however, is a tiring state of mind, and so as time trickled on, my awareness of the environment grew, and soon consumed the entirety of my consciousness. The irritation gave way to wonder, and in that trance, I’d wandered ahead until the clearing made its presence known.
It wasn’t a particularly large space, as unassuming as its surroundings, save for the lone oak tree that stood solemnly at the center. And yet, even then, most souls would have trudged past it with nothing more than a mild acknowledgment of its peculiarity, were it not for the structure nestled in the shelter of the oak’s foliage.
A treehouse.
Sat on a platform posed on the thickest of the tree’s limbs, the structure itself was unremarkable. Composed of ash-colored planks stroked with patches of damp, it had no windows or openings bar the one at its front, a simple doorway devoid of a door that permitted both entrants and the elements alike. All things considered, its defining oddness was simply in its location, which could only be described as beyond the back of beyond. Even Google Maps had a hard time depicting these woods as anything more than green, giving no hint as to what lay beneath the canopy.
Still, maps mean naught if you’ve already reached your journey’s end.
I slid out of my wonderment as I approached the base of the tree and rubbed my hands together, exhaling as I looked up. Patting at my pockets, I found the torch and cutters remained in place. My ears perked and I concentrated for a few moments, listening for any incongruous sounds.
Nothing.
Nerves settled, I shook my hands and placed a foot on the first plank while reaching for the third. Twenty of them were evenly spaced along the trunk and rose to meet the foot of the treehouse. Grip firm, I began the ascent. Despite their apparent age, the planks were sturdy, and I scaled them quickly. Upon reaching the last one, I clambered onto the top and pulled my lower half into the room before quickly righting myself and studying the space.
There are many notions the human mind cannot fathom. The scale of the universe, for instance, or the true nature of dreams. Some might even argue that our brains, the very tools we use to think and act, are beyond our comprehension.
On the other hand, there exist those ideas that are so hard-coded into the way we perceive and interact with the world that they never fail in their verity.
One of those, arguably the most staunchly loyal of them all, manifests itself as that forbidding feeling of discomfort. Of knowing that something is inarguably wrong.
Standing in that treehouse, the signs quietly emerged. The arrangement of the space was still familiar. The musty smell of the interior filled my nostrils and the floor still creaked as I shifted my weight. Papers were strewn across the ground, covered in grime that concealed the strange symbols and runes scrawled across the pages. In the corner to the right, I glanced over the chest, which remained coated in a film of dust, padlock fastened over its latch.
The Sun had fallen beneath the treeline as I took a few steps forward. Long shadows danced across the wall and I grabbed my flashlight, flicking it on ahead of the darkness that would soon befall the forest.
It was under the light that the anomalies finally began to find my eye.
I spotted a raggy blue sleeping bag in the far corner, and a pit grew in my stomach.
My memory is always shrouded in an impermeable fog, but occasionally it parts, revealing images of clarity. The sight of the bag brought an image of my previous visit with Kieran to the fore, and my mind’s eye vividly beheld the lack of that same bag. Beside it was a dirty plastic bowl, utensils still in place, and a bottle of water.
A string of muttered curses flowed from my mouth as the torch darted between new details. Faint boot prints of soil made themselves known, as did a scattering of broken twigs and ripped leaves in corners of the room. When I settled the beam upon the chest again, my eyes went wide. Breaking the layer of dust near the latch were patches in the shape of hands, and although the lock was still in place, I’d missed the fact that it was hanging slightly open.
My jaw went slack as the realization dawned upon me. Someone was living here.
Now, most people in this scenario would let common sense dictate their next course of action.
Signs of activity in a part of the woods no normal soul should be gracing? There’s no scenario in which this ends well.
And yet, despite the glaring concerns bursting to the fore and the disquiet bubbling its way up my chest, I let pride step in the way of rationale.
Kieran has to know what he’s missing out on. Whatever’s inside that chest is my way of proving it.
Reproach me as you like. I’ve already scolded myself plenty reflecting on that mistake. But an unfastened padlock that was once firmly shut is one of the strongest tempters in the known universe, and as you might imagine, I was falling hook, line, and sinker.
I slid over to the chest and hovered over it for a moment before removing the padlock from the clasp, placing it on the floor beside me while I lifted the lever out of place. Breathing deeply, I set the torch alongside the lock and placed my hands on either side of the lid, preparing to lift it.
And then the footfalls reached my ears.
They were light at first, a half-sound in the distance that you’d more often than not dismiss as a fault of the senses. However, having already relinquished my role of explorer for that of the intruder, my values had swiftly changed. Awareness became my foremost virtue, and under those circumstances, your senses become the most precious weapon in your arsenal, allies in the thick of danger.
You don’t disregard your most trusted allies.
Snatching the torch off the floor and turning off its light, I shifted away from the trunk and considered my options.
The most obvious one would be coming clean. Admitting my presence and hoping the stranger would be forgiving enough to let me go. The treehouse offered no hiding place, nor did it offer any alternative exits.
Despite this, a nagging voice kept my tongue clasped between my teeth.
For a person to be sheltering this deep in the woods was a worrying sign, suggestive of a vagrant in the best of cases. Had I brought some cash, it may’ve been enough to win the soul over, but my pockets only carried the bare minimum as needed for the excursion. When I’d planned for a venture into the woods in search of a dilapidated tree hut, money was below the last thing on my mind.
I considered the prospect of running but quickly discarded the thought. Making a beeline away from the clearing would be fated to fail. Anyone approaching the tree would see a figure scampering down it and probably give chase.
The steps were growing closer as I rubbed my forehead, desperately trying to coax more solutions from the depths of my skull. Jumping from this height was out of the question, with the hopeful outcome being a single broken bone, and the grim one being multiple. Darkness had crept up from the corners of the room and was engulfing the treehouse, which brought a new idea to the fore.
If I duck behind the chest, I might avoid detection for long enough to slip out behind the person.
I tiptoed back over to the chest’s side and slowly began to move it, attempting to create a small gap against the wall for my body to duck into. It was heavy, but with enough effort, it started to give way, and I winced as I pushed with more force to create the nook faster.
The plan was progressing passably until a grating noise escaped from under the chest and stabbed through the silence.
The footfalls stopped.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whispered, clenching my eyes shut in frustration. I’d acted all too late, dooming my one shot at stealthing out of a mess that was now spiralling out of hand. The abrupt halting of the footsteps left the air empty, and a rising tension took its place.
Thunk.
I shuffled closer to the entrance and cocked my head toward the opening.
Thunk.
It was a steady sound…like a mallet against wood.
Thunk.
The stranger was climbing the planks.
A tingling sensation crept up my spine, inching higher as the treads grew closer. I had to act now. There was nothing left to lose.
I hung the upper half of my body outside of the entrance and spoke with as much steadiness in my voice as I could muster. Dusk was giving way to night, so I switched on the flashlight and held the beam away from the stranger to show them I meant no harm. From what little light the darkness permitted, I could discern the shape of a male, with tattered, fraying hair atop his crown.
“Hello!” I blurted. “I know this is odd, but I can explain. I discovered this place a few weeks ago and thought it was abandoned. Turns out it wasn’t.” Chuckling, I watched as he stopped climbing, gaze still fixed on the next rung.
“I didn’t take anything, it’s all still here. If you don’t mind, once you reach the top I’ll take my leave, and you won’t have to worry about me coming back.”
I looked down at the figure expectantly, but he just kept watching the plank.
Shifting the torchlight a little closer, I caught the outline of his clothes, which were as disheveled as the room behind me.
“Uh, you alright there?” I could hear my heartbeat rising in my ears as the seconds slipped by, the person still motionless. Any semblance of warmth I’d projected earlier was rapidly seeping from my conscience, replaced by frustration that stemmed from an undercurrent of fear. As it rose from my chest and formed a rock in my gullet, I buckled to my nerves and pointed the torch directly at the stranger.
His head jerked up to meet the light.
Rabid. That’s the only word that I can conjure to accurately describe his countenance. Stretched taut across his face was a broad grin that barred yellowing teeth and charcoal gums. The veins in his bulging eyes were thick and crimson, and stabbing pupils leered in my direction from underneath plucked eyebrows. His scraggy mane was scarred by deep and wide gouges, which also laced his forehead, giving him the appearance of a mutt fresh from the thick of a dogfight.
By all accounts, any humanity in the man had drained and given way to a primeval terror. A force beyond nature, beyond reason. A force that was now scuttling up the rungs with ragged gasps, knowing full well that the prey had stumbled into the beast’s den.
A strangled scream broke from my throat and I staggered back in horror. My chest was heaving and my knees felt like they would buckle as the scampering drew nearer, before a hand emerged on the ledge in the form of thin knuckles that gave way to pointed fingers and cracking nails.
Fight or flight washed over me in that instant, and with nowhere to flee, my jaw tightened as I concluded that the only exit would be opened through out-thinking the man. The stranger’s beaten frame suggested he was well acquainted with scraps, meaning a fistfight was all but guaranteed to end in bruising defeat.
That’s why, within seconds of seeing that first-hand cross into the threshold of the treehouse, I launched forward and stomped against it with every ounce of strength my foot could deliver.
As boot met bone and flesh, an inhuman cry erupted from the man’s maw and he yanked his arm back before dropping down a few rungs. He bore his eyes against mine and pursed his cracked lips, his head shaking with rage while I raised my foot, threatening to drop it if he dared try the climb again.
“Listen man, I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to go home. You get down off the tree and I’ll be on my way, and we won’t have to see each other till kingdom come. Just let me through.”
But he didn’t budge. He stayed perched on the ladder, simmering under the light but refusing to cede ground.
The world around the torch had taken on the deepest shade of black, the Moon absent from the sky, and stars scared to offer more than their pinpricks against the firmament. Aside from the occasional buffet that rattled the oak and rustled its branches, nothing attempted to breach the silence. The woods were asleep, their sentience in a slumber. All that remained awake were the two souls on the oak tree.
A raspy voice snapped from where the light hung. The man spoke in creaks.
“You will be enough. Mala will adore you.”
He dropped from the ladder and plunged into the dark before I could follow him with the torch, the sound of strides against the earth receding into the trees behind the clearing. I tried following the noise with my light, but it revealed nothing beyond the silhouette of the forest.
The words he’d uttered clattered around my brain. The name Mala meant nothing to me, but the way he spoke hinted at sacrifice, which sent a shudder across my skin.
I held the beam steady against the foot of the tree, but as the minutes passed, the stranger failed to reappear. My breathing started to shallow, and though my senses remained alert, nothing broke through the veil of quiet or shroud of dark to cause immediate concern.
Exhaling deeply, I held the torch between my mouth and swung around to descend the ladder.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Given the sheer ability we as a species have to consider and concern ourselves over every possible outcome, having perspective of the past is the perfect perch from which to judge, applaud, critique, or confirm our actions of a bygone time.
I have an abundance of hindsight today. Reflecting on the moment I resolved to leave the treehouse, I can say with unbridled confidence that it was perhaps the worst possible thing I could’ve chosen to do. Though it would’ve been tiresome, waiting out the sunrise would’ve given me a significantly safer opportunity to get away.
The fact is, my confidence in how I handled the stranger left me with an undue amount of courage, and that courage led me quite blindly into the trees, where any lurking predator would only have to watch as I trampled through the wood in the direction of home. The moment I faltered, I would be theirs.
When my feet hit the earth, I swung the beam of the torch around, preparing to bolt. All the light met was inky dark, and nothing made itself known. On the ground were bootprints receding into the shadows, but they were pointed away from the direction I’d arrived from.
Huffing, I accepted the risk and started back in the direction of the town. While I’d taken my time in reaching the treehouse, I spared no energy for the return, my legs pumping underneath me as they struck the ground and led me forward in a rhythmic motion.
I’d run for over a dozen minutes devoid of disturbance when the torch battery gave out.
“Crap.”
I slapped the torch with my palm a few times and it flickered on and off in spasms before relieving itself of its duty, leaving me to navigate the remainder of the way without much more than my mental map.
Slowing my running and watching the ground, I stayed alert, careful of any rocks or roots that could stymie my escape. I’d never experienced such an overwhelming blackness, and it kept an unease rippling through my veins despite the distance I’d covered.
Eyes rendered ineffective, my steps and breathing filled my conscience. I kept them in focus while I ran.
That was until a blur flew into my peripheral vision and rammed into my side.
The stranger had returned.
I yelled in vain as the figure and I tumbled onto the ground, rolling until we struck the foot of a tree. Pinning my legs, he swiftly strung his hands around my throat, the whites of his eyes dully glowing with wicked delight. I scratched at his paws, desperately hoping that they would loosen.
When that failed, I switched strategies and began to claw at his arms instead.
Digging with my nails, I drew rivulets of blood that trickled down his skin, but at the sight of those thin burgundy streams, his grin stretched fuller as a frothy laughter split from his mouth.
He pressed harder against my neck, and I gasped as my vision began to blur, extremities feeling distant while my head lolled slightly backward.
I had all but resigned myself to a breathless demise when I remembered the bolt cutters that remained nestled in my pocket. These weren’t the large sort in case you’re wondering. The padlock didn’t look like it needed much break, so I’d brought a smaller pair, an impromptu decision that probably saved my life.
Summoning the morsels of energy that I could still muster, I reached into my left pocket and grabbed the cutters, opening them slightly before driving the steel ends into the stranger’s abdomen. His face twisted with anguish and he briefly weakened his hold on my neck as he searched for the source of the attack. That gave me the opening I needed, and I swung the cutters again, landing in the same spot, driving them further into his flesh. This time, he rolled to the side and clenched his stomach, freeing my throat, which twitched as I gasped for air. The chill of the night ran into my lungs, and I took a few more breaths before staggering onto my feet and scanning the stranger.
He had rolled into a fetal position, hand clasped over the incisions I’d drawn upon him. His chest rattled, and in the darkness, I could barely discern his cupped hands lathered in a dark-coloured liquid.
Seconds passed with inaction from the stranger and myself, before I shakily sighed, regathered my bearings, and resumed my sprint.
A few minutes more, and the forest gave way to a new sound.
Footsteps. Bearing down on me.
This time, I swung to a stop and, bolt cutters in hand, I squared my shoulders, preparing to lunge at my pursuer.
I only let my arms drop when a flood of light poured through the wood. Another flashlight.
“Jase? Is that you?”
“…Kier?”
The beam came closer before Kieran’s scrawny figure slipped out of the shadows.
“Where were you man? They’ve got a search party together in the neighborhood. Everyone’s losing their minds.”
He studied me worriedly as I hastily brushed off the dirt that clung to my jumper and jeans.
“I told them about the clearing but nobody thought you’d be daft enough to actually try visiting it so late.” He motioned at me before continuing. “What happened? You’ve got these marks on your neck and…” he trailed off, a look of confusion covering his face, “Are those bolt-cutters?”
I glared at the ground and spoke quietly. “The treehouse was never abandoned.”
His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t press any further. Silence reigned in the space between us, only parting when Kieran brushed past me and began on the path back home. I wordlessly followed. The night ticked by with the sound of a familiar pair of boots crunching against the leaves and earth, settling the last of my nerves. We made it back without any undue interruptions.
The local PD were called during the search, and they interrogated me the next day. When I described the man in the woods, the officers exchanged an uneasy look, but they let me go with nothing more than a stern word about exploring the wrong sorts of places.
In case you’re wondering, I buried the bolt cutters. I didn’t want anything to do with them or the memories they carried.
The weeks went by, and slowly, normalcy descended over me in its indifferent embrace. I relished it after the chaos of that night, but, despite the restored peace, an itch I couldn’t scratch still crept over my skin. It demanded an answer to the questions that I only had time to consider once I’d returned from the woods; ponderings about the aberration of a man, his crazed ramblings and, above all else, the contents of that chest.
Months later, in the height of summer, with the Sun casting its rays of guarding light for more hours of the evening, I traveled to the clearing once more. Not wanting a repeat of the last attempt, I brought with me a spare torch, pocket knife, and charged phone.
Oh, and Kieran. He insisted on tagging along, and though I didn’t let him know it, I was thankful for the company.
“You were right. About the forest-being-alive thing.” I’d told him as we approached our stop.
He gave me a puzzled look but smiled warmly before pointing ahead.
“There she is,” he said.
We entered the glade and glared at the treehouse.
It remained as I’d left it all those evenings ago. Dingy, small, ghostly in nature.
Before I could speak, Kieran started toward it.
“What if he’s still there?” I questioned, but he continued, undeterred by the prospect.
Almost as though something had caught his eye.
Sure enough, he came to a halt at the base of the oak and crouched over an irregularity half-hidden behind the far side of the tree’s trunk.
I jogged up beside him and eyeballed the object of his attention.
The chest lay cupped by the earth, tangled in the soil around the roots. Its lid sat gaping open, the latch broken, and the insides were absent of contents bar a scattering of dead leaves and snapped twigs.
We studied it for a few seconds longer, and I’d turned to look up at the oak when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Turning, I immediately caught the consternation drawn across his face.
“Did you see it?”
I peered back at the box, moving closer.
“See what?”
He leaned over, picked up a stick from the ground, and prodded away a few leaves, revealing a portion of the chest’s wooden base.
That’s when it caught my eye.
Slunk amidst the shadows was a layered stain caked to the base of the trunk. Painted in a winey hue, around it were thin splatterings of the same color.
The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place.
Dried blood.