Panic began to set in as he made his way through the thick dense forest. Nightfall was approaching and the fog had drifted down into the valley like a hand, stretching out and grasping at the skin beneath his clothes. The swirling mist restricted his vision to only a few feet in front of him. He thought he had a very clear understanding of the map. Hadn’t his direction for the last 2 hours been intentional, and even more importantly, correct? If so, the fear he was now experiencing shouldn’t be this visceral. Why was he so uneasy; he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling, as if his usual veneer of calmness was slowly being scratched off.
He should be arriving at the village soon, right? His destination was Embute, a small village in a remote part of Latvia. The great vastness of the forest surrounding him was starting to crowd in around him, and his thoughts turned again on the falling darkness. If he was to be truly lost, and lose his composure at a moment such as this, it would be rather uninviting. He snatched at the thick fog surrounding him, feebly attempting to push it away. His surroundings now looked 100 percent identical, he was sure if he was heading North, as his compass and map said, he should have reached the village over an hour ago. He stopped dead in his tracks, and decided it would best if he saw the situation for what it was. He would try and start a fire and sleep on the blanket he had taken. Looking around, there was nothing but trees, a heavy fog covered it all. It was time to begin checking the pack to make sure there was a flint, and with prayers to Mary, a piece of dry wood to start a fire. Why did everything have to be so damp and sodden, every branch, ever blade of grass, kissed with dew. His body shivered for warmth but his mind caved into itself. There was something following him. It was time he admitted it. For the last ten kilometers he heard it, slowly watching him from behind the trees. A presence that made his flesh creep and his hair raise, statue-like. Was it someone? Was it a person? Why wouldn’t someone say something? If they were there, why wouldn’t they tell him he was lost, why wouldn’t they show themselves. A fire may delay the presence of this thing that was stepping in his steps, seeing what he saw, pushing through what he pushed through.
With a quick flick he pushed his knife against the flint and from beneath rose a flame. A little, bewildered, trickling flame. It started as one, and then grew to two, and then he noticed that the air above him stood still. The vapour on his brow clouded his eyes, but he was sure now, in the trees, something was alive. Following him. Testing him. It watched him start to make camp, and he could feel its patience like a blanket covering his mind. The tent, that was a start. He unfolded the poles and determined the correct orientation of them. Almost as a dream, he pitched his triangle of sleep, but beneath the fear was a clear, almost tangible presence. Unrolling his mat and sleeping bag, there was a conviction unto which the night obliged. He crawled into his warmth of creation and held his hands in fists as he prayed for tomorrow. Outside he heard the snap of a twig, a relationship between his ears and his fear created an image of a man but with fur. Hello? Are you there? If you wish me harm, I am here. What else could he think? A thin dripping partition between him and the thing out there. Panic. Panic. Panic. Gripping his knife, he knew it was around him, the fear that swallowed the woods was standing outside his tent. Saliva dripped from the lips of the presence outside his fires intent. Could his knife be enough? Could he just sleep and ignore the shadows outside? Slowly a clawed finger, almost tender, gripped his tents zipper and ripped. Open and cold this can’t be the end…