“Why the hell would y’all even want to go out there?” my grandmother would say in that thick Texan drawl before spitting a wad of dip into her “snuff mug.” She was like a firecracker, always startling you with a pop even though you were the one who lit the match. My grandpa Joe, a towering man with calloused mitts for hands, would grunt in assent and flip to the next page of his morning paper.
I miss them.
My brother Jesse and I are cleaning out their house after my grandmother passed, reminiscing on the mostly fond memories we shared. We were raised here, taken by our mother in the dead of night to flee the terrors of my drunken father. My father wouldn’t find us in the vast countryside of Texas. And if he did stumble upon the needle in the haystack, he would have to answer to “Big Joe,” who preferred to settle disputes with his fists.
My mom made the right call. Dad was never able to find us. Too many tiny towns, like the one we escaped to. But if there’s anything I’ve learned….
The most evil things can happen in the smallest places.
My grandparent’s left us the house, reopening a chapter in our lives that we desperately wanted to keep closed. I put it on the market and received a quick and generous offer, but only for the land. The house would be demolished, and our memories would be buried under wood and rubble. I think we’d prefer it that way.
Behind the house is the vast East Texas forest, but our neck of the woods is a little different. Most folks from other towns use their woods. They hike, fish, or even camp in the beautiful landscape that only a higher power could have created.
We don’t go in ours. There’s a small trail where you can let your kids play, but soon it ends abruptly, and you’re staring at a long metal chain with a rusty sign, which firmly reads, “KEEP OUT.”
No one really knows why the section of the forest is closed off. If you asked a city official, they’d say it’s because the area is privately owned by a real estate developer, though no one can remember the company’s name. There were rumors that several people went missing over the last forty years because there are no trail markings maintained paths, and that’s why we’re not allowed to explore.
There were also whispers that a commune of Pentecostals resided deeper into the forest and that they valued privacy and the 2nd Amendment. The story is that the original church in town splintered back in the 1920s, and the other half set up their own community. Now this was actually true and documented by parishioners of that time, but there’s no evidence that the different factions retreated into the woods.
It didn’t stop rabble-rousers from claiming they had crossed the boundary and explored the other side. Stories were varied, but all came to the same conclusion: people were living in those woods. Some told stories of stumbling across makeshift shelters and tents surrounding a campfire. Others regaled tales of seeing shadowy figures dart behind trees in fear of seeing an outsider.
Jesse and I were naturally curious and rambunctious, as most twin brothers could be. We scaled every inch of the trail but reluctantly heeded our grandmother’s warning of never venturing beyond the boundary. We were fascinated about what could be out there and discussed our theories before bed. Our friends were also outdoorsy, and our fascination with the uncharted territory soon became an obsession.
“Well, why don’t we just fuckin’ do it?” our friend Mikey said while we shared a cigarette in the park. We looked at him quizzically. “We’re about to start high school. Let’s see what the damn fuss is about.” Not seeing a reason not to, we devised a plan to trek the rest of our woods.
It was me, Jesse, Mikey Byrd, Wyatt Rhoades, and his older cousin Dewey who had just received his Eagle Scout award. Dewey was odd, but we felt a trained outdoorsman was the best person to lead the expedition. We decided to leave around 7:30 pm, as my grandparents would be asleep, and my mom was still out of town for work. We’d get at least one hour of daylight before sunset to explore the forbidden greenspace.
I remember feeling nervous as I laced my old hiking boots and carefully applied bug spray. We could hear Big Joe snoring in the other room, and Jesse and I snuck out the kitchen door and galloped toward Mikey’s house. We were the last to arrive. Dewey was messing with his compass in his full Eagle Scout uniform while Wyatt and Mikey pensively shared another cigarette.
We set off, gliding through the mile-long trail that led to “the other side.” The sun had shifted to a blood-orange hue, and we were surprised to see dark clouds loom overhead. “Huh,” Dewey said, shifting his thick round glasses, “The weatherman didn’t say there would be rain today.”
“Of course you watch the weather,” Wyatt said, rolling his eyes while Mikey and I muffled our snickers. “Do we turn back?” Jesse asked before I reminded him that this might be our only chance. Mom would be back in town next weekend. “I ain’t afraid of no rain.” Mikey declared. The rest of us agreed and soldiered on to the rusty sign, stepping over it with ease.
Jesse crossed last, and like clockwork, rain began to putter down from the sky. It was a light summer rain, hot to the touch and more pungent. None of us were particularly concerned until we heard a rumbling that sounded like thunder.
I could tell Deway was nervous, moving away from the tall Southern Oaks whose branches looked like arms trying to grab you. The sun was now entirely invisible, and we would not see it again until tomorrow. A feeling of unease loomed over us.
It was hard to describe “the other side.” It looked exactly like any other part of the woods, but it felt…odd. The trail leading up was teeming with the sounds of nature, from birds or other woodland creatures. But this part of the forest was silent, minus the rain. I kept looking over my shoulder as I swore I could see shadows darting in and out of my peripheral vision.
“Holy shit,” Dewey stopped us. “Look.”
In the distance was what looked like a church spire, though it was decayed with large chunks of wood missing. It was enormous and stared back at us over the tree line. “Looks like there was a church after all,” Jesse said. “We should probably go,” Dewey responded with his voice quivering. “They said those folks have guns.”
“Oh yeah? Well, check this out.” Mikey said while pulling out a gleaming silver pistol from his backpack. “Nabbed this from my dad’s closet. I’ll show them this if they try and fuck with us.”
We all immediately began arguing and cursing at Mikey for doing something so reckless. Wyatt started to turn back, but something made him stop in his tracks. We looked in his direction and saw something at the top of a hill.
It was a man, or at least it looked like a man. I couldn’t really make out his face, though it appeared to sag and stare at us in a slack-jawed gaze. Mikey, the idiot he was, flashed his gun at the strange figure. The man seemed to glance at the weapon and sauntered back behind the hill, out of sight. Mikey smirked, “Take that, you bitch.”
But to our horror, the man reappeared and charged toward us, tumbling down the hill while moaning from his open mouth. As he got closer, I saw that he was missing an eye. Mikey fired the pistol, but the shot was so loud that he dropped it in shock. The man barreled into us and knocked down Mikey while grunting and screaming from his mouth, wailing his arms on Mikey’s body like a pre-historic primate. Dewey picked up his walking stick and smacked the man in the face before we darted deeper into the forest.
My ears were still ringing when we collapsed in exhaustion in an unknown clearing. The tall spire was closer, and torrential rain slammed down on us. “You’re an idiot, Mikey….” Wyatt sputtered, digging his knuckles into the soaked earth. We all stood up to brush ourselves off, eager to return home. But there was one issue.
Dewey was missing.
We started to panic, screaming for Dewey’s name into what seemed like the void. Dewey had everything we needed to get out of there in his backpack. Now we were alone, shivering and unable to see far ahead of us.
After finding our way for a bit, we heard whistling. I didn’t know the tune back then, but now I know it was In The Hall of The Mountain King. The whistling echoed loudly through the forest, and we noticed it was coming directly from the spire. We followed the melody until we reached the bushes to the Spire’s entrance.
The spire was not connected to any building, and it looked like it had been moved by a crane and onto the ground. A makeshift doorway was cut at the bottom. We could hear muttering and banging from inside the tower. Lightning lit up the room behind the entrance.
There was a silhouette of a large man in the entryway. His back was turned to us, but it became clear it wasn’t the man who attacked us earlier. The man, whistling his tune, then walked around back with something slumped over his shoulder, revealing a tied-up Dewey with terror in his eyes.
We crept toward the spire and tried to untie Dewey, but the knots were too thick, and Jesse and I quit the scouts after third grade. I remember the smell being terrible, like rotten eggs and spoiled meat. Mikey found a table saw nearby and began furiously cutting the ropes until we freed Dewey.
“WE HAVE TO GO NOW!” he screamed, and we tumbled out of the spire, only to be greeted by the massive man from earlier. He was wearing a full rain suit, and an old welder’s mask was on the top of his head. I remember him chuckling and then whistling like my grandpa did when it was time for supper. The floodlight from the top of the entrance lit up.
I looked around and saw various heads pop out from under the bushes, each with their faces contorted in either rage or horror. There must have been a dozen figures, but I’m not sure I would call them human. The beasts lept toward us, and Jesse helped me to my feet as we barrelled through the trees. The sound of screaming and agonizing groans followed us, and I was too scared to even look back but heard the shuffling of legs chasing after me.
We kept running until Dewey tripped over the chain boundary. The rest of us toppled over him with wet mud painting our faces. I whipped around and saw the reflections of a dozen eyes before they turned around and went back into the forest.
We stayed on the ground for at least an hour, hyperventilating and cussing. I sat up when my heart rate finally slowed down and asked just what the hell had happened. Dewey, still exhausted, sputtered out what he saw.
After hitting the man with his walking stick, an unknown figure grabbed Dewey, who put a funny-smelling cloth over his face, and he went unconscious. When he came to, he was tied to a metal pole and was staring at a wooden table with what looked like a mannequin lying on it. But Dewey soon realized it was a body.
The figure returned and began muttering a language Dewey didn’t understand. A flash of lightning hit the top of the spire and traveled down a wire to the table, causing the body to jolt and convulse before going silent. The man shook his head and left, and we came in to untie Dewey.
We said nothing. Jesse and I didn’t leave the house for almost a week until our mother returned from her work trip. We then uneventfully began the school year, never venturing to the other side.
Except for Dewey.
Dewey graduated from high school that year near the top of his class. I expected him to end up at Texas A and M or UT-Austin. But instead, he disappeared. Some folks claimed to see him at local dives, chatting with itinerant strangers or spending most of his time on the trails.
While smoking a joint by myself on the trail one night, I thought I saw Dewey slip behind the rusted chain and cross into the forest. Curious as to what he was up to, I followed him.
I kept my distance, but Dewey walked forward purposefully, not bothering to even look down at his shoe. Even though I was a little stoned, it didn’t take long to realize where he was headed.
The Spire soon came into view, and Dewey slipped behind some bushes. I knelt down to look and saw him dragging trash bags into the tower’s entrance. Following him was the gargantuan man with the welder’s mask we saw last summer.
I ran as fast as I could back home.
In the morning, my grandparents found several dead birds neatly aligned on their porch. They blamed our cat, Archie, but it felt like a warning to me. I was never going back to those woods ever again.
Until last night, while blowing off some steam with Jesse, we ran into our old pal Wyatt. After shooting the breeze, I asked if Wyatt had heard from Cousin Dewey. Wyatt grimaced and shook his head. “Turned into a recluse after y’all left for college. Did some time in county lock-up for trespassing at the local cemetery around ten years ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
Jesse smirked, “He always was an oddball, wasn’t he? Wonder what he’s up to now.”
I had a feeling.
That night, I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning, until I had a horrifying realization. Our grandmother was laid to rest in that cemetery. The ground was probably still fresh under her headstone.
I flew back to my grandparent’s house from our motel in my truck. I tore into the old shed and took the carbine Grandpa Joe kept from his time in Vietnam. I ensured it was clean and set off on the trail, soon reaching the rusted chain boundary.
I crossed the other side, feeling like I was stepping into a new dimension. The forest went silent, seeming untouched from when we were children. I carefully made my way toward the Spire, gripping my grandfather’s gun until my knuckles turn white. I think I hear faint whistling in the distance. I know I am being watched.
I know I am being followed.