Chapter 5 #3
The creature snorts, shakes its malformed head, and backs up a step.
Emboldened, I advance. “Stop scaring me. Run off and do… whatever it is that you do.”
The wolf’s three eyes burn into mine. Then, with a shuddering howl, it bounds away, disappearing into the forest again.
My knees go weak, and I cling to the nearest tree for a few minutes, willing my racing heart to slow down.
Eventually I continue walking, but I’m more anxious than usual, jumping at every shadow, afraid that the wolf will return.
Even though my petticoat isn’t dry yet and the air is still warm, I pull on my dress and layer the cloak over it.
All I want is to get home, take a hot bath, crawl into bed with a mug of tea, and not see or speak to anyone until I’ve managed to regain some semblance of sanity.
When I reach the Barrow, I travel around it, not over it. Something in my soul shrinks from the hill and sends chills racing over my skin. I have the most illogical notion that touching the Barrow would be a very bad thing. Which makes no sense at all.
As I round the curve of the path, I see someone up ahead—a stocky figure with a red scarf, standing in the center of the path with his back to me. His hair sticks up in one spot on the crown of his head, like he slept on it funny and didn’t bother to fix it.
I know that hair. I used to stare at the back of that head in school.
Something about the way he’s standing is… odd.
“Herron?” I call.
He turns, but he does it so slowly, so sluggishly that my heart rate spikes and ice slithers along my spine.
What is wrong with him?
When his face comes fully into view, I gasp and clamp my hand over my mouth.
His eyes are huge. Not wide from surprise or anger—no, these eyes are three times the size they should be.
The sockets are so big they have changed the shape of his cheekbones, pushing them into concave bows.
And yet despite the enlarged sockets, his eyeballs are still bulging so far I’m afraid they’ll pop out.
“Herron,” I falter. “Your eyes… What happened to you?”
“I went to check on Grandmother Riquet,” he answers tonelessly. His mouth opens and shuts mechanically, like the hinged jaws of a puppet.
Something bad has happened to him. I blame it on this fucking forest.
My family and I have been ushering demons into this place for about two decades now. Maybe the demons’ influence has altered the very fabric of Wormsloe. That’s why the normal animals have disappeared. That’s why none of the local folks will venture beneath these trees anymore.
When Herron entered Wormsloe, the forest must have changed him physically, like it changed Grandmother. It gave her big, sharp teeth, and it swelled his eyes to insane proportions. The air of this place has become dangerous, and I’ve been breathing it more often than usual.
I resist the sudden, frantic urge to check my body for changes. Instead I stare at Herron, trying to control the tone of my voice so the panic doesn’t leak through.
“We need to get out of here, Herron. You need to come with me. I can take you to your father. Maybe someone in the village can help you.”
His head lolls to the side, and his mouth sags open.
“Herron, please come with me.” Terror cracks through my words. “Please. If you don’t come, they’ll send people to look for you, and those people might get hurt, too. No one should be out in these woods.”
“Tell them I died.”
“I can’t say that. You’re not dead. They’ll want to see a body. They might even think that I did something to you, something bad. Please just come home.”
“Tell them I died,” he repeats, louder. “Tell them I died, tell them I died!”
Then he takes off running, heading deeper into the woods.
“Herron!” I scream. My gaze drops to the path, which feels like the only safe place in this forest. I don’t want to step off it.
“Herron,” I call once more, but he’s gone. All I can see is the interminable wall of tree trunks, all different and yet all the same, standing endlessly still in the silence.
There are no birds here, near the Barrow. No insects that I can see, not even a spider’s silken web.
Maybe it’s not just the demons. Maybe the Barrow itself has an influence, and maybe the otherworldly creatures that I’ve summoned over the years disturbed whatever is buried beneath it. Mama started to tell us a story about the Barrow once, but I can’t remember it.
If I make it home safely, I’m going to ask her to tell it again.
A wild, elongated shriek tears through the quiet. It’s far away, in the direction Herron fled. The fear that grips my soul is the most visceral terror I’ve ever felt.
I flee along the path. The empty basket I’m carrying makes it awkward to run, and I’m tempted to fling it aside, but it’s a good basket, and a family as poor as mine can’t afford to waste even the simplest resources.
The forest seems to be dragging me backward, slowing my steps so that no matter how fast I run, I feel like I’m crawling, creeping past one tree and struggling on to the next.
There’s nothing but trees and roots, roots and trees, with the endless dirt path squiggling through the leaves like a desiccated centipede.
My shoes weren’t made for running, and my feet hurt from the repeated impact.
One sole slips, and I slam flat on the ground, dry leaves in my mouth.
From beneath the layer of leaves, the smell of rot wafts into my nostrils.
It’s not the damp, rich, murky fragrance of healthy soil—it’s rancid. I gag on the stench.
The forest is sick, and I didn’t realize it until today. Or maybe I’m sick. Maybe I’m changing like Grandmother and Herron. Maybe I hallucinated my encounters with both of them. Maybe, after all these years of struggling with my ability, I’m going mad.
I force myself to my feet, and I run again, faster than ever, like I can outrun the evil plaguing the woods. But the same shoe fails me again, this time slipping off the edge of a root. My ankle twists, and I hear a snap.
“Fuck!” I fall to the ground, clutching my leg. “Fuck, fuck!”
The blaze of pain is so intense that for a few minutes I’m sure I snapped the bone. But after wheezing and sobbing for a while, I work up the courage to peel down my stocking and inspect the area.
My ankle is swelling already, puffing up like a shiny pink skin-pillow. Gritting my teeth, I poke and prod until I’m convinced it’s the tendons, not the bones, that are damaged. It’s a sprain, not a break.
But it might as well be broken, because I can’t walk on it. When I drag myself upright, hands braced against a tree, and try to put the slightest weight on that foot, I almost scream again. I can’t do it.
How far did I run from the Barrow? How much distance remains between me and the edge of the forest? There are few landmarks in Wormsloe, and along this stretch of the path, the sameness is especially demoralizing.
I sink to my knees, trying not to let any part of my injured foot touch the earth.
My kneecaps hurt as they grind against lumpy soil, pebbles, and roots, so I switch tactics and sit on my ass, holding my injured leg up and crawling backward along the path.
Anne and I used to do this in the garden when we were little. Mama called it crab-walking.
Reluctantly I abandon the basket. With my injury, it’s completely impractical to bring it with me. I’m determined to get myself home before dark, if I have to crab-walk the whole way.
Unfortunately my palms start burning after I’ve crawled along the path for several minutes. If I keep going like this, they’ll be chafed raw.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper, tears slipping from my eyes. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
I sit there with my cloak puddled around me, seething with angry terror through my tears while I pick bits of rotten leaves and dirt from the heels of my hands. The scrapes are pretty bad already.
I’ve almost worked up the nerve for another stint of crab-crawling when I hear a faraway whistle—a pure, clear melody coming from a pair of pursed lips. Human lips.
“Help!” I scream, at the top of my lungs. “Help, please!”
The whistling pauses, and a male voice calls, “Hello? Who is it?”
Usually I wouldn’t want to meet a strange man in the forest, but at this point, I’ll take any human assistance I can get. “Please help me! I’ve sprained my ankle.”
Booted feet stomp closer, and a tall figure comes into view, clad in fitted black trousers and a creamy, blousy shirt, half-unbuttoned. I recognize the broad chest, the thick neck, and the well-trimmed blue beard.
“Beresford!” I wipe my eyes and nose quickly on my sleeve. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by your house, and your sister said you’d gone into the woods for the day. She said you usually return around sunset, which is fast approaching, so I thought I’d take a stroll into the forest on the chance of meeting you. She told me which path to take.”
“You can’t be here,” I exclaim. “This place isn’t good, it isn’t safe. We need to go.”
“One moment.” He takes a knee and inspects my injury. “That looks painful. This shoe needs to come off before we go anywhere, and we need to stabilize your ankle.”
“Are you a physician?”
“Certainly not.” He throws me a quick grin, then pulls off his shirt. “But I’ve seen my share of wounds.”
I’m at a loss for words, grateful for his presence yet unsure about it, too. It seems almost too convenient, like fate, and though I might occasionally swear by Fate or by the old gods, I don’t believe in them.