CHAPTER 19 “The Edge of Bear Forest”
“The Edge of Bear Forest”
I stand at the tree line again, three weeks after waking from my coma.
The world is quieter than I remember.
The hum of tires on a distant road. The wind brushing brittle leaves. The crackle of dead branches underfoot. All normal. All wrong. I had waited. Had tried to move on. The hospital had discharged me with a prescription and pamphlets about trauma-induced psychosis.
My colleagues at the Institute had welcomed me with soft pity and lowered voices. Everyone told me I was lucky to survive. That the mind invents things to fill in the gaps.
But they didn’t know that I hadn’t imagined the broken gold necklace that I found in the palm of my hand. Nor the voice I sometimes heard when the room grew too still—low, amused, waiting.
And my dreams—
They were always the same: the Bear Mansion. Nikolas. The black lake.
And now, here I am. The forest hasn’t changed. It’s still tall, dark, ancient. Beech trees still shift as if alive.
I take a step forward, into its embrace. The air shifts. Warmer. Thicker. Like breath on my skin. I didn’t bother with bringing a flashlight, I know my way, and as if in agreement, I feel it. A noise, slight but undeniable, as if the trees recognize me. As if they are watching me.
The path twists in ways it shouldn’t, leading me not by memory, but by pull. Each step feels half like my own, half dictated by something deeper.
I walk for what feels like hours, my unwavering resolve and belief close to crumbling the more time that passes as I wonder in the woods.
Suddenly, a clearing. And in it—towering, dark spires.
I suck in a breath.
The Bear Mansion.
I found it.
Behind me, a breeze stirs. I turn. The trees bow. Shadows deepen. But no one steps forth.
I rush through the front gate that hangs ajar, rusted chains clinking faintly in the cold wind—the same way they did when I first passed through them. The front door is sealed tight, and I have to throw my shoulder into it before it gives with a loud crack.
I stumble inside, dust and faint light from the dying day greeting me with wide open arms. Silence hangs in the air like a noose. I take my time walking through the many rooms and hallways. Furniture, paintings, even the beds are covered with white sheets.
I hurry up the stairs, finding my room.
The room I had lived in.
The bed I had slept in.
The mirror I had watched myself in.
Layers of dust and linen sheets that resemble ghosts greet me, the same as they do throughout the rest of the old house.
I spin on the spot, suddenly feeling a surge of panic when the realization that it might have all truly been nothing but a vivid dream, dawns on me.
No.
No.
No.
I shake my head, over and over again.
I know what I saw.
I know what I lived through.
I know I’m not crazy.
The hidden narrow stairway leading up to the Bear family’s crypt appears before me, and not a moment too soon, I find myself standing in the very same circular room.
And just like before, five coffins, one smaller than the rest, arranged in a solemn half-circle upon a raised platform of black marble, greet me.
Portraits in an ornate, dust-choked frame, hang above each coffin.
Heavy black veils are draped over the paintings, concealing the faces beneath, and I storm to the first one, yanking it down and revealing the subject beneath.
An older man—someone that I imagine Nikolas to resemble when he grows gray, stares back at me. I repeat the steps, tugging the veils until all are laid bare. But instead of relief, horror floods me, because the faces on the last two paintings are ones I recognize.
Ones I know all too well.
“No,” I stutter, taking a step back. “Impossible.”
My foot catches on something on the ground, and I look down.
A pair of small, brass plaques glitter at the base of the last two coffins. I kneel, my hand trembling while I brush away the dust.
Rein Bear.
And on the very last one: Hunter Bear.
I back away, limbs shaking. My mind spirals.
How is this possible?
I—I saw them. I talked to them. Lived with them. They were both alive.
No.
No.
I try to recall our interactions, how they always seemed to be wearing the same clothes—the very same clothes that they are wearing in the paintings hanging above their coffins.
“Oh, God.” I wheeze for air. “Oh, God.”
And Nikolas?
I search the crypt for a sixth coffin, but come up empty.
What was he? A figment of my imagination?
“He never talked to his brothers,” I blurt out, hands flying to my head as I remember. “They talked to him, but he never acknowledged them.”
My mind spirals out of control, and I fear I might faint. Somehow, I make my way to the only room that I still haven’t visited: Niko’s.
The bed is covered with a white linen sheet. On it, a single red rose lies.
My favorite flower.
I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers, inhaling the scent that has followed me even into my dreams.
Who put it here?
The air shifts, and I go still.
My skin prickles.
Cedar and pine engulf me before strong arms wrap around my trembling frame, and smoke and velvet whisper softly in my ear, “Welcome home, little lamb. I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me, my lovely wife.”