By Timothy Swenson – Halloween submission from ARCC Creative Writing Club

It is your turn this season. Your turn to take the walk. Your turn to face the fears lingering just beyond the threshold. Countless times you recall paced one way then another before its weeded ensemble, just to ponder what truly lies within. Year after year, another is chosen to partake in the walk: but they never return.

Will you be the next to become a scratch on the wall? To join the incalculable slashes marking in memory of those who tried, but failed? Surely not. After all, you knew this day was coming. When the first sensation of wind hits your skin like an icy dagger, and the pallor of leaves turns from emerald to blood, you know the time has come.

Picked at random like a prized fish in a tank, the slip reads your name. When you hear it, you doubt, until the unfortunate truth sinks in. You were chosen. Not the quivering child to your left, or the adamant adult to your right. You, and you alone were drawn for the task ahead.

Gazing up again at the ominous, overarching gate at the fingertips of the forest, you take notice of the backdrop behind the black iron letters that spell, “Forsaken”. The sky resembles the color of a jack-o-lantern. It glows for now, but soon it will darken into death along with the rest of the forest.

Ignoring the grim sound of leaves perishing beneath your feet, you take the time to wonder whether or not they are already dead. Like your journey, it appears as a pretense for the hours ahead.

Three more steps…two…one, until you enter the tomb of trees. Taking one last glance behind, you notice the silent funeral dirge in your wake. Dozens of stares, as empty and hollow as your heart, beckon forth with a melancholic hope. It feels like eternity, the distance between you and them; but it is an eternity that will only be lengthened. Bonds will be broken, friendships severed, but it has to be this way.

All bets remain…unless you change everything.

Turning away from the village of rags and remembrance, you clench your teeth, draw what might be the first breath of your last, and take with you into your being all of the sadness, horror, and lingering expectations of those left behind you. With every step you make further into blackness of the woodlands, a shred of your home is left behind until you turn back to see that nothing exists but an ever-growing desire to escape, flee! But when all is said, you know what must be done.

Leaves fall all around, like drops of crimson from a bleeding beast refusing to die. The hands on the branches are nearly bare, as they watched their dreams and ambitions, perish in the wind. Creaking, bending, and roaring at the inception of the calm night, the trees know all too well of your mission and want with every intelligible motion to warn you of what awaits at the heart of the forest. They’ve seen many walk this twisted road of ruin before, regretting their inability to cry out.

The sun has set, and the path grows darker. What used to be clear and visible has blurred into the uniform shade of the night. Gone are the shadows of the canvass above. The only tangible sensation you feel is the deathly wind and the palpitations of your mind.

Thoughts flicker from one subject to another, but the theme remains constant. Worry, dread, the sinking sensation that something is out of place, yet you were meant to be there. You have a purpose, which is something far greater than the helplessness you have felt for all the years leading up to this day. Finally, the game is in your hands. You get to move the pieces, or at least, the only piece you can control. Fate’s cards are stacked against you, but the fact remains: a slim margin of your success exists.

Contemplations now transcending into memories, you recall the last time one from your village was called to partake in this horror. She was no older than you, but with grave resolve, she showed no weakness. You remember standing at her side when her name was called. You remember her quivering lips and her words. They are as clear now as they were the day she spoke them: “This puppet will have to play her part.”

For seven long years you’ve tried to make sense of it. Not only of her words, but of the smile she gave afterward. What did she know that you didn’t? Her haunting picture now hangs visibly before your eyes as you continue your journey into the forest.

Creaking in the wind, a dangling lantern hangs high above a bridge before you. As you silently approach it, you take notice of the bare riverbed, dry and colorless. It’s rained numerous times this season, yet not a drop of it is visible beneath the warped, lifeless planks you stand upon.

Gazing back up at the lantern as you pass under it, you can see the clouds have blotched out the starlight and even the moon is choked within its mire. Seemingly turning a sick green akin to rotted tissue, you wonder for a moment if the forest will actually welcome rain that night, or if the clouds are just another illusion; another parlor trick the woodlands has created to deceive you with.

Just then, the desperate flame is snuffed out as the lantern is blown from its perch. Making a horrible gnashing sound as it finds the surface of the bridge, the lantern appears dead before you, as if it was living to begin with. Disregarding the inquiries on who gave it life or hung it there, you take a brief pause to collect yourself, tighten the ebony scarf around your neck, and then press onward into the unknown ahead.

The next hour you find yourself tripping over decrepit roots and fallen branches, you wonder if you are already lost. The trail has long since become swallowed up in leaves, so it’s impossible to know. Regardless, your mind has been plagued by another chain of thoughts. What exactly is out there that you have grown increasingly afraid of?

There must be some reason why no one has ever left this place. Had they just become lost? Or was something else responsible? Creating a brief smirk of disbelief, you are amazed you came to such conclusions already knowing the truth. For years, your parents, friends, and fellow neighbors whispered about it as if you weren’t there. As if you were dead already.

“It must be fed,” many said, concerning what resided in the forest.

“A faceless monster,” others claimed, believing they’d seen it first-hand. But no one has seen what lies ahead: no one, at least, who has been able to talk of it.

Grasping the silhouette of the knife you had packed in your satchel, you agree to yourself that even if something does lurk ahead, you will be ready to take it head on. You won’t be like the others, who entered the forest as if they were making a harmless offering. No. You will be ready.

As you think further on the morbid topic, you witness the shadow of a figure. It’s seated on a stump, wrapped in a cloak the color of its surroundings. Intertwined with gnarled sticks, ragged leaves, and what appears to be bones of a small creature, the cloak concealed the figure’s countenance as he or she was busy stabbing and carving a pumpkin long past shriveled up.

“The eyes are the window to the soul,” the figure murmured, working away as you step forward hesitating. Either ignoring your presence or not sensing it altogether, the robed wraith continues to plunge its dagger into its victim. “Just like you,” the figure says, still looking down, “it accepts death without reason. It allows me to carve my face upon its skin without the slightest resistance. Just like you, and all the others. You think what you’re told is absolute. It’s so…unfortunate.”

A mixture of wonder and conviction washes over you as you further approach the figure, daring to lift its hood to wet your curiosity. To your gut-wrenching horror, you nearly lose your footing as you jump backward attempting to keep your heart inside your chest.

Nothing. No face nor head is beneath the hood; just a dried lump of skin where one’s neck ought to be. Dropping the knife and grabbing onto the carved pumpkin with both hands, the figure placed it upon its shoulders.

“Your mouth remains constant, but your eyes tell me otherwise.” The voice with no mouth says as its body pulled the hood back over its ‘head’.

“Your gaze emits much fear, which in this place, means death. Long have I buried the likes of you and your kin. Longer still will I remain to do so as your kind continues to bring untamable fear with them. So long as they desire to kill it.”

“It is a test.” The being says, slowly sinking into the ground, “And you will fail.”

Leaving only the pumpkin it used for a head, the spirit, ghost, or whatever it could be called was gone. Now fearing the worst more than ever, you opt to continue your journey as you notice remnants of the path ahead. Now back on track, you hasten your steps, overcoming the rest of the distance in a matter of minutes before at long last reaching your final destination.

Stone monuments strangled by vines stand all around you. Their faces, now dampened by the periodic splattering of rain. The names carved on them screaming silently for your benefit, but you are numb to their cries.

The entire area is littered with graves. Before you get the chance to read any of them, a voice from the darkness calls out and you tremble at its wake, “I have been expecting you.”

Looking around desperately as your heart begins to race, you finally see a figure dead ahead. Sitting perched on a tall, granite cross, the body belongs to a girl. Her skin appears as the pallor of bones, and her flowing, tangled hair is the tinge of darkest obsidian. She too was wearing a cloak, but hers of tattered fabric colored vermillion.

“The hour has come. Are you not afraid?” She spoke, though her words not completely reaching you.

Eyes widening, you can’t stop from looking at her face. It’s her face. The face that has been on your mind for most of your journey. Breathlessly, you watch as she drops from her seat and approaches. A calm, harmless smile is gracing her lips as her eyes nearly create holes in your face. She seems innocent enough, but a sensation of doubt and fear prevail within you.

“You have no idea how long I have waited for you here. Ever since that day…That night, when I left to become one with this place.”

Forgetting the knife in your bag, you want to ask a million questions, but instead you ask yourself whether or not this is real. Nothing in the forest so far has made sense, and such was the specter about to take your hands.

You pull back. As it happens, her smile is lost to a forlorn gasp as the rain intensifies. Suddenly, you feel guilty. Your attire protects you from the weather, yet hers becomes drenched. Her eyes are now drowning with a dread most unsettling as you stand there, paralyzed in fear: fear of her coming to harm, and yet fear of your own wellbeing should you accept her as being real.

Eventually giving in to the latter reasoning, you immediately sense a tremendous danger and question yourself feverishly on why you came there: why you didn’t run away to begin with.

Fumbling this way, then another, you hear each of your sharp breaths as you attempt to get away from the unearthly cemetery. Turning back, you no longer see the figure of your friend standing in the rain. Before you even consider the option of wondering where she went, you trip over a headstone and fall to the ground; scattering your bag and its contents. Drowned leaves and soil welcome your skin as you thrash about, attempting to regain your footing. It is in vain, however, as the stone that caused your downfall had pierced your leg, rendering it useless and in pain.

Crying out, you flip your back to the ground and look up just in time to see the girl standing over you, lightning blazing through the sky behind her. Holding onto the knife you brought, she places one foot on your chest and kneels down, gazing at the weapon.

“You really thought you could kill me?” She said, almost mockingly. “Here I thought you were different, and it turns out you were just like all the others. Afraid…yet unwilling to embrace your fears. Seven years ago when your friend left you for this forest, what did she say? Do you still remember? Of course you do. It was something about her being a puppet, right?”

You nod, even more questions surging through your mind.

“She was the first who got it right. The only one who understood what the monster was and how to slay it. Or rather I should say, how to embrace it. Fear. It can take so many forms, but within this glade, it can become reality. If you fail to embrace it, deciding it best to destroy it rather than come to terms with it, you will only accomplish one thing…”

Grasping the knife tightly in her fingers, the girl’s expression changes to a sorrowful abandon as she plunges it as deep as she can into your chest.

“… Killing yourself.”

Closing your eyes and opening them again, a loud clap of thunder awakens you to your senses as you realize  she is gone, and the one holding the blade now fatally plunged in your chest is none other than yourself. Rain turning to blood as it soaks into your skin, you look up again to find yourself in a pit several feet deep. Peering down at you from above, the girl and the spirit with the carved face take up shovel in hand and begin to bury you. Your breaths growing shorter and weaker, the last memento that reaches your gaze is of your name on the fresh grave, and the epitaph underneath, reading:

“Fear: Losing oneself on a path paved with uncertainty.”