Shadow Forest- The Complete Series

by Eliza Grace

  No, this walking ghost of a mother—who looks like she might wisp away into nothing and disappear, if only I should blink my eyes too slowly—scares me far worse.

  Mom walks to the bed, to the fluffy comforter she conjured earlier, and she lies down. Her form sinks into the mattress, nearly disappearing in all the softness. When her eyes have been closed for some time, I walk to the opposite side of the bed and I lift the blanket, folding the free half over her body. She does not move a muscle as I cover her, not even her eyes shift beneath her closed lids.

  When she is breathing steadily, tension still pulsing across her face like rolling fog up and down and over hills, I stand in the middle of the natural room, the books strewn everywhere in lopsided piles, the candles flickering and giving us light against the night. I stand there and I know that I will not be able to fall asleep.

  I decide that I will leave the confines of the forest-walled room and go out into the wild of the evening. As I am about to cross the faux threshold, that is really just moss and a few rocks and tree trunks on either side, I hear a whisper behind me. It does not sound like mom, but there is no one else here at the moment. Even Arianna has abandoned us for some reason, floating off to some odd task whilst we hovered in the tree tops. So it must be Mom.

  “Don’t go out into the woods. Not tonight. Not right now.” The voice is low and firm, a harsh fear tickling at each syllable. I turn and move back into the room and I find mom still on the bed, her eyes still closed, her face still that tortured moving painting of mist.

  “Who said that?” I turn in a circle, but find no one. Perhaps it is another creature, like Master Toady, hiding in plain sight, invisible and messing with my brain.

  The voice doesn’t answer me, so I turn to walk into the woods once more.

  “Gods, you’re stubborn. My father would put you down if you were a horse.” This time, I can hear the words clearly. They are still firm and harsh, but loud enough to carry weight.

  “You know, I really don’t like being insulted by an invisible coward,” I say, stopping again and whirling around in the hopes of catching the talker unawares. But, again, there’s no one in sight. Only Mom, snoozing uneasily on the bed. “Come out and talk to me or I’m going into the woods. You can’t stop me.”

  “What do I care? If you’re stupid enough to go out there after dark, after your mother warned you about the others lurking around.” Now, the voice was not harsh, it was mocking. Mocking, and decidedly boyish.

  “What do you know? You sound like you’re ten.”

  “I am not ten,” he sounded angry and that anger brought a flickering of a form. First the outline, in rolling waves like the ocean’s surface during a storm, then that outline begins to fill and fill, until a boy who is taller than me and larger in every way, stands cockily next to the bed, only a foot or so away from my mom’s hand, which is hanging a bit off the bed.

  “Get away from my mom.” I rush forward, ready to hit him, kick him, do whatever is necessary to keep Mom safe, but I stop in my tracks when the boy looks at Mom with love in his eyes. It wasn’t sexual, but familial.

  “I’m not going to hurt her. She’s the only reason I haven’t faded completely, haven’t been consumed by the forest.” He is looking at me again. “She’s been saving me ever since she got here; the least I can do is keep her stupid kid from getting herself dead.”

  “I’m not stupid,” I hiss out, feeling heat flood my face. “And she’s not even been here that long. She’s not been dead that long.” I don’t know why I say that, like I’m trying to discredit that she means something to him. She’s my mom though. Mine. God, Tilda. Jealous much?

  “Oh, really? You’re not stupid you say?” He tilts his head, as if listening to something. “Stand still for a minute and listen. Not with your dull human senses, but listen as a witch.” I don’t like that he’s ignored my jab about him not really knowing my mom. But I huff and do as he suggests.

  I close my eyes tightly and concentrate on listening. When I hear nothing, I do something Mom has only recently taught me, I crouch down to the ground and place my palms flat against the earth. Instantly, I feel the tingle of the ancestral power that threads through every facet of this land. It is not my power, it is strange and unusual and does not cling to me the way a natural gift would, but it answers like a friend you knew well once, but time and distance has caused a disconnect. But the knowing is still there, the familiarity.

  And then I do hear it—the rustling right outside this makeshift, vine and bush and tree room. I hear the throaty growls, the painful sighs, the chanting so quiet that I have to strain to make it out, even with the magic’s help.

  “They come every night, about this time. Your mom must be using a lot of energy to keep you from sensing them and them from sensing you.” He looks at mom again. “No wonder she’s so exhausted. We can’t push like that, you know.” The boy sounds defensive now. “We can’t keep the borrowed magic and spells going and going forever. She will fade, if she keeps this up.” I tense as he reaches down and pushes a strand of hair off of mom’s face. “You really don’t understand what she’s doing for you, what she’s sacrificing.” It was not a question, but a statement.

  “What are you talking about? She was here already, trapped just like the witchfinder. She’s helping me now, because I’m here. And I know she won’t be here forever. She’s told me as much.” I know I sound defensive, but I don’t like that this boy, this stranger, thinks he knows my mother better than I do. It strikes me then, who this boy reminds me of—Matthew. Not witchfinder M.H., but the boy’s guise he’d taken when he’d first approached Jen’s house. There’s a spark about his eyes that is the same, the shape of the mouth. I assumed M.H. had just taken on the form because that is how he appeared as a child, but now I wonder if he did not, in some ways, form himself after this boy who is also trapped in the Shadow Forest.

  It’s funny, because when the witchfinder had posed as a boy, he’d seemed to be Hoyt and Aaron and a third person all jumbled together into some perfect painting. This boy did not have that perfection rousing about the corners of him. He did not draw me in like M.H. did when he pretended to be Matthew.

  Yet, this boy is also that boy. His hair is nearly the same dark, chocolate color. His eyes are blue and wide set about his nose, which is admittedly a bit crooked compared to M.H.’s Matthew. I had thought then that Matthew had been too lovely to be real. Now I am stood in front of this boy, who is not too perfect, yet obviously unreal.

  When the boy does not answer, I ask a new question. “What’s your name?”

  “Jon,” he replies, shrugging.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Forever,” is all he says. We stand quietly for a moment, until he nods and speaks again. “They’re gone now, if you want to explore like you’d planned. I’m pretty sure you won’t die.”

  I hesitate. Part of me wants to turn heel and leave the boy, to escape out into the darkness that is vastly more unsettling than the candle-lit room. “Do you want to come?”

  “What?” Jon seems surprised that I’ve offered.

  “Do you want to come with me? I mean, you know the woods better than me and you did say you owe it to my mom to keep her stupid kid alive.”

  He almost smiles, but he stops himself quickly, forcing his lips back into a sour frown. “Sure, I’ll come with you, if you promise to keep quiet. Your voice is annoying.”

  “I’ve a feeling you’ve never heard your own voice on a recording.” I shoot back, even though his voice is actually quite nice, despite his attitude.

  “What’s a recording?”

  That question takes me aback, but I keep walking forward into the cool, starry evening. “It’s like… you know, when you get a little recorder or something or the microphone function on your phone and you press a button and speak. Ta-da, a recording. Then you can play your voice back to yourself and listen. How do you not know what that is?”

  We walk a little furt
her into the woods. It is so dark, a blanket obsidian that cushions around us in an almost claustrophobic way. “Can you see anything?”

  “Yes.” His answer is clipped.

  “How? It’s dark as hell out here.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “God, what is with you?” I exclaim, whirling around. He’s come to a stop behind me. I can feel the closeness of him, but can only see the shadow of his body. “I can’t have totally pissed you off this fast. You’ve only just met me.”

  “You might want to lower your voice before you call the others back.”

  I can see him shrug in the dark. It infuriates me, but I do lower my voice. To a snake-spitting-venom level. “Maybe they’ll come back and kick your butt.”

  “More than likely, they’d go for you. They prefer live prey to dead.” The words are nonchalant, his posture, what I can see of it, is still casual and dismissive.

  “You’re dead.”

  “Most things here are dead. And, those that aren’t, would be dead if they left the woods. You spend too much time here, you start to rely on the surroundings. Your body needs the power that permeates everything. Leaving for the ones that are still sort of alive would be like an opium addict going cold turkey. But worse. Addicts can recover. It doesn’t work that way here.”

  It’s the most he’s said since I met him, so I keep quiet, waiting to see if he’ll say more. He doesn’t though. My eyes are adjusting now and I can see him better. He looks… unsure, despite the cocky set of his body and the sound of his voice in the night.

  “So, mom saved you?” I turn a bit right and start walking again. I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going, I only know I need to get away from the room and my sleeping mom.

  “Yeah.”

  Back to the one-word responses. Great. “How?” I push.

  “I was buried in the ground—white oak wood for the coffin, iron chains to keep it closed, the whole package. There was no way I was ever getting out on my own.” Jon moves past me, his body brushing my own. A bare bit of his skin hits mine and he is cold. So very cold.

  “Why would someone bury you like that?”

  The moon comes out then, full and bright above us and peeking through just enough gap in the tree leaves above so as to fall across our faces and make them bright as if we were standing in daylight. “Because that’s how you dispose of a vampire.” There is no casual note to his voice now, no egotism to his posture. He simple is what he is.

  And, apparently, what he is, is a vampire.

  Frustration & Fangs

  -Hoyt-

  Six days after Tilda’s disappearance.

  I’ve been running for about an hour now. I can feel the lactic acid built up in my muscles, threatening. At any moment, I’m going to collapse. But I can’t stop running.

  Because I’m trying to run to her.

  To find her.

  “Tilda!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Tilda!” I yell again, my voice cracking at the end of her name. I am alone on the outdoor track near the middle school. There is no one to hear me. It is dark, the track only partly lit by a single lamppost that’s on a timer. It’s turned off on me once already and I’d had to run in the pitch black, almost hitting the pole smack in the face, before running my fingers over the splintered wood to find the small plastic dial and turn the light back on.

  The running has another purpose than just getting my mind off of Tilda; it’s helping me avoid going into town. I need things—deodorant, toothpaste, Ramen (yeah, I know that crap is like cancer to the human body, but it’s a comfort food to me). If I go into town though, I’ll see her face plastered everywhere, on every available surface. Jen goes in daily, to make sure the posters are still up; she goes in to put up new ones if some have fallen down or been torn down, which seems to be the case too-often.

  Every. Time. I. See. Her. Face.

  God, I die a little inside.

  Once, it had been my job to help heal her. I’d taken that seriously, passionately, with my whole heart. Getting folks on the road to recovery was my life; I was born to do it. And then I’d done what any doctor or nurse or therapist shouldn’t do—I’d fallen in love with my patient. Totally, irrevocably in love with her.

  From the moment I’d met her, I’d been stood on a cliff looking down at my future. I’d never, never, wanted to heal someone the way I wanted to heal her. I wanted her to walk again, to be a young woman with endless possibilities ahead of her. With two working legs. I wanted it more than her sometimes, I think.

  And she didn’t even believe she was special. Why is it the most special people who think that?

  I push myself harder, my tennis shoes slamming into the rubbery track pavement faster and faster. I am Secretariat heading towards the finish line, leaving all the other horses… my troubles… behind me. And then it happens. My calves cramp, my knees buckle, and I slam forward. For an instant, I think that I shouldn’t put my hands out to catch my fall. I should just let myself slam into the track. But then I do push my arms out, fingers splayed, palms down, because if I get hurt, how will I find her?

  It hurts like crazy to take the impact with my hands. I suck in a fast, sharp breath at the pain. After the initial hit, I roll onto my side and it feels like needles being yanked out to pull my palms away from the textured paving material. My palms are dented and bloody and scratched. My knees hurt too and I know I have at least abrasions under the thin material of my pants, but at least the material isn’t ripped. The skin can’t be too bad, not like my hands.

  I give into the pain for a while, because it feels good, like I’m finally releasing a level of angst that has been nearly-debilitating. Eventually, I stand up and limp to my Jeep. Opening the door, I reach for the keys dangling in the ignition. I turn them and the AC rushes to life, cold against my sweat-damp clothes and body. Closing my eyes a moment, I rest my head against the cool surface of the fake leather interior. The sweat is already dried, leaving behind a salty crust that feels awful.

  When I open my eyes, I look over at the seat of the passenger’s side and find the journal there. I carry it with me everywhere, hoping it will come to life again. So far, it has been six days since the dream, six days since Tilda disappeared, and it hasn’t lit up once. Not even a hint of gold glow, not the slightest tingle. More than once, I’d thought about tossing it out the window as I drove, burning the stupid thing in the back yard, or just shredding it page by page.

  But I couldn’t. There was still a chance. Still a chance that it could bring Tilda back to me.

  Every hour that ticks by, means less man-hours are being spent trying to find her. The police are still telling Jen that they’re trying their best and that these things sometimes take time. It’s a line of bullshit though. The first twenty-four hours after some disappears are critical. After that, they could be anywhere, anywhere in the world.

  What do I know though? I am a physical therapist, not a cop. I know very little about kidnappings and run-aways aside from what I’ve seen in movies and television dramas and ‘real crime’ shows. What do I know?

  I know that Tilda is out there right now, in the forest, and every damn time I try to go close to the tree line, I end up distracted and turned around. I’m going to figure it out though. I am.

  Picking up the journal, I flip slowly through the pages.

  Blank.

  Blank.

  Blank.

  I pause on the second to last page. I’m not sure why I do, because this page is also void of markings, but something is compelling me to wait. For what, I don’t know.

  After a few moments, I go to turn the page, finishing my millionth and one perusal of the book, but my eyes widen as I lift the thin sheet. My fingers release the paper and it floats back down. The page is shimmering like someone spilled a vat of glitter onto it. And then golden fire ignites, tiny flames licking up towards my face, but it is not hot. It does not burn. It flows in a pattern, snaking up and down the paper and bringing life to th
e already full-of-life sparkling.

  When the brilliant fire dies out, I see that it has burned a photo into the journal. It is perfect, like a snapshot.

  Tilda surrounded by trees. And she’s not alone. There is a figure facing the other direction.

  As I continue to look, the figure that is not Tilda turns slowly until the person is facing outward and could be looking at me if they wanted to. Young and male, perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Color washes across the blackened like-a-polaroid video on the page.

  The boy is looking at Tilda, he is saying something. And then, without warning, he is leaping towards her with his mouth open.

  And I see fangs.

  Fangs.

  Slamming the Jeep into gear, tossing the book to the passenger floorboard, I push my foot hard against the gas pedal and move forward so fast that my body presses roughly into the seat, leaving me feeling like I’ll melt through the smooth surface and come out the other side.

  Food, Water, Air

  -Tilda-

  Time is nothing.

  To the boy who never ages.

  “You’re… you’re… No, it can’t be.” I stutter out the words.

  “Seriously, that’s your response?” The boy turned in a circle, putting his arms out and indicating the strange, magical forest around us. “Look around you, stupid.”

  “God, you really like to name call and insult, don’t you!” I stamp my foot. “Is that a vampire trait or just a jerk trait?”

  “Hmm.” He seems to consider for a moment, “I was relatively nice as a human, so I’d go with vampire.” And then comes a self-satisfied, cocky smile and I want to both knock him on his butt and also smile with him.

  His face changes suddenly though, before I’ve decided what to do. It goes from humanly boyish to animal, dark, bestial. And then he is launching towards me, mouth open, fangs bared. He’s a vampire. God, he’s a vampire.