Lost in the Never Woods

by Aiden Thomas

  And she didn’t want to wake up her dad.

  Wendy closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. Her temples throbbed. She was not looking forward to him finding out about what happened tonight. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what had happened herself, so how was she supposed to explain it to anyone else? The only things she knew for sure were that something had landed on the hood of her car and she found a boy lying in the middle of the road. And his name was Peter.

  But that still didn’t mean he was her Peter.

  Wendy gave her head a small shake.

  She needed to focus.

  Groceries. She could make baked ziti. It was quick and easy to pack up for her mom and dad.

  Wendy looked down at the notepad, about to write down marinara, but stopped short. She sucked in a sharp breath. Goosebumps raced down her arms.

  She’d done it again.

  The notepad was covered in blue ink. Scratchy lines etched out the gnarled tree. The trunk was thick, jagged. The roots twisted and curled at its base. The drawing had gone off the paper, leaving branches that hooked at sharp angles across the wooden table.

  “Shit.” Wendy grabbed cleaner from under the sink and a handful of paper towels. She scrubbed vigorously at the table, but even though the blue ink vanished, she’d pressed the pen so hard that it’d left gashes in the soft wood. She cursed again and scrubbed harder.

  Still, the ghostly outlines of the branches remained. Wendy yanked open the drawer where they kept the nice linens for holidays and pulled out the set of green placemats. She arranged them on the table to cover up the lines.

  Wendy dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. What was happening to her? Was she totally losing it? She needed to get a grip on reality. The boy she’d found was not Peter Pan. The missing kids had nothing to do with her or her brothers. She was exhausted and just needed a good night’s rest.

  Wendy went upstairs, pausing for a moment at the top. To the right was a door. It led into the room she used to share with her two brothers, John and Michael. Now, it was just a door that had remained closed for the last five years. After what happened, Wendy refused to go back inside, so her parents had immediately moved her into the playroom.

  They had bought her all new clothes and furniture. A shopping trip like that should have been a fun mother-daughter adventure, but Wendy had spent most of the first few weeks in the hospital, seeing various doctors and not doing much talking. So her mom had done most of the shopping herself—and by the mix of styles and colors of wood, Wendy assumed that she had just pointed to the first things she saw and had them delivered to the house.

  Turning her back to the door, Wendy ran her fingers through her short hair and walked into her room to the left. Just seeing her bed with piled-up pillows and a plush down comforter covered in a smooth, light blue duvet made her feel exhausted.

  The bed was centered in front of the window at the far wall. There was a small trash can tucked under the end table next to it, overflowing with more crumpled-up drawings of Peter and the crooked tree.

  In her small bathroom, Wendy splashed water on her face and the back of her neck. She held on to the edge of the sink and stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet. Other than being a bit pale, she looked the same as usual. Eyes that were too big, hair that was too ashy to hold any luster, and shoulders that were too broad thanks to swimming. Plain and uninspiring, which suited her just fine.

  Wendy changed into a white sleep shirt. The air hitting her damp skin gave her a small reprieve from the heat.

  The top of her dresser was the only thing about Wendy’s room someone could say was untidy. It was scattered with little treasures she had collected through the years. There was a line of her favorite books, a stuffed seal her grandmother had gotten her from San Francisco, a royal purple swim cap with her school’s mascot—the Fighting Fisherman—on the side, and her silver and bronze swimming medals placed at the corner.

  Wendy picked up the swim cap to toss it into her duffel, only to reveal the small wooden jewelry box that had been hidden under it. She paused.

  It was a simple box made of old wood. She had found it at one of the little shops on the coast several summers before her brothers were lost. She mostly used it to keep her books propped up, but there were a few little trinkets inside.

  Wendy reached down and carefully opened the lid. There was an old necklace made out of cheap metal that had become tarnished and smelled like copper. There were a couple of coins, a small piece of purple quartz, and, tucked in the corner, an acorn.

  She pulled it out and let the lid fall shut with a quiet snap. She held it carefully, turning it in her fingertips. The acorn was dark with age and had a polished sheen to it from all the times she had run her fingers over its surface. The cup of the acorn—or its little hat, as she used to think of it—was dried out and had pieces missing.

  The acorn had been in her hand when the park ranger found her in the woods five years ago. According to the police report, she had been gripping it so tightly that the small point had bruised her palm.

  She hadn’t taken it out of its hiding spot in a long time. Wendy used to turn it over in her hand every night before bed, looking for a secret message or maybe an invisible latch that would open it up, reveal some secret, tell her something about those six months. It was the only thing from that day she had kept. Everything else—her long blond hair, her clothes—had been thrown out for good, but she’d held on to the acorn.

  Carefully cupping it in her hands, Wendy walked over to her bed and collapsed onto her back. She sank into the comforter, which gently enveloped her like a cloud. Wendy reached back and turned on the strand of fairy lights that framed the window above the head of her bed, casting a warm glow over her and her shiny acorn.

  What a disaster today had been.

  No one liked her birthday. Her parents didn’t like it because it reminded them that their two sons were missing. Wendy didn’t like it for the same reason. The only good thing about this birthday was that now she was eighteen, it was summer, and in a few months she would be off to college. Away from the ghosts that followed her.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Benjamin Lane and Ashley Ford. Wendy wondered if the police would start sending search parties into the woods like they did when she and her brothers had gone missing … Could the disappearances happening now be related to what had happened to her and her brothers?

  She hoped not. She dreaded it, in fact. Wendy had spent the last five years trying to escape that looming shadow just to be swallowed up by it again.

  And then there was Peter.

  Was it just an odd coincidence that a boy had turned up next to the woods, unconscious in the middle of the road? Was this somehow all related? Had he been kidnapped? Had he escaped someone just before she found him?

  Tilting her head back, she gazed at the small lights. When she was little, her mother had always told her that fairy lights watched over children as they slept and kept them safe. It seemed like a ridiculous idea now as she rolled onto her side, still fiddling with the acorn.

  Yet she still slept with the string of lights on every night. She wouldn’t sleep with the lights off—or rather she couldn’t. Jordan had tried inviting her to a sleepover once, a few months after she was released from the hospital, but when it was time to turn off the lights, Wendy had such a bad panic attack, it scarred both of them enough that they never tried again.

  Wendy nuzzled her cheek into her pillows and curled her legs up under her night shirt. Maybe she would go back to the hospital and try to talk to Peter again. Maybe after a good night’s rest, her head would be clearer and she’d be able to see that he was just a random, run-of-the-mill boy. She held the acorn between her thumb and forefinger.

  Where did you come from? she wondered. Wendy placed it on her bedside table and stared at it for a moment longer before finally drifting off to sleep.

  * * *

  The next morning, Wendy put the acorn back in
its hiding place, washed her hands, brushed her hair, and went downstairs. Her mother was in the kitchen, sitting at the small dining table. Her hands were cupped around a white mug filled with hot water, lemon, and honey. It sat on top of the green placemat hiding the carved lines. Her mom’s head was lowered and her eyes were shut. It reminded Wendy of the quiet, huddled bodies of people in waiting rooms.

  “Morning,” Wendy said, the tile of the kitchen floor cool against her bare feet.

  Mrs. Darling sighed and lifted her head. “Good morning.” She gently stirred the contents of her mug with a teaspoon.

  Wendy leaned on the kitchen counter. “Did you just get home?”

  “Yes.” Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Wendy wanted to ask her about Peter, if he had woken up, if he had said anything, but Mrs. Darling didn’t need prompting.

  “They lost the boy,” she said.

  The world dropped right out from under her. “He’s dead?!” Wendy spluttered.

  “No! He disappeared,” Mrs. Darling quickly corrected. “He must’ve run away during the night.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Nobody knows how he managed it. One moment he was there, and the next—” She rolled her wrist, fingers curling through the air.

  Run away. Disappeared. Lost.

  Wendy found herself dismayed, almost panicked at this information. But a part of her, a very cowardly part, was relieved.

  “Had he been kidnapped? Was that why he was in the middle of the road? Are we sure someone didn’t take him from the hospital?” Wendy asked, the words spilling from her lips. Various horrifying scenarios cycled through her head.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” her mother said gently. “The strange part is no one saw anyone go in or out. They even checked the surveillance tapes, but there was nothing. It’s like he just vanished.” She frowned at her cup.

  That was odd. The hospital didn’t have the most high-tech setup, but at least one of the cameras should’ve showed him leaving. “Did—did he say anything?” Wendy ventured, bracing herself for the answer.

  “He woke up a couple of hours after he got the sedative,” her mom explained as she squeezed another wedge of lemon into her mug. “I never saw him, but the other nurses kept saying he was talking gibberish, maybe an aftereffect of the sedative … He kept talking about a shadow?” She frowned in a way that made her look much older than she was. “I don’t know. Maybe he was just lost in the logging roads and dehydrated, delirious … They had a social worker there but she couldn’t get anything clearer out of him, either.”

  She was quiet for a moment before she finally looked up at Wendy. Those keen brown eyes bore into Wendy’s with inquisitive intensity. “He also kept asking for you.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said, because it didn’t. Wendy crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and then crossed them again.

  Mrs. Darling ran the tip of her finger over her bottom lip as she watched Wendy for a quiet moment. “Do you know him?” she finally asked.

  “No, of course not!” she said, a little too forcefully. Frustration started to crawl under her skin. This mystery boy was making it look like they knew each other when they didn’t, but more importantly, he was making her look like a liar. Now she even felt like a liar, like she was hiding something, but how could she when she’d never seen him before?

  And no, her imagination of what a make-believe boy could maybe look like did not count!

  “He’s some random kid that came out of the woods, how would I know him?” Wendy insisted, desperation starting to claw up her throat. She didn’t need her mom, of all people, to doubt her, too.

  “How—”

  Knock. Knock.

  Wendy jumped and they both turned to the front door.

  Mrs. Darling frowned but rose from the table and answered the door. Standing on the porch were a man and a woman, both dressed in suits and ties.

  “Mary Darling?” The man spoke first as he dug in the pocket of his jacket. He was tall and broad shouldered.

  Mrs. Darling’s fingers flexed on the doorknob. Wendy slipped into a seat at the table, leaning over to peer around her mom. “I told the officers we would be at the police station later. I need to—”

  “I’m Detective James, and this is my partner, Detective Rowan,” the man said. Wendy tensed. He held out a badge, as did the woman behind him. Her black hair was shaved to a shadow, revealing every inch of her angular face: sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and deep brown skin. She looked past Mrs. Darling to Wendy, her expression unchanging.

  “Detective?” Mrs. Darling repeated, sounding confused.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’re with the Clatsop County sheriff’s office. Do you mind if we come in?” His hazel eyes cut to Wendy. “We have some questions for your daughter.”

  Wendy mentally urged her mother to just say no and turn them away. She could tell her mother didn’t want to let them in, but did you have much choice with detectives?

  To Wendy’s dismay, her mother stepped aside and let them in. Mrs. Darling walked over to Wendy and stood next to her, arms crossed over her chest.

  “Wendy?” asked Detective James.

  She didn’t know why he was asking when he obviously knew.

  “Yes.” Sitting there, Wendy suddenly felt very small. Detective Rowan stood with her hands clasped in front of her while Detective James went into his pocket again and pulled out a notepad and pen.

  “We just have a few questions for you and then we’ll be out of your hair.” He smiled at her, but it was the fake kind that didn’t wrinkle the skin around his eyes. His hair was dark and he had stubble and a scar running through his left eyebrow. Wendy wondered how he’d gotten it.

  “Right.” She knew it was never as simple as that.

  “We already got the paramedic and police report,” he said, flipping through at least five pages of notes. “So we don’t need to go over that again. However, what we do need to know is if you knew the boy, Peter?”

  So much for no repetitive questions.

  “No, I don’t know him.” Or didn’t know him? Should she talk about him in past or present tense?

  “Are you sure?” he pressed, pen poised, waiting.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Did he seem at all familiar to you?” Detective Rowan was the one to talk this time.

  Wendy blinked. No one had asked it that way before.

  “No,” Wendy said, a little too late. Was the boy familiar? Yes, but she couldn’t explain to them why. No one would believe her. It sounded impossible—it was impossible.

  “You don’t have any memory of him? He didn’t look like someone you’ve met before?” Detective Rowan continued, slowly and even-toned. Wendy felt trapped under her stare.

  “No.” That time she said it too fast. “I—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “No, I don’t know who he is.”

  Detective James looked over at Detective Rowan. Wendy couldn’t read what they were thinking, but this sort of nonverbal communication was the result of years of closeness. Wendy understood, because she and Jordan could exchange looks across a classroom and she’d know exactly what her best friend was thinking.

  Detective James turned back to Wendy and her mother. He clasped his hands in front of him, holding the small notepad and pen. Now the two detectives were mirrors of each other. Towering sentinels staring down at her.

  “It was about five years ago that you and your brothers went missing, is that correct, Wendy?” Detective James asked.

  Mrs. Darling inhaled a sharp breath.

  The hairs on Wendy’s arms prickled.

  He said it so nonchalantly, as if Wendy didn’t go through life carrying the burden of what had happened each and every day. As if it weren’t a stain on her childhood, a family curse that they never spoke a word of.

  As if it were nothing.

  “Y-yes,” Wendy croaked.

  “According to the original police reports, you, your brothers—John a
nd Michael—and your pet dog went missing from your backyard on the night of December twenty-third.” Detective James spoke slowly as he watched her. “I believe you were twelve, John was ten, and Michael was seven?” He said it like a question, but it was clear he knew all of the details by heart. Not once did he glance at his notes. “Only your dog returned from the woods that day, and they found blood on her fur.”

  Michael’s blood.

  Wendy’s stomach gave a nauseated lurch.

  Her mother was still as a statue, her face nearly as pale.

  “Officer Smith told us they had search parties combing through the logging roads and the woods, but nothing showed up. That is, until six months later when a park ranger found you in the woods. He said you were standing under a tree, looking up and not moving.” She felt frozen under his steady gaze. “He tried to get you to move but you didn’t respond, so he carried you out and called the police.” Detective James finally looked down at his notebook.

  Wendy felt like she was watching a movie. One of the British procedurals her mother liked to watch. What did this have to do with Peter?

  She wasn’t brave enough to simply ask.

  “You had some minor cuts and bruises, but no major injuries,” Detective James went on, thumbing lazily through pages of his notes, not actually reading them. “The most pertinent things of note were that you had no recollection of what had happened during those six months, that parts of your clothing had been patched with natural materials native to tropical climates but nowhere in Oregon”—he paused for a moment—“and that there were traces of your brothers’ blood found under your fingernails.”

  Wendy’s vision blurred. She barely registered that hot tears were trailing down her cheeks.