Whatever had happened to the two of us in that house had scared Jared enough to cancel the whole trip. That was well and fine, but we still had miles to walk before we'd get back to our campsite, and while I generally trusted his skill in navigating, the man leading me now was not the same that had brought me all the way out to this house. I felt vaguely nauseated as we left the shadowed abode behind and struck out in the direction of the creek.
We fled from the house hand-in-hand, and at one point, I looked down at Jared's watch.
The hands were indeed frozen and had stopped at around one in the afternoon. The little box on the right side of the face where the date was displayed remained fixed on 14.
September 14th.
Eleven
After more than an hour of pointed silence and relentless marching, one of us had to say it, and the task fell to me. “Where the hell are we?” I asked.
Jared, cheeks red both from the exertion and from the chill night wind that blew almost without surcease, glanced at me in the corner of his eye and offered a low grunt. He was panting, hands buried in his pockets. Along the way, in his mounting frustration, he'd torn off his poncho and left it in tatters upon the ground.
I wanted to know what was going through his mind, and to voice my concern at our situation, but doing so without making matters worse proved tough. We'd been wandering—to my mind, quite aimlessly—for awhile now, and Jared had given no indication that he knew where we were headed. Walking at such a clip as we'd been doing, I thought we'd have arrived at the creek by now, and yet even the sound of the thing eluded us.
“Just how lost are we?” I chanced.
“We aren't lost,” he snapped back, tonguing his molars. “Just a little turned around.”
I nodded repeatedly, like an idiot, in the vain hope that furious movements of the head might make Jared's words sink in and take hold. I wasn't buying it, though. “Then... where are we?”
He pursed his wind-chapped lips and took silent stock of our immediate surroundings. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a lungful of the cold air. “We got turned around,” he repeated. Out of reflex, he looked down at the watch on his wrist, but in the next instant he recalled its disfunction and let his arm drop limply to his side. “We can't be far now. Just have to find the creek and ford it. Once we do that, we'll be nearly to camp.” It didn't escape my notice that there was nothing of hopefulness in his tone. Instead, his gruff delivery relayed anxiety and frustration the likes of which I seldom saw in him.
“But we can't even hear the creek,” I replied. It hadn't been my intention to wound him, or to drive home what he already knew, and yet I couldn't hold the words back. I wanted him to reassure me, but all he could manage in that moment was to toss his shoulders. My body ached and my mind had grown sore with worry. I'd ventured far beyond my typical disdain for the outdoors; I was becoming increasingly occupied with the possibility that we were lost—lost without hope of being found on this particularly shunned and myth-tainted weekend when even the authorities couldn't be bothered to make routine surveys. “We shouldn't have come here,” I said with a shuddering breath. “Not this weekend. It's... it's September 14th, Jared. There's a reason no one comes out here on September 14th...”
He dismissed me with a wave. “Enough of that shit. Don't even start, Penny. We need to keep our heads on straight, else we're really going to have some problems getting out of here.”
I clawed at my damp poncho, balled up the ends in my fists. “You're not listening to me,” I challenged. “There's something happening in these woods. Don't you get that? Something's been happening ever since we arrived, but we didn't get the hint. And now we've stepped in it.” He rolled his eyes so hard that I knew he was trying to convince himself otherwise, and I broke in before he could argue. “You and I, we've been experiencing strange things. How else do you explain what happened in that house?” I nodded up towards the moon. “We thought we were in there a half hour or something, so why the hell is it night, Jared? And what about the strange book... or the person you saw—and felt—in there? Something is happening in these woods. We aren't supposed to be here at all. There's good reason that people have shunned this area on the anniversary of Ellie Pomeroy's death, and that's because all of the stories are true!”
His reply was more of a sigh than a laugh, and the way he curled his lips into a mocking sneer required what looked like genuine effort on his part. “What a load.”
“You reached out and touched someone in that house—” I began.
He shook his head feverishly—both to silence me and because I could tell he didn't want to be reminded. “It doesn't matter,” he blurted. “We just need to find the creek, OK? That other stuff—it doesn't mean anything. The house was dark... we were confused...” He grit his teeth. “Listen, if that witch is out here somewhere, then she ought to make her ass useful by giving us some directions! I don't want to hear any more of this superstitious talk, I just want to get back to camp. I want to get some food in me, some rest, and then I want to get the hell out of here.” He shrugged, a defeated smile playing across his lips. “You were right, the whole time. We shouldn't have come out here. The trip was a dumb idea. I don't know why I pushed it. You've never been into this kind of thing and I was a dummy for even trying.”
“Jared, you're not listening...” Ordinarily, I would have tried to console him a little—No, honey, the trip hasn't been all bad! I'm sure things will improve!—but he was missing the point completely. “I don't think you understand the danger we're in. We've been seeing things, acting strangely, just like the people who used to live in Newsom's Landing. These woods are cursed.”
He trudged off ahead of me with an exasperated groan. “Come on, we've dawdled long enough. Let's keep going.”
I followed, but before too long I'd taken hold of his sleeve and dragged him to a stop. “No, let's try and come up with a plan. Isn't there some way we can find out where we're headed—where we're supposed to go? Check your compass? Or... maybe some other trick, like checking the moss on the trees?”
During our trek, Jared had glanced numerous times at the compass he kept in his pocket. Either he'd forgotten how to read the thing, or else the information it had been feeding him wasn't accurate, though, because its reference had done precious little good. Shoulders tense with annoyance, he shoved his hand into his pocket and withdrew the compass, holding it flat in his open palm. He had only to glance at it for a moment before dropping it to the ground with a snort.
“What did you do that for?” I asked, dropping to my knees and plucking it from the underbrush. Before he could muster a reply, I had a look at it myself and understood, however.
The needle was going haywire.
In movies you sometimes see this sort of thing—magnetic anomalies make an explorer's compass go crazy. The needle spins around the instrument's face non-stop. What I saw happening beneath the thin glass top was similar. The little red needle turned hard in a clockwise direction, its tip nearly coming to rest on the S that indicated “south”, before making a lazy swing back up to the N, for “north”. No matter how I held it, no matter where I stood or how long I looked at it, the movement remained the same. It was like it couldn't make up its mind.
“What the hell?” I muttered.
“It's fried, I guess,” said Jared. “Like the watch.”
I let the compass fall to the ground and then jogged up to his side, my guts going to work on what was sure to become the first of many hiking-induced ulcers. I tried to keep my voice from breaking as I spoke, but was unsuccessful. “So... what does this mean? How are we going to get back to camp? To the car?”
My boyfriend hadn't come up with a plan yet, and I watched him grind his teeth for awhile before admitting, “I dunno.” He motioned up ahead with a lazy flick of his finger. “I could have sworn the creek was this way. Our best bet is to find some kind of elevation—get a good look at the terrain from above. That should help us find the necessary landmarks.�
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This was easier said than done. Everywhere I looked, the forest grew from the same flat ground. “Could you climb a tree?” I suggested.
“Do I look like a fucking monkey to you?” he snapped. He caught himself almost immediately, and his expression softened. “Sorry, but no. I'm not much for climbing, and the last thing we need is for me to fall and break a leg. We're better off looking for a hill or something.”
So, off we went.
In the twilight the woods all looked the same to me. Chaotic rows of trees stretched on in every direction and gave no indication that they'd ever thin out. The din of nocturnal insects rose and fell almost in time with my own labored breathing, and the resulting effect made my head feel as though it were alive with buzzing wings. Still, my eyes studied the space between each trunk greedily in search of anything resembling a footpath, and my ears sought to shelve the susurrus of the chatty bugs in favor of the creek's familiar patois. Our footfalls—tired and growing slower by the minute—were almost soundless except for the squishing they made upon the rain-churned soil.
Jared led the way in a series of baffling stops and starts. Here, he'd push on ahead as quickly as he was capable—breaking into a reckless gallop through the mud. There, he'd pause tentatively between trees and wait for me to catch up while studying the dim terrain. Occasionally he'd mutter to himself; I couldn't make out anything intelligible during such outbursts, but could only guess that he was giving himself short pep talks.
After another lengthy silence spent trudging through the brush, the two of us heard something most welcome. We had paused just long enough to catch our breath and rest our legs when the sound of dribbling water reached our ears from afar. Jared's eyes shot wide at the noise, and he turned to me with something like a maniac grin. “You hear that?”
Indeed I had, and I took a few staggering steps forward, hands cupped over my ears. “The creek?”
Gripping my hand tightly, Jared cut a ragged path through the trees and guided me breathlessly towards the sound. Tramping through the murk, we rushed with everything we had in search of the telltale dribbling, and less than a mile away we found it. The wall of trees gave way rather suddenly to the mud-daubed bank of Swan Creek, and I swear the two of us nearly fell to our knees in wavering delight.
Our joy was short-lived, however. Jared had pulled me close to him, but as he stared into the choppy creek, its waters dark and turbid in the low glow of the moon, I saw the color in his reddened cheeks gradually drain, and porcelain took its place.
The waters had risen on account of the rain. Drastically.
We were not faced with raging rapids, exactly, but at this precise spot it was clear the water was deeper than we were tall, and that the force of the current would easily overpower us should we decide to chance a swim across. Waves raged and frothed; the engorged stream pulsed like an angry vein, leaving the banks soft and quivering. Glancing up and down its length, the moon revealed a number of spots where the creek had broken free of its limits. Where the borders had been subsumed by rain, tremulous pools of floodwater now stood—and actively grew. The landscape was changing as a result, with small hunks of land giving way and being swept into the flow.
Jared licked his lips. His hand still clutched at my waist—albeit feebly—as he said, “How the hell are we going to cross that?”
I was no field expert, but it was clear enough to me that our previous method—that of the reckless running-jump—wasn't going to pass muster this time around. The ground was too sodden for a good foothold, and we were likelier to nudge the edge of the bank into the creek as we prepared to jump than we were to gain liftoff. What's more, the rising waters had gone to work on the narrower patches, whittled them back somewhat, so that the creek's flooded width was virtually unbridgeable by a mere jump.
After an eternity of waffling, Jared tugged me downstream. “Come on. We'll look for some elevation. There has to be some spot where we can cross safely—maybe a bridge somewhere. If we follow the creek long enough, we'll find some higher ground, get a better look at our surroundings, and eventually find what we're looking for.”
I wasn't sold, but I nodded and followed him.
The way forward was hardly linear; there was a lot of weaving around the flooded bits, and a fair bit of confused searching for higher ground. If anything, the further we went downstream, the more the gradient seemed to slope. Pockets of the wilderness within feet of the bank had become so flooded that mud and debris actively slid in staggered tracts, some of them calf-deep, and long-buried tree roots and boulders were coming into view after having been roused by the rain.
Jared powered through the rougher patches, but I was repeatedly overwhelmed by the deteriorating landscape. The mud gripped my boots, and I lost my balance more times than I could count. With every tumble, I took on more and more mud, till I looked like I'd purposefully rolled around in it. Each time I fell, Jared would pause, offering a tight—impatient—smile, and my pride would ache just a little more. By the fifth or sixth instance, I was on the verge of tears. My body tingled with pain and cold. I tried unsuccessfully to petition Jared for a break; he would only shake his head, promising a breather “in a little while”.
I don't know how long we walked before we found higher ground. I tried to keep track of the time by counting arbitrary things, like the staggered hooting of far-off owls, or the regular chirring of insects from the nearby trees, but the seconds coalesced into an uninterpretable mass all the same. When we finally happened upon a rise in the topography that Jared thought worthy of inspection, I'd been in the process of fighting back a sob. I'd been so preoccupied with my misery that I nearly trudged past him—it was only his firm hand on my shoulder that stopped me and clued me in to this development.
He pointed up to a gradual rise that broke away from the banks and grew into the wilderness like the hump of a buried camel. The hill was largely bald of foliage—much of it had evidently washed away—and despite the gentleness of the slope the muddiness all but ensured it would be a monster to climb. “If we get to the top of this hill,” began Jared, “we should be able to see for a fair distance.” He stared at the summit, which was partially blocked by slanted trees. “Walking uphill in this mud is going to be really nasty.”
I got the hint. He didn't want me to slow him down, and frankly, I'd had my fill of falling on my ass. “I'll stay here,” I offered. “You climb. Get a look around and then come back down when you've got the lay of the land.”
This plan pleased him, and he gave a firm nod before starting his ascent.
“But hurry,” I blurted before he'd even gone ten feet.
“I will,” he promised. “Stay here and get a little rest. I'll be back before you know it.”
Leaning against the trunk of a knotty pine, I gave my pulsing feet a rest. Water had long ago made its way into my boots, and the cold left my toes tingling. Though I was fast approaching the end of my tether, I took this opportunity to look at the bright side of things. Jared and I had been lost in the woods, but the discovery of the creek—however flooded—had seen us return to familiar territory. Now, he was scaling this hill, and would get a good idea of surrounding features. He'd come back down when he was through, surely with a plan of some kind, and before long we'd be on our way back to civilization. This trip had been a nightmare, but we were probably within a mile or two of our camp—and the Jeep, by extension. It was possible, even probable, that we'd get out of this park and on the road within an hour or so.
I watched Jared climb. His footing was less than sure, but whenever he began to slide in the muck, he'd grasp a tree trunk and right himself. He made reasonably quick work of the hill, and his loud grunting broke out over the raucous babbling of the creek as he neared the top. Merely watching his ascent made my legs hurt. Gradually, as he explored the hilltop, he fell out of direct sight. The trees peppering the hill were too numerous, blocked out his form.
It didn't feel good, losing sight of him. I worried that he m
ight injure himself and get stuck up there. It's stupid, but in my anxious state I worried, too, that he might just keep going—that this trip had made him resentful of me, and that he'd choose to abandon me. Standing at the base of the hill, shivering against the pine, I couldn't remember ever feeling lonelier.
My fears proved unfounded, though. After some tense moments, I sensed movement atop the hill, through the trees. I breathed a sigh of relief that clouded the air before me and took a few slow steps up the hill. “How did it go?” I called out. “Anything?”
Jared didn't reply, but merely continued his slow descent.
I could tell something was wrong as he rounded the first of several trees. When you know someone—really know them—you become accustomed to their mannerisms, their movements. As he returned to the foot of the hill, I noticed something was off in Jared's gait. His stride was quick, somewhat slinky. It wasn't the walk of someone traversing slick, difficult terrain. At first, I thought it a cheery kind of walk, a walk indicative of good news, but then the moon brightened and brought other things to light.
The face staring down at me was pale. Paler than it had been on the way up, by a significant margin. Even from a distance, I could tell that there was something amiss in that face; the lines had been drawn differently, seemed fuzzy.
It took me a few moments of baffled inspection to realize why that was.
It wasn't his.
My heart reached up and sucker punched the back of my throat.
Someone else was coming down that hill to meet me.
Any hope that it was a friendly party—perhaps a park ranger or helpful camper—dissolved the moment their ashen face entered into clearer focus. The visage wasn't remotely masculine, as its hardest edges had been scrubbed down to amorphous nubs. No, rather, it was alien and possessed of a bestial hostility. Something like a nose broached the center of the face, while two misplaced eyes—cavernous and drooping—took up residence beneath a pronounced troglodytic brow. The figure began to lope down the hill with a marked recklessness, causing a mouth to open and shut in a series of ragged gasps heard clearly even from a distance. This mouth opened only slightly, however; its lips were seemingly held together, and were so thin that the orifice disappeared into the pale canvas of the face when closed, only to flash ajar again like an ebony tear across an alabaster membrane.
The Splendor of Fear Page 8