by Carian Cole
I’ll ruin our story.
And if I do that, the happily ever after may not happen, and that’s something I cannot begin to accept. That’s the only thing that kept me going for all those years I was alone in that dark room. The mere idea of it not happening is unthinkable.
Each day I walk a little farther, always feeling triumphant as I walk past the spot by the park. I make it downtown, walking by stores and cafes, then turn and walk back to my apartment. I learned at Merryfield that I could move. Being locked in a small room for years, with no option to go anywhere else, created an invisible spatial barrier in my mind. It took months for me to get used to the idea of going to other rooms, of being able to go outside, walk around, and return to where I started. The expectation of a wall popping up and stopping me, trapping me, continues to linger.
I still expect him to sneak into my space, even though I watched him die. Death doesn’t erase fear or memories. The monsters that live inside us are much harder to get rid of.
I’m getting better at battling them, though.
One morning, I decide I’m going to be extra adventurous and take a taxi to a street near the part of the woods where the photos of the Christmas trees were taken. I’m going to hunt for a Forest Santa tree and see it with my very own eyes. It’s another huge step for me—doing something on my own without direction or permission.
I know that going into the woods to look for trees might sound crazy. And it probably is. But I don’t let that deter me. I feel like this is something I have to do. And I’m not going to tell anyone because I don’t want any negativity ruining my mood.
A few months ago Zac gave me his old iPad, making me promise I would only use it to read books, find out about potential jobs, or other safe activities. He made me promise I wouldn’t go looking at news sites, join social media sites, or search for information about my past. I agreed, feeling no desire to do any of those things anyway.
Yesterday, I kept my search simple, safe, and specific. I found the website of the tree photographer. Two emails later, he told me where he had found the trees, off an almost-hidden trail that branches off the main path people use to get to a small waterfall in that area. Of course, this doesn’t mean there will be any decorated trees in the same place this year but, after some mental coaching, I decide to trek up there and look anyway.
Dr. Reynolds keeps suggesting I take on some projects and goals, so why not this? At least I’ll have something exciting to tell her when we meet next month.
Getting a taxi is a lot easier than I thought it would be. Just a simple phone call from the landline and, within the hour, she’s pulling into the lot in front of the apartment. I make sure I have keys and my wallet, with a credit card and some cash, in my backpack—just as my mom insisted I should do every time I leave my apartment. I dash outside, practically run to the taxi, and climb into the back seat. The female driver asks me for directions with a rather bored attitude and, next thing I know, I’m off. Free. Doing what I want.
I watch the scenery pass by, trees and houses blending into a blur. I get more anxious with every passing mile, and the woods loom ahead. When we arrive at the destination, the girl driving the car asks me for an extra fifty dollars to wait for me while I walk around the woods, and I give it to her just to make sure she won’t leave me stranded here. Thankfully, my father sends me money every week, which I rarely spend.
Having donned boots, gloves, a scarf, and a hat, with my backpack over my shoulder, I start up the trail. Even though it’s the first week of December in New England, it hasn’t snowed yet, so I only have cold air to deal with. I’m well aware I should probably be scared to go walking around in the woods alone, but my desire to find a decorated tree far outweighs my fears. And what are the odds I would be abducted twice?
The research I did on the magical little iPad provided very few clues about Forest Santa. One short article I read on a local Wiki page, though I’m not entirely sure what a “Wiki” even is, stated that the trees have been found decorated as early as the beginning of December and as late as Valentine’s Day. I wonder if the mysterious Santa goes back to the trees and undecorates them. I decide that he must—otherwise decorated trees from the year before would still be around and, according to my research, they’re not.
As I walk away from the taxi, logic once again reminds me I should be terrified of being alone in the woods—where the bad man kept me—but I practice my breathing techniques to help me rationalize. It’s not the woods I should be afraid of, but a person. The woods never hurt me—a person hurt me. I imagine my prince protecting me, like a guardian angel and, with each step, my worry fades. As part of my initial therapy, Dr. Reynolds would take me outside, sometimes in the sun. This was new for me since I hadn’t been outside at all during my captivity—other than when the bad man moved me, with a cover over my head, to the hole—and I had no window to view the outside world. Other times Dr, Reynolds would take me outside in the dark. Then I slowly graduated to talking to people. Part of my rehabilitation was to not fear the world or hide from it now that I was living in it. Going outside was terrifying at first but, with help and practice, I overcame it and soon started to enjoy it.
I try to pay close attention to my surroundings as I walk, keeping an eye on my watch to make sure I don’t lose track of time and end up walking for hours in a daze. I space out a lot. Or maybe it’s daydreaming. I’m not really sure what the technical term is, but Dr. Reynolds says it’s because I was alone for so long and had no one to interact with other than Poppy and TV.
And him.
After I’ve walked for more than an hour, disappointment at seeing nothing but squirrels makes me turn back toward the road, where I hope my driver is still waiting for me. Something sparkly captures my attention out of the corner of my eye and there, about twenty feet to the right, is a small fir tree draped in gold garland, with colored balls hanging from the limbs, the tip of the tree topped with a glistening silver star. Various boxes wrapped in bright red paper with white bows are beneath it, and I wonder if they’re empty or if they hold real gifts. The mysterious boxes pull me like a magnet, but I resist the urge to go open one.
A smile touches my lips. I can’t believe I actually found one of the trees, and it’s just as beautiful and magical as the photographs. As I step off the path and walk slowly through the heavily wooded area to the tree, a man appears in the distance, on the other side of the Christmas tree. Startled, I hide behind the trunk of a large oak tree as he comes closer, singing an eerie version of “Jingle Bells,” his voice hoarse, strange—but oddly familiar, though I can’t quite place it.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the fucking way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse fucking sleigh…”
Curious as to who is desecrating one of my favorite holiday songs, I peer from behind the tree to catch a glimpse of who I can only assume is the notorious Forest Santa. He’s too far away for me to see his face, but he’s wearing a big floppy red stocking hat with a tattered white pouf and a bell on the end. He’s in faded blue jeans and a gray flannel shirt but no jacket.
“Ho, ho, fuckity ho,” he mumbles then lights up a cigarette as he stands back and looks over his beautiful tree. Seemingly satisfied with his creation, he turns in the other direction and whistles.
I lean forward, my mouth falling open, when a small, white dog comes running from the forest and falls into step beside the man, tail wagging happily.
Poppy!
There’s no doubt in my mind it’s Poppy. I cling to the tree trunk and watch them walk away while my mind races wildly and my chest heaves in panicked breaths.
After a quick debate in my mind, I decide I can’t just let Poppy walk away and lose him again, so I follow the direction the man and my dog disappeared, hoping I can find him and not get myself lost. For the first time, I wish I had a cell phone to call for help if I needed to. Oh, well. I lived ten years without being able to call anyone for help. I’m sure I can get through a walk in
the woods. But when I glance around, the man’s disappeared, and so has Poppy.
Suddenly, a body drops right in front of me. From the sky. I have no idea how, but he somehow came from above me and landed on his feet with a solid thud. It’s clear he didn’t fall, meaning he must have actually jumped from a tree.
I stumble backward, almost falling.
He’s not wearing a Santa hat. No. This man has a black bag over his head, tied with a frayed rope around his neck. Harsh, crooked holes are cut out over his nose and mouth. The forest falls deathly silent—the only sound is our breathing. Mine is ragged; his is steady and even.
We stare at each other, or at least I think we do. His eyes are shadowed beneath the dark material over his head, but I assume he’s staring back at me because I can feel it right down to my bones, and it freezes me with fear.
“I can smell your fear. It’s so perfect, so raw and innocent. The more scared you are, the more I like you.”
My voice is almost less than a whisper. “I wanted to see the tree. That’s all.” I’m back in the dark, dirty room with an even darker and dirtier man, bowing to his insane demands, trying to avoid further confrontation.
“Tell me what you were thinking right before I came in here. Tell me what you miss the most.”
His head tilts slowly to the side, his silence menacing as he studies me.
Sometimes, silence roars. I’ve heard it.
Newly acquired common sense tells me to run. But I ran in the past, and I was caught and punished. An innocent person who tried to help was hurt too. Because of me. Backing up slowly, I keep my eyes leveled on his masked face. “I’m going to leave now,” I say softly, continuing to back up. When he doesn’t move, I turn and walk back in the direction I came from, silently praying he lets me walk away. I take twenty steps, with my heart pounding, before I turn to check behind me.
He’s gone.
Turning in a circle, I frantically search my surroundings, dizzying myself, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
Monsters are everywhere. You can’t escape them. They will always, always find you.
I walk as fast as I possibly can back to the road, my eyes darting through the woods, hoping to see Poppy while, at the same time, petrified the strange man will jump out at me again. Did that even happen? I push my hair out of my face and press my fingers to my temples, not sure if I imagined it all.
Miraculously, I find the road, relief overpowering me that I didn’t get lost. When I reach the driver waiting for me at the side of the road, I’m out of breath and covered in a cold sweat.
“You okay?” she asks as I slam the car door behind me.
“Yes,” I reply, heart still racing. I press my face nearly into the window, looking out into the woods. “Did you see anyone?”
“Who?” she asks, confusion in her voice.
“Anyone,” I answer impatiently. “Did you see anyone walking around? Or a little white dog?”
She shakes her head and starts the car. “You trippin’? I didn’t see anyone at all. Or a dog. Sorry.”
As scared and worried as I am, I tell myself Poppy looked happy. His tail was wagging. He went willingly with the man with the Santa hat, so he must be a good person. Poppy would never wag his tail if he were scared. But even with that small amount of comfort, I know I can’t just forget him and hope he’s okay forever. I need to make sure he’s safe, and maybe, just maybe, I can bring him home. Having Poppy living with me would definitely make me happy.
When the taxi driver drops me off at Merryfield, she gives me her business card so I can contact her again when I need to be taken someplace. I shove it in my pocket, already knowing I’m going to be calling her tomorrow.
For once, I’m glad Feather is engrossed in a deep phone conversation when I get home. I’m way too rattled to talk to her right now, and I definitely don’t want her to see me this way. She’ll start hammering me with questions I’m just not ready to answer. I’m not even sure if what happened today really happened. There’s a possibility I made it all up in my head.
I take a long, hot shower—one of the few things in life that calms me. I didn’t have a shower when I was taken, only an old, dirty bathtub with no hot water, which still makes me shiver just thinking about it.
Before I climb into bed, I do my nightly ritual of looking out my window at the moon and stars, which are bright like city lights tonight.
“I miss the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars. I miss knowing if it’s day or night out.”
“Day or night, it’s all the same for you, little girl.”
A tiny spark of light draws my attention away from the sky. Out in the yard, near one of the storage sheds, I can barely make out the shadowy figure of a man smoking a cigarette in the dark. Frowning, I pull the window blind down and step away. It’s probably one of the other patients, even though smoking is not allowed here.
As odd as today was, I’m grateful for two things. First, I set out to achieve the goal of finding one of the decorated trees, and I found one. And second, I learned that Poppy is alive and well, and he appears to be living with the legendary Forest Santa. I’m sure I didn’t imagine that part of what happened today. It was real.
I’m not going to let the bizarre man in the scary mask stop me from going back to try to find my dog, even though my mind is spinning with questions. Is he the Forest Santa? Why would he try to scare me? Isn’t Santa supposed to be happy? Or was it someone else entirely? I was so stricken with fear when the man jumped out of the tree, I didn’t notice if he was wearing the same clothes as the man with the Santa hat. All I could see was that eerie mask.
The next morning is almost an exact replica of the one before it. The driver takes me to the same place she did yesterday, and I walk up the same dirt road to the path, only this time with the added fear of running into the man with a plastic garbage bag tied around his head.
The scent of burning wood floats through the air, getting stronger with each step I take on the frost-covered trail. This time, I turn left at the fork in the path. Soon, I spy a tiny house with smoke curling out of the chimney. The house is small and well hidden amongst the trees and looks almost exactly like the tiny cottages in my fairy-tale books. The small windows have white shutters and flower boxes, waiting for spring flowers. A vine, gray from the cold, creeps up the house, on a trellis, all the way up to a tiny stained glass window on the second floor. A stone walkway begins not far from where I’m standing, runs to the front door, and branches off to a matching detached garage. Various birdhouses, all painted in bright colors, hang from the trees and sit atop wooden posts. It’s simply the most magical place I’ve ever seen in real life.
My excited breath is a cloud of mist as I approach the house. I’m so busy huffing out more puffs of my own personal clouds that I almost miss the man perched, still as a statue, on a huge rock between the house and the small garage. He doesn’t look in my direction, even though my boots are crunching rather loudly in the dead leaves. Poppy, however, comes running to me like a white tornado as soon as he sees me. His odd bark makes me smile, and I’m relieved to see that he is real and not a figment of my imagination. I kneel down in the dirt and leaves and gather him up into my lap, his little body wiggling with happiness in unison with his tail.
“I missed you so much. So much,” I whisper, kissing his head as tears of happiness fall down my cheeks and onto his fur. “Did you miss me too?” He responds by licking my face and making happy whimpering noises. He must have been bathed because he’s much whiter and softer than I remember him and he smells fresh and clean. Feather would be impressed that even Poppy’s “evil shit” has been washed away.
I lift my head and finally lock eyes with the guy on the rock, and my heart does a leap into my throat. It’s him. I almost didn’t recognize him. Now it all makes sense. Yesterday he was wearing a hat, and his long-sleeved flannel shirt covered his tattoos. But today, his shaggy hair is visible, and the sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed up. There�
��s no denying those tattoos are the same ones I’ve seen twice before. I can’t believe he’s had my dog all this time. That he’s been here this whole time. Surely my parents and my doctor knew he lived right here in the same tiny town, knew I could have run into him, but still refused to let me write to him.
He appears normal to me—not mentally deranged, as I was told—other than defiling a holiday song, decorating a tree in the middle of nowhere, and not wearing a jacket in the cold. He continues to stare at me, totally expressionless.
Tyler Grace. In my head, he’s always been the prince. Silly, I know. But that’s who he is to me. I stand, holding Poppy in my arms, and slowly walk toward him, stopping about ten feet away. Not because I’m afraid of him, but because he seems to require a lot of personal space.
“Hi.” I quickly swipe the damp tears from my cheeks with my fingers. He looks away from me, and I frown at the back of his head. This is not the reunion I was expecting. I take one more step closer. “You’re Tyler, right?”
His mouth opens but, instead of answering me, he yawns. Yawns!
For a year, I believed that he would return to me one day and, instead, I’ve returned to him. I tell myself it must be fate. And instead of sharing in my excitement, he yawns.
“Do you remember me?” I ask, undaunted.
Nothing. As irritating and rude as it is, his ability to completely ignore me is impressive.
Hesitantly, I take two steps closer to him. The unique tattoo on his hand is visible, as is the strange, ragged, discolored skin of his other hand. I remember how those hands squeezed the throat of my captor after I dropped the rock onto his head to make him release the knife he was swinging. That knife and I were very familiar, and I have the scars to prove it. The paralyzing fear I felt in that moment, before I let the rock fall on his head, was intense. I made the choice of who would live or die that day.