Savage Woods

by Mary SanGiovanni

  Maybe through inexperience she had, for most of her time on the earth, been largely helpless when it came to the finer points of day-to-day adult life. Maybe she had needed Darren early on. He often had told her that the only thing she brought to the relationship was sex, and it had made her try all the harder to prove she could be more. She’d begged for second chances, for the room to learn and grow as partners. She always managed to say or do something to set off that disapproval, building to rage, but she certainly tried to make things right. Her capacity to love earnestly and vulnerably, her depth of understanding and patience—perhaps they didn’t matter to Darren, serving only to reinforce in his mind his picture of her as a naïve damsel in distress, a fairy-tale child in a woman’s body. But she’d come to realize those qualities were good things, even lovable things. Things Darren didn’t appreciate, and so would have to live without now.

  The first time he left her, she should have recognized it as the cruel and manipulative method of control it was, but she hadn’t—not then. He wasn’t violent or threatening then, just disapproving, just chipping away at her self-esteem so he could pour himself through the cracks in her. She was crushed, of course. She believed he was right, that she’d be nothing without him. She couldn’t have imagined feeling more lost than those first few days after the breakup. But then he’d taken her back, and in doing so, consumed her sense of self again, sealing off her complaints, her fears, her protests. Even now, surrounded by the silence and the trees and the sun arcing toward an early dusk, she was not nearly as lost or alone as she’d been under Darren’s renewed efforts to hold on to her.

  When she left him, she’d sworn that no one and nothing would ever make her feel that way again.

  She was not helpless, not anymore. She’d found strength in herself once, and would do it again.

  Julia ground the tears from her eyes with the dirt-streaked heel of her palm and sniffled. She’d triage her discomforts, get back to herself so she could think clearly. She could do this. She was not useless.

  She rose on shaky legs and made her way to a small dirt patch that an underground root had caused to slant down and away from her. She pulled off her sneakers and set them aside, then tucked her socks into them. The cool earth beneath her feet sent a shiver through her. She glanced around again for those spying eyes she couldn’t seem to find before realizing the ironic ridiculousness of that, and then, with a small, self-conscious smile, she unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. As she pulled them down, goose bumps stippled her legs. She felt exposed and vulnerable. She had to fight against years of behavioral training and the urge to cover herself as she slid down her underwear. She squatted, and although she could feel urgent pressure in her bladder, it took a long time for the urine stream to flow. She closed her eyes and tried thinking of waterfalls while she flexed the tiny muscles down there, then tried imagining she was in a real bathroom, safe and alone. Finally, when she tried thinking about nothing at all, the dam broke. She giggled, relieved, at the soft patter in the dirt. Tiny splashes against her ankles struck her as distasteful, but that was a minor thing compared to the triumph of completing the act, as well as the small but real victory of having found a spot that minimized the potential messiness.

  She wiped with a clean but wadded-up tissue she found in her jeans pocket, then pulled up her underwear and jeans. She washed her hands with a little bit of water from her water bottle. There, she thought, satisfied. One problem solved.

  A growling insistence in her stomach presented the next issue to tackle. She had that half-squashed granola bar at the bottom of her purse. It wouldn’t be much, probably wouldn’t do for long, but it was something. After that, she’d probably have to rely on the forest for food. She frowned. She remembered reading somewhere that a lot of weeds and wild berries were edible, but she had no idea how to tell which ones. Could she eat pinecones or acorns? She thought so. What about moss? She made a face. She was almost certain the strange red, brown, and white fungal growths peeking up from the brush or clinging to tree trunks were poisonous, but what about leaves or tree bark?

  She rummaged through her bag for the granola bar, and was relieved when her hand closed around the rectangular shape. She tore into the wrapper, devouring the bar faster than she probably should have and washing it down with a conservative gulp of her water. She probably should have saved some of the bar for later. Who knew when, or what, she’d get to eat again? She supposed if she broke her compact’s mirror, she could somehow wedge those glass shards into a stick and use it like a knife, but she didn’t think she’d be fast enough to hunt something. Even if she could hunt, she didn’t much relish the thought of killing something to eat. She thought she might very well starve before she ate a bug, in fact. So she was back to taking her chance on plants when the time came. But she’d have to worry about that later. For now, the granola bar had taken the bite out of her hunger, and for that, she was grateful.

  Before putting her socks and shoes back on, she examined her feet. It was a relief to find she hadn’t collected any more blisters, though the old ones oozed a little, and the souls of her feet were red and sweaty. The cool ground beneath them felt good, and she dug her toes in and wiggled them. She inspected her ankle and thought it was starting to look a little swollen. She had no idea how to tell if it was sprained; she didn’t think it was, but the ache was starting to match the one in her head. She leaned some weight on it and it responded with a flare of pain. She thought maybe she was supposed to wrap it tightly, but nothing in her purse was going to accomplish that. She sighed.

  She dug around in her purse until she found the small bottle of ibuprofen and shook two pills out into her hand. She considered the pain for a moment, and dumped out another one. Then she took all three with water from her bottle—she’d never been able to swallow pills dry—and tucked both the water and pain reliever bottles back into her purse.

  Julia took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Okay, so far so good. She was managing. She was okay.

  She pushed thoughts of that chasm and of the dream from the night before from her mind. She was okay. She was just fine. Everything was fine.

  Above her, the sky was growing dark, even though it was too early for that. Time apparently moved differently in Nilhollow, though, just like distance seemed to be laid out arbitrarily. She’d heard that rumor, among others, but her time in the woods had proved it true for her. Maybe it should have bothered her more that so much evidence around her confirmed that Nilhollow was haunted, but just then, she was more concerned with the immediate and concrete dangers of being lost in a forest in general. It occurred to her that it was likely a way for her brain to cope with a situation that would otherwise have overwhelmed her, and that was okay. If she ever made it out of Nilhollow, she was sure she’d have plenty of long nights to catch up on all the layers of trauma, naturally or supernaturally caused, that her experiences had provided.

  If she made it out? She caught herself. Thinking like that wasn’t going to help. She wondered if the other people who had gone missing in the woods had gone through the same trains of thought. Had their plans to navigate their way out failed, one after another, as hers had? Had they been hungry, thirsty, dirty, and bug-bitten? Had they been scared?

  And worst of all, had they known they were never going to make it out? At what point did it finally sink in that things weren’t going to be okay?

  She shivered.

  Days, maybe. Weeks. Those people wouldn’t have given up after only a day or so, and neither would she.

  She looked down and noticed a small, horizontal hole in the thin material of her T-shirt, maybe an inch or two above her belly button. If she tore it straight around, she could use the fabric to support her ankle.

  “I think I found a bandage, purse,” she said to the little bag beside her.

  She tugged the T-shirt over her head and methodically ripped at the hole until she had a somewhat uneven but essentially usable strip of fabric. She replaced the T-shirt, then
wound it like a bandage as tightly as she could around her ankle and was surprised to find it felt better. She tied it off, satisfied with her work. Just let Darren and her parents and her friends see her now. That idea made her laugh out loud, and the sound echoed loudly around her. She didn’t care.

  Now, she needed a plan. First, she’d find a weapon, just . . . well, just in case. Whether she came across a bear or Darren or . . . or something else, she wanted to be prepared. Then what? She could keep walking, but she didn’t imagine that would do much more good than it had already. Nilhollow wasn’t that big and she knew she should have come upon at least one of its borders already, but it didn’t seem to matter. She was pretty certain that Nilhollow wanted to keep her there, confused and wandering indefinitely. So did she finally stay put? That didn’t seem like a good idea, either.

  You could go back to the Chasm . . .

  Julia frowned. That wasn’t her thought. It was an invasive, alien idea and she disagreed wholeheartedly. Why would she ever want to go back to that chasm?

  It’s the only thing that doesn’t move, the alien thought-voice told her. It’s a fixed point in these woods. A starting point. She shook her head. She was starting to lose it, really and truly. Voices in her head were not indicative of a survivalist mentality in good working order.

  “I’m not going back there,” she said aloud. It felt good to say it, even though she wasn’t sure who she was saying it to. She spoke aloud again, repeating the sentiment to her purse. “I’m not going back there, no way. I’m getting out of here.”

  What she was thinking while she was talking was that she really wanted to rest. She felt very drained, and someplace safe to sleep appealed to her more just then than blazing yet another useless trail through Nilhollow.

  A low rumbling in the sky made her look up. Was that thunder? The idea of safe shelter seemed even better. If only . . .

  When she looked back at the way ahead, she jerked back in surprise, her heart picking up its pace a little. The woods in front of her had changed. Instead of a span of trees, there was a small cabin, tucked away between some tall pines. She blinked, but it was still there. It definitely hadn’t been there before, but there it was now. She was dumbfounded. Where had it come from?

  It was a small structure more the size of a large shed than even a small house, only one floor capped off with a gray shingled roof. The wood boards of the cabin itself, the front door, and the small, flat porch and steps leading up to it were once gray or green, but faded and peeling now, the wood grain cracked and splintering. Some of the window shutter slats were missing, and one of the wooden posts flanking the steps and holding up the porch’s overhang had large gouges in it like claw marks. The glass in the two front windows was intact, but dusted with pollen or cobwebs or something, so she couldn’t see inside.

  It was quiet, that little cabin. Even in the insistent breeze that always seemed to be blowing in Nilhollow, the cabin didn’t creak. It didn’t settle on its foundation, as old as it looked. It just stood there as if waiting to see what she would do.

  Above, the sky rumbled again. The leaves of the oaks and cedars behind her rustled in excitement. The pine trees around the cabin offered their own low, dry titters as well. She took a hesitant step toward the cabin and paused. She’d seen enough scary movies to know that cabins in the woods were seldom ever safe shelters. Lord only knew what she would find in there.

  That feeling of being watched settled on her shoulders and she glanced around, but there was no one that she could see. Her gaze shifted back to the cabin.

  She wanted a place to sleep.

  A safe place. That place wasn’t safe. There was no way it could be. What if she fell asleep there and the whole cabin went back to wherever it had come from, with her still inside it?

  She was so tired, though. Her ankle ached. “What do you think, purse? Should we go in?” The purse was leaving the decision up to her.

  This time, when the thunder rumbled, it brought with it a light rain that found her even through the tree cover. It also brought a flash of lightning. She remembered hearing somewhere as a child that being in a forest during a thunderstorm with lightning was bad. Lightning went for the tallest things it could find, things like trees, and sometimes it knocked branches or whole trees down on people. Sometimes it hit the ground between trees and singed everything nearby. Sometimes it sparked forest fires. Oh God, she thought, a sudden panic welling up in her. What if these woods catch on fire and I’m still lost in the middle of it all? She felt a little sick.

  And as she stood there debating the dangers of lightning and forests versus entering that cabin, the rain picked up. Fatter, heavier drops plastered down her hair and made her T-shirt stick to her skin. Her jeans grew waterlogged and heavy.

  In the gloom of the impending storm, the trees around the cabin reminded her of thick, bristly hairs on the back of some great beast. It was no safer outside in these woods, she reasoned; the last twenty hours or so had obviously proven that. She had felt constantly exposed and hunted. It almost seemed silly, really, to stay outside in a storm, especially when a building offering an inside was so close. The cabin was likely to be dry, at least, and she was exhausted. She wanted to be wrong about it being a trick of the forest.

  Another flash of light and a sharp crack behind her made her jump; that decided her. She limped toward the cabin.

  She was surprised to find the steps and the floor boards of the porch didn’t creak when she walked on them. She even paused, shifting her weight to her good foot to make some sound. The boards should have creaked—it would have been a sign of normalcy—but they didn’t.

  She braced herself as she opened the door. It swept open on silent hinges. Inside, it was dark. She stepped through the doorway.

  It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust and make out shadowy shapes of furniture. To her right was an old couch and a small, rustic coffee table. Beyond the coffee table were two closed doors, possibly a bedroom and bathroom. To the left was a wooden table surrounded by matching chairs. Beyond that was a doorway that she thought probably led to the kitchen. She couldn’t see much in the way of detail, but everything looked normal.

  The door eased closed behind her, cutting off the little bit of light and the sound of rain. Inside was a tomb of cool, black silence. She dripped rainwater on the floor, but even that made no sound.

  For several minutes, she just stood there, waiting for something, anything to indicate the cabin was part of the living, breathing world around it. In her mind, she thought she might be able to relax if she could hear the sound of rain on the roof or windows or smell damp wood. With frustration, she realized no sounds, no smells, nothing of even the weird outside world of Nilhollow was accessible to her. She whistled. That, at least, she could hear, but it was a very solitary sound, so isolated as to be unwelcome. She didn’t try it again.

  At least in here, she was pretty sure she was genuinely alone. Nothing was watching her, so far as she could tell. Julia already felt so far removed from her old life, like she’d been put on a high shelf and could see glimpses of the normal world but was too far away to get back to it. The disconnect made her think of Pete. God, how she hoped he’d find her.

  Her hands outstretched, she felt for the couch in the darkness and found it. It felt flimsy and dusty, as if the fabric would disintegrate beneath her fingers. Grimacing, she pulled her hand away. She certainly wouldn’t be able to sleep on that, no sir. The thought of touching the couch, of sinking into its decomposing cushions, curled the edges of her stomach.

  Then she heard a thump. It was instinct to look around, but she saw nothing. Her heart thudded in her chest. She wasn’t alone after all. A growl from somewhere in the shadows several feet away made her jump. In her head, she whispered a little prayer. Please please please don’t let it find me please don’t let it hurt me please please please make it go away . . .

  Another thump and a dragging sound made her back away from the couch. It sounded like
someone was moving the furniture in the darkness . . . or maybe dragging heavy limbs along the floor.

  Very close to her ear came a whisper: “Julia.” She flinched away from it, crying out, then clapped her hand over her mouth. There was a wet slapping sound somewhere close to her foot, and more dragging. Slap, draaag. Slap, draaag.

  It had been a mistake to come inside—she saw that now. She felt flushed and light-headed. A mistake to limp right into the forest’s version of a Venus flytrap. She couldn’t see and it was hard to breathe. The interior gloom felt slippery and unwholesome as it slid down her throat, filled up her lungs, flooded her ears and eyes and nose.

  She had to get out of there.

  She backed toward where she thought the door was, and bumped into a low corner of something. Confused, she eased herself down into a crouch and felt around. A diagonal of perpendicular wooden surfaces led upward into the gloom. Stairs? She frowned. The cabin was only one floor. Where could steps possibly lead? Up to daylight, maybe? Could the cabin somehow be underground now? It would explain why she couldn’t hear the rain outside and why it was so dark inside. Was she in a shed-sized coffin, then, deep in the earth? The thought of being buried alive in that horrifying place sent flares of panic through her stomach. She felt as far up along the stairs as she could reach from the bottom step, her fingers grazing over the wood until it wasn’t wood anymore but something soft, wet, and vaguely sticky. It moaned when she touched it, and she yanked her hand back, hastily rubbing it against her jeans to get all remnants of whatever it was off her fingers.