by Mandi Lynn
The rest of the day is normal. I get to my locker early, so there is no sign of Eliza. She’s also missing when I get onto the bus to go home.
At home I find a snack for myself before starting the night’s homework. After what seems like an eternal hour, I finish the last of my assignments, happily placing the books into my bag. The papers I have to fill out and give to the office still sit in my bag, so I resharpen my pencil and go to work with the questions. I print my full name, copy the number that is on the plastic ID card the school gave me, and move onto the questions.
Are you adjusting well?
Did you find your classes easily?
Are you having trouble in any subjects? If so, would you like a tutor?
I answer them all quickly by putting yes or no, even though there is enough blank space for multiple sentences.
Yes.
Yes.
No.
The next day when I go to hand in the forms, Eliza is standing near the office door. She sees the papers I’m holding and smiles, putting her hands forward to take them.
“Do I give these to you?” I ask, trying to look behind her into the office to see if the secretary is busy.
She nods in reply, but that’s all. I give her the forms, and she walks away.
_________________
Arriving home that day, I get the feeling I’ve been waiting for since the first day of school: I want to draw. I’ve been anticipating this feeling for so long. I just haven’t been myself since I came to New Hampshire.
I run up into my room, grabbing my journal. I need somewhere I can draw without risk of my parents seeing me. My dad is home early today, but my mom is still at work. I can draw in my room, but my dad might come upstairs. Even though this is a possibility, I decide on my room due to the fact that my dad is watching TV—I have a feeling that he will be there for a while.
From memory, I sketch the rocks around one of the waterfalls I had seen. There are roots coming up from trees around the edge and water flowing gracefully over huge masses of stone. Unlike other artists I don’t erase my sketch marks. I leave them, because that’s what I’ve always done, and it’s a part of me. I like seeing the drawing slowly transform into something beautiful as darker strokes are added to the paper.
The best part about drawing things from nature is that they have so much texture. You can use one color, but by rubbing harder or lighter, it can look like many different shades. My drawings are mostly black-and-white with very little color, to get the right effect.
When I finish my drawing, I put away my journal, hiding it on a shelf in my closet where I store my old notebooks covered in sketches.
Chapter 5
Camping
It’s summer now; not the hot muggy season Florida has but comfortable weather. I’m really starting to enjoy New Hampshire and its cool air, even with its sudden rainstorms and windy weather. I find myself asking my dad to drive me along the Kancamagus Highway just to see the view; the mountains’ edge starting right next to the road, towering over our heads, until we can’t see their peaks because of the clouds.
Today my dad and I do just that, taking a few hours to drive through the mountain peaks. He even convinces me that we need to stop sometime at the side of the road at one of the sightseeing stations to take photos. There are also trails made for hikers and tourists; you just have to pay a three-dollar fee that goes to funding the trails to keep them safe and cleared. My dad always tries to get me to stop at one, even though every time we drive by, I come up with an excuse like “my stomach hurts” or “I’m tired, maybe another time.”
As me and my dad walk in the house after one of our famous drives along the highway, my mom greets us. “Guess what?” she asks. The news radiates off her, telling us immediately that something good is about to come.
“We won a million dollars?” my dad asks, laughing as he puts his coat on the rack next to my own.
She comes over to him, almost hopping with excitement, smacking him lightly in the back of the head, getting on with the news. “I got the week off! Do you know what that means?”
My dad and I look at each other dumbfounded.
“We can finally go on a family camping trip!” my mom says, the news seeming so obviously simple to her.
My smile turns into a frown. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the forest. Looking back I can’t even be sure if the pull I felt was real. As time passed, I told myself it was an outlandish dream. But now, going back into the forest, fear lingers at my feet with the possibility that the pull was real and could come back the moment I step into the expanse of trees.
“Where are we camping?” I ask, hoping the campsite is somewhere far away from the forest I’ve come to recognize behind my house.
“The White Mountains National Forest, of course. I found the perfect camping site! It’s near a ranger station too, so we will have the bathrooms right there.”
My mom goes into an endless rant, talking about the amazing sights we’ll get to see when we go hiking; how there is a swimming hole open to the public that allows you to jump in off the tall rocks that surround it.
“How long will we be camping?” I ask.
“A week.” My mom signals me to follow her into the kitchen where our calendar hangs on the fridge. Sure enough there it is; an entire week has the words CAMPING TRIP written across it in big bold letters, making it impossible for my parents to schedule anything else that week.
I look at the dates on the calendar. “This is tomorrow,” I say, my finger resting on the box for July 27, the large letter C in “camping” taking up the entire box.
“We leave first thing in the morning, so we have to get all packed tonight!”
My mom looks around the kitchen, seeing the mess for the first time. Dishes are piled in the sink, the table still has lunch on it—my dad and I had been in a rush to leave the house and go for our drive, abandoning our lunch, half eaten, on the table.
“But first we have to clean,” my mom says, already throwing out our unfinished sandwiches.
She wipes down the table and turns to the sink to get to work on the dishes. Panic bites at me from the inside, a small shiver starting at my fingers. No. I don’t want to do this. I don’t think I can.
“Do I have to go?” I ask.
“Yes, Emma,” my mom says, scrubbing down pots, rinsing and placing them on a towel across the counter so they can be dried later. “You’ve been inside ever since we got here. You need to see the forest. It’s beautiful.”
I turn to the counter and grab another towel to help dry the dishes, feeling as if I’ve just been punished for something I haven’t done. My mom smiles as I dry the pot and place it inside a cabinet. I smile back, but it feels forced.
_________________
By the next day we are fully packed for our camping trip and leave early in the morning. One thing my mom failed to say is that the campsite was only a few miles from our backyard. Paranoid, I become more alert of my surroundings, looking behind me several times and staying close to my mom, always looking for a way out in case it came to it.
The entire week I’m like this: always looking around, waiting for the mist to come out from hiding, expecting the pull to take over and the voices to be heard. They don’t show up, but I never let my guard down. I go on hikes almost every day with my parents, and take pictures of the different waterfalls and rock formations, trying to keep up the act.
We decide to go swimming.
Standing on the highest ledge, I notice the lower rocks below to my right. My parents are already in the water, having jumped in using the lower rocks that require a five-foot jump at the most. Below me they tread water, waiting for me to follow them. I’ve already jumped in today off the lower rock like my parents, but my dad dared me to make the big plunge.
Still wet, fresh out of the water, my legs shake as I sling my arms around me, while the wind freezes my skin; the cold water drips off my body and through my thick brown hair.
/> “Come on, Emma!” my dad yells up to me. My mom begins to swim to the side in the shallow water and finds a rock to rest against while she waits for me to jump in again. I approach the edge, looking at the ten-foot drop and remember the feel of the ice-cold water. Up the stream there are waterfalls, but they all lead to this spot here; a deep pool—at least twelve feet—surrounded on both sides by the tall rocks that I now stand on. Widthwise the pool isn’t very large, but it holds a lot of depth, leaving no possible way of encountering a rock when you hit the water.
“Jump off the lower rock if you want, Emma,” my mom tells me. I can see her shiver as she clings to a rock sticking out in the shallow water that leads to the rocky shore.
“Amelia, Amelia.” My dad shakes his head, as I back away from the high rock and make my way to the lower one. I hear his taunting laugh and stop. My arms and legs are covered in goose bumps, and my lips are starting to quiver without protection from the wind mixing with my wet body.
“Just jump in,” I whisper to myself, taking three large steps back from the high ledge.
“Oh?” my dad says, seeing me brace for the jump.
I take the final stride, knees bending to propel me out and I leap, the ten-foot drop passing in a quick second. My feet slice into the water first, and then I’m in over my head. The cold water pierces my skin, reminding me that I’m not scared of the high jump but the water that awaits me below.
“You did it, kid!” my dad says as my head pops out of the water. My feet never touch bottom, and I thrust my legs and arms to keep my head above the frigid water.
“Your turn,” I say in a quiver, rushing to the shore as I swim with a speed I didn’t know I possessed—I didn’t remember the water feeling this cold the first time I jumped in.
He laughs at me. “I’m crazy, not stupid,” he says, swimming in front of me, joining my mom on shore.
After we dry off, we all go on a hike, hugging our warm sweatshirts around us. While my mom and dad look around at the trees and birds, I can’t help but sneak a look over my shoulder every few seconds, expecting the mist to appear out of nowhere.
“You seem at little on edge,” my dad says later that night, approaching me from behind as I stand facing the forest, my back to the glow of the campfire. His sudden occurrence causes me to flinch, and my dad laughs. “You okay?” he jokes, motioning me to join the campfire.
I turn around to face him and then sit by the fire, leaving my back exposed to the forest. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I say, warming my hands near the flames. “I’ve just never seen anything like this before.” I gesture to the mountains behind me that are illuminated by the sunset.
So that’s how my week goes. Keeping up the facade so my parents don’t see that I’m on the lookout for something that goes farther than what I can comprehend—something that scares me enough to keep me away from the beauty of the forest.
When the camping trip ends, I’ve never been so happy in my life to be home. I run upstairs and topple into my bed, falling asleep within seconds—fully dressed and exhausted from the week of worrying.
I think my mom must have seen me asleep in my room, because when I wake, I’m covered in a blanket. I look at the clock, and it’s two in the morning. I take off my shoes and get changed into sweats; an instant comfort comes over me after a week of wearing jeans. My bed welcomes me as I fall back into the pillows, burying my face in the sheets. For the first time this week, I can finally let my guard down and relax.
Chapter 6
The Mist
It’s one of those summer days where it’s just too hot to do anything but lay down and sleep. The heat presses on me, and I’m too tired to do anything but become a victim to the humidity. Eventually I manage to drag myself out of bed to eat breakfast, but when I get down the stairs, there is no one in the house. Looking around, I find a note on the fridge from my mom:
Emma,
Your father and I went into town to buy some groceries. We were going to tell you, but you were sound asleep. We will be back later today.
Love you,
Mom
Setting aside the note, I eat breakfast and do all my chores. The heat makes all actions feel tortuous. Although today feels like any other summer day, something is off. It feels like I’m being watched, like something is lurking behind every corner. The sense is hard to ignore, but I continue with my chores, working up a sweat in the process. I’ve felt this way before, when I’m left home alone without warning. Like always, I double-check the locks on all the doors and windows—all of which are in their proper position, but paranoia still rises within me.
As I clean the living room, I close the window my parents enjoy leaving open because of the cooling wind we receive. Outside a brown bear roams near the edge of our yard. He’s huge and probably weighs three, even four, times as much as I do. I lock the window, sliding the hinge into place as I see the bear prowl its way back into the forest. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as he crushes branches that have fallen on the ground.
The chores finish fast, leaving me to surrender to the TV. But nothing seems to occupy my interest; instead, I retreat to my room.
It’s there, waiting for me. The purple mist floats around my bed, its cloudy essence forming mystical and hypnotizing patterns. I freeze at the wooden door frame, numbed by fear. The mist doesn’t move from its position at first, but I become grasped in some sort of trance. Like a final puzzle piece snapping into place, the pull possesses my body, drawing me to the mist. It is as if all the time that I had spent free of the pull has built up and decides now to arrive, when I’m least expecting it. I grab the door frame for support, bracing myself for what is to come.
My sanity holds a scream within my being. I lose track of my surroundings.
I had no idea the pull could be this strong. The mist seems to call to me, the sensation of needing to be near it growing stronger as seconds pass. I’m steel being pulled to a magnet, no choice or decision. Just the simple fact that this is how it is. There is no escaping the mist and no winning any battle fighting the pull that comes along with it.
My muscles are tight, resisting the pull. My eyes are clenched, my lungs ready to scream at any moment, even though I know there is no one to come save me. The violet glow of the mist brightens as it starts to come closer, the mist moving away from my bed and toward where I stand, frozen at the door frame. Where is my mom? Why doesn’t she call to save me? I feel my hope diminish as I realize my phone is downstairs being charged.
I’m losing. Allowing my body to inch closer, I give into the pain that absorbs me now. It surrounds every inch of me as I lose all feeling in my body, and it swallows me. The mist calms me like medicine, putting me into a trance. Although I have no sense of touch within my body anymore, I can see that the mist is swirling around me, blurring my vision.
A strong wind blows into me from every angle. My hopes lift for a moment, thinking the mist is gone, but when I try to move, it feels as if my limbs are disconnected from myself. I have no control over my body; the mist, now inside me, acts as the puppeteer—controlling my legs, forcing me to walk down the stairs.
I don’t fight. The mist isn’t hurting me. It feels almost like it is a welcome piece, a missing part. It feels right to have it enter my body. I let it lead me, refusing to withstand the pull anymore—I want this to end. I want the haunting to stop.
The mist leads me out the door and into the vast forest of the backyard. No longer inside the safety of my house, my breathing hitches, and my throat swells up. It feels as if I’m being constricted, blood circulation being cut off. I choke a sob, trying to gasp for breath, but a cooling feeling comes over me, leaving me able to breathe again, and I let the mist lead me farther without any restraint.
I advance through the forest on the only trail I’ve ever known. Entering the place where I had first seen the purple mist, I want to panic. This is where it all started; this is where I had my first encounter with the force that stopped my movement and turn
ed into a pull. Lined in front of me are the trees that act as a fence, a barrier, from whatever lies within. I stop to regain control of myself, locating where my muscles are and trying to find their functions. I don’t know what the trees are hiding, but I don’t want to find out.
I’m only able to restrain movement for a moment, feeling something clink into place as I have control of my legs again, until the mist consumes my being again. I can feel the mist pushing me forward from the inside, and then suddenly the voice is back. It sounds like me.
“Move, Amelia, you have to go!” It’s strained, panicked, and afraid.
I look around to see if someone is talking to me—no one is there. I’m alone in the forest as it glows with the summer’s season. The voice. Whose is it? It sounds like me, but how am I hearing my own voice speak? I know it is mine; I’d heard it countless times in home videos, over a microphone—even once on the news after a tropical storm hit one of our favorite Florida beaches.
“Walk into the trees, now!” my voice yells.
My body jolts forward unwillingly, and when I try to protest, another cooling, numbing sensation fills me. I’m greeted by a calm influence, but most of all, I’m lethargic. Suddenly sleep fills me; I’m tired and nothing seems to be a better solution than to just listen to this voice.
Giving way to the sleep, my body walks forward, my mind stepping away momentarily—as if clocking out of a shift and allowing someone else to take its place. After letting go of control, I expect to feel soothed, but instead it feels like one of those dreams of falling. My mind is woken and snaps back into place.
“No!” I scream out loud. Fully aware of my losing battle, I step away, only to take two steps forward again after the pull controls me. For the first time I notice the tears that seem to flow over my face as I give into my burning need to cry, blurring my vision to what is going on.