And the Trees Crept In(21)

“I don’t think so.”

“Think of Nori.”

“I do,” I snap, scraping my chair back as I stand. “I think of her every day. And we’re not leaving.”

He sighs. “Just… think about it, Silla. I don’t understand what’s stopping you.”

He doesn’t have to. How could he possibly believe what I barely believe? That this place is wrong somehow, and that… something is in those woods? The tall, thin—thing waiting for us to come? All he needs to know is that I am not going into those woods. Not ever again.





THAT ONE TIME IN THE WOODS




I take nothing but my coat, and hurry out while Nori is sleeping. She won’t even know I was gone.

I run down the field and into the woods, pausing for a moment to look back at the manor. The light is fading, but it’ll be okay if I do this quickly. It’s light enough to find my way, if I’m fast.

“Please be safe,” I whisper. “Safe until I get back.”

I push away the image of Cath stalking slowly downstairs and cornering Nori, cornering her to scream at her or strangle her or—

“Please be safe,” I say again, and then I run.

The trees fly past at first; I duck and weave through the ancient woodland, skirting fungus-grown trunks and moss-hung branches, until the land begins to change. Rains have created soft mud out of the rotting leaves and earth, and I slip—almost fall—then catch myself on the trunk of a tree. I go slower after that, as the mud gets looser.

The farther I travel through Python, the trees of which thrash and move around me in the wind like dancing voodoo priests, the deeper the mud gets.

Ankle.

Midcalf.

Knee.

Before I know it, I’m wading through icy mud that clings and sticks and squelches as I go. Glancing behind me, I consider turning back, but I can’t even see the manor anymore, and I think I’m nearer to the village than not.

I can’t turn around. We need help. I can’t fail.

The weather is only going to get worse the closer winter comes. It’s now or never.

I begin to notice things. Things moving in the dusky dimness of early evening. A twitch here. A buzz there.

I feel the mud seeping through my jeans and into my socks, and when I glance ahead of me, I realize that I have no idea how deep the mud will go. Maybe I’ll walk and walk, and then suddenly step off the edge of a ravine and be plunged into inky-black mud, miles deep, struggling to return to light and air—forever. I grip the tree beside me, hanging on to one of the low branches, trying to steady my mind and calm my heart.

They’re just trees.

Get a move on.

Then movement again: the buzzing sound. The sound of something small, many things small: Crawling. Scattering. Squelching. Slithering. Something runs over my hand and I flinch away. A beetle. Or an ant. I squint at the tree, which seems to buzz like the static on an old TV. I step closer, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. And then I do. Hundreds of thousands of crawling things all over the tree. Ants, beetles, borers, cankerworms—some I can’t identify. I move away—as far as I can—unable to take my eyes off them. Their rhythmical, random movement congealing into something disgustingly tantalizing, and I revolt against the sight, but I can’t look away.

At my knees, the mud bubbles and moves, like the depth hides some swimming creature down there, curling and coiling in the mud.

I hesitate.

I run.

As fast as the mud allows me, until I do go over the edge of some tiny precipice and find myself trapped, the mud pooling around my upper thighs like cold, clammy pudding. Like hands clasping.

“One step,” I say, taking one forward. “Another step,” I chant, stepping again. “One step… another step. One step…”

On and on I walk, and the light fades to a dark gray that turns Python into a maze of tall, thin walls and obstacles I can’t quite make out. The buzzing, hissing, creaking sound of the bugs grows louder as the light dies.

I can see the village now—a few more rows of trees, and I’m there. Except… something is wrong.

Where are the lights? Where are the signs? Where are the people who should be in the pub drinking their beer and watching the game? Where is the sound of their laughter, the cackling beneath the pump of music and the white noise of chatter?

Where is the life?

I squint, leaning closer, my thighs squelching in the mud, and spot the corner store.

Boarded up.

Along the lane, the post office—boarded up.

Farther still, the pub—no lights. Doors chained.

Dear God… Everyone’s left. The whole village has just… left.

Left us here alone.

We’re alone.




I’m alone.




The terror is like a foghorn in the darkness. Like a spotlight pointed at me, notifying the monsters of the world exactly where I am: exposed, armorless.

How could they leave us behind?

Very suddenly I don’t want to be in Python anymore. I want to be on the pavement of the lane. I want to find someone—anyone—who might still be here. It can’t be just us. It can’t. I have no money, we have no phone, there is no postman—and the nearest town is more than seventy miles away.