Lost in the Never Woods(49)

Wendy shivered in the middle of the woods. The fading light of dusk tinged the trees a cold blue-gray. They were dense here, like they only got in the heart of the woods. There was a light layer of snow covering the trees and frosting the ground beneath her feet. Her wet clothes clung to her skin. The smell of moist dirt filled her nose. Wendy tried to remember how she had gotten there, but her head was in a fog.

It felt like she was supposed to be looking for someone. Or was someone looking for her?

Wendy wanted to call out for help, but something told her she needed to be quiet, to not break the dead silence that hung thick in the air, pressing against her ears. Craning her head back, Wendy searched the trees above, noting the silvery sky as it peeked through the boughs. She slowly turned in a circle, naked branches turning above her. When she stopped, Wendy found herself facing an old tree.

Its trunk dwarfed the others that encircled her. Its bark was an oily brown, and its branches twisted and curved above her, completely devoid of any leaves or needles. Its roots were thick and gnarled, knotting and tangling with one another before plunging into the frozen earth.

It was the tree. The tree. The one she had sketched a hundred times, just as crooked and eerie in person as it had been on paper.

Wendy’s heart thudded violently in her throat. Cold sweat beaded on her skin. Her nails bit into her palms. Harsh, ragged breaths billowed white before her. The trembling in her spine began to awake.

At the base of the great tree, the roots formed a small opening, like an entrance to a dark cage. Rotten leaves brushed past the gaping mouth and, just below the sound of their ruffling, Wendy heard quiet voices murmur.

She knew this place.

Everything in her screamed for her to run. Wendy needed to get out of there. She needed to get away from this tree. But it was like she had no control of her body, because suddenly she was moving toward it. The hushed whispers became steadily louder as she stepped closer, one foot after another.

They were children’s voices. Wendy could only watch as her own hand reached out toward the opening of the roots.

The voices grew harsh and urgent. The whispers turned to soft cries, then gut-wrenching wails, the kind that howled with unhinged fear. Wendy wanted to scream and drown them out, but her lips remained closed as she leaned in.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” a voice behind her said.

Wendy whirled around. There stood the guy who had talked to her when she was getting her bag out of her truck. She had almost forgotten about him.

“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice sounded far off and distant.

She still couldn’t make out his face. The light continued to fade and she couldn’t see his features clearly.

They seemed to shift and change the more she tried to focus on them. Black eyes. White teeth. An unnaturally wide grin. His features twisted and morphed.

“You never know what you might find in dark places,” he continued, ignoring her question as he moved closer to her.

The shadows of the trees behind him started to sway and converge. Wendy took a step back, but he pursued. The black shapes behind him became towering figures, bowing down in the darkness.

“If you insist on poking around, Wendy…” His hand lashed out and snatched her wrist. His sharp fingers dug into her skin.

Wendy cried out in pain and tried to twist her arm free of him. He pulled her roughly toward him, and his face came into focus.

Peter’s face. But wrong, very wrong, with pale skin and inky pits for eyes.

“You won’t like what you find,” he breathed. It smelled like rotten leaves and wet dirt.

The shadows behind him gathered, piling up high then forming long, sharp fingers. He laughed and it shook Wendy’s bones. She tried to struggle but he held tight. The shadows lashed out and crashed down over her.



* * *



Wendy thrashed and jerked herself upright. She was home, in her own bed and drenched in sweat. Her clothes stuck to her skin and her hair was matted to her forehead. Shuddering gasps wracked Wendy’s body as she gripped her sheets. It was just a dream, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to steady herself. But it felt so real.

Wendy gulped a deep breath, but when she looked down, a strangled shout caught in her throat.

She scrambled back so quickly, she slammed the back of her head against the headboard.

Everything was covered in red.

At first, Wendy thought the ink was blood, but after the initial terror cut through her, she realized that she still held the red marker she had fallen asleep with.

They were drawings of the tree, over and over again, in haphazard lines that crossed and dragged over everything—her nightshirt, her legs, and all over her sheets. Pages of her bullet journal were also covered in red, ruined and ripped from the notebook. Gnarled branches and tangled roots buried her carefully written notes.

Clutched in her other hand was the acorn.

Wendy threw the marker and clutched the acorn tight to her chest as she tried to steady her rapid breathing. Had she done all of this in her sleep?

Wendy squeezed her eyes shut.

What was happening to her?

Surrounded by torn pages and red ink, she felt trapped. The shadows, the drawings, the murmurings—everything was creeping in.

Wendy dropped the acorn into her bedside drawer. She leapt out of bed and yanked the fitted sheet free. Some of the red had bled through and stained the mattress. She bundled everything up into a heap and ran into the bathroom, where she shoved it to the bottom of her hamper and out of sight, along with her ruined nightshirt.