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Books can be put down when the plot goes sideways, or your eyes get tired.
Books don’t ghost you halfway through Chapter Seven, leaving you to wonder what happened to the hero and if it was your breath, something you said, or his own fear of intimacy that made him head for the hills.
Books remain the same, no matter how many times you read them. They’re loyal friends who are there in your time of need, sources of comfort and wisdom who would never dream of giving you crotch cooties or breaking your heart.
Well, that’s not entirely true…
Books have occasionally broken my heart. But that’s why I avoid stories by that horrible man who pretends to write romance, but who consistently kills off one of his main characters at the end, Shakespeare’s tragedies, and anything by Edgar Allen Poe.
Poor Poe. Talk about a tragic figure. Orphaned at three and adopted by a cruel man with no love in his heart—it’s no wonder Poe was tortured by melancholy for most of his short life.
I’m thinking about the unspeakable sadness of Poe’s poem, Alone, which he wrote at the tender age of twenty, and wishing I didn’t empathize so strongly with the line, “from childhood’s hour, I have not been as other’s were,” when a shadow darts across my path.
Only, it isn’t a shadow.
It’s some sort of long, black-furred swamp beastie, who seems every bit as terrified of me as I am of it.
As I scream and jump a foot in the air, the creature lets out its own startled screech and dives into the waterlogged foliage on the other side of the path. Almost instantly, I realize I’m not in any danger, but it’s too late to spare the critter a heart attack or myself a tumble into the swamp.
My snow boot with the loose sole catches in one of the road’s many potholes and I tumble backwards, landing in the freezing water with an impressive splash.
Panic dumps into my bloodstream as memories of nearly drowning in the pond behind our childhood home ricochet through my cells. I curse myself for the hundredth time for never learning to swim—already imagining my slow sink into a watery grave—but a beat later, my fingers squish into the muddy swamp bottom, and I shudder with relief.
The water’s not deep enough to drown in, but it is dangerously cold.
“Holy hand grenades,” I hiss, sucking in a traumatized breath as the water soaks into my hair before executing a slightly slower penetration of my tattered winter coat and the sweater beneath.
I try to stand only to slip in the muck and fall into the shallows again—face-first. I swallow a mouthful of swamp and gag as my mind quickly makes a list of all the gross things I could have ingested, including, but not limited to: parasites, worms, dirt, spiders, marsh beastie pee, or the fecund remains of one of the many creatures who have passed away and begun to rot in Baron’s Barrens.
Long ago, this swamp was known as Crone’s Muir, but the crones passed away two-hundred years ago. Since then, Baron is the only creature brave enough to inhabit the cold, soggy, flood-and-disaster prone wetlands at the edge of civilization.
As I finally drag myself back onto the road—covered in mud and shivering so hard my teeth are clacking like hooves on paving stones—memories of all the horror stories I’ve read about the swamp dance through my head, casting twisted shadows.
I remember the legend of the Marsh Banshee, a shapeshifter who pretends to be a lost child only to transform into a monster with fangs the size of a grown man’s arm she uses to devour the kind souls who stop to offer her aid.
I remember the swamp lights, the ones some say are pixies out for a swarm, but others insist are ancient parasites who possess weary travelers and force them to commit unspeakable crimes.
I remember the werewolf serial killer, the rabid swamp rats, and the hungry ghosts said to hunt the marsh for human flesh when the moon is full…
I glance up at the sky, exhaling a shaky breath as I see a tiny hangnail moon peeking through the gathering clouds. Unfortunately, my relief is short lived. The clouds are pitch-black and storm-swollen, and the frigid wind has grown so intense it sends my wet hair slapping into my eyes.
Wringing the water from my coat and wrapping my arms around myself to hold onto what little warmth I have left, I hurry faster down the path. I’m too far from Nightfall—and too drenched—to turn back now. I’ll catch my death of cold before I reach Main Street, let alone our house on the other side of town.
Getting to Baron’s cabin and drying out by his fire is my only hope.
If he isn’t home or if his shack really is as primitive and comfortless as the rumors would have a person believe, I might very well die out here, done in by my own anxiety and a baby swamp creature who is probably, even now, regaling its mother with tales of the terrifying human who almost crushed it to bits with her crappy shoes.
Speaking of shoes…
My floppy sole is now almost completely separated from the rest of my boot, forcing me to drag my right foot along the ground to keep it from popping off completely. It slows my progress enough that by the time thunder rumbles through the gathering darkness and snow begins to fall, there’s still no sign of the fork in the road leading to Baron’s place.
But surely, I’ll see it soon…
I trudge on, getting colder and colder, until I’m shivering so hard it feels like someone has me by the shoulders, shaking me back and forth. I curl my fingers into fists and tuck my chin to my chest, praying I’ll reach the turn soon and that my jeans won’t freeze into jean-sicles around my rapidly numbing thighs.
On and on I step-scoot, step-scoot, dragging my faulty shoe like a ball and chain determined to remind me how unwise it was for me to be born poor and to remain that way by getting a degree in library science.
I could have become an accountant or an engineer. I was good at math in high school. At least, I think I was…
