Page 30 of Wildwood

“Be a good boy, I’ll be back soon,” I say to Hugo, scratching the side of his head. I’m tempted to take him into the woods with me, but I’m paranoid about the ticks and how impossible they’d be to find in his thick, dark hair. Usually I feel guilty about leaving him, but today he simply looks up at me with baleful eyes and yawns lazily. He’s too hot to care.

Topher has mowed a path to the edge of the meadow so that we don’t have to wade through tall grass if we want to walk in the woods. This portion of the walk is through the blazing open sun. But finally, I step into the coolness of the woods.

I force myself to take in the beauty around me. It’s good to be in here. People are meant to be among the trees. The Japanese have a name for it, I think. Forest bathing. They believe simply spending time among the trees can lower stress and improve blood pressure.

When I reach the old foundation, I pause, breathing deeply, willing my muscles to relax. Part of me wants to head to the river, to sit in the cool mountain water, but another part of me is being drawn deeper into the forest. I can almost see two paths through the trees. Do I choose the known or the unknown?

I bite my lip. The unknown. Because maybe if the unknown becomes known, it will no longer be so scary.

“Come on, feet,” I say and venture deeper into the wild wood.

I walk absentmindedly for a while, lost in my thoughts, hauling myself over downed tree trunks and up and down gently sloping terrain. I’m not paying enough attention to where I’m going, though, and walk straight into a rock, roughly thigh high.

“Shit!! Gahhh!” I’ve bashed my knee pretty good and a few trickles of blood travel down my leg. It’s not deep but it stings like hell.

“Goddamnit,” I seethe, grateful no one’s here to hear my profanity.

And then, looking down, I realize I’m not exactly alone.

The rock I’ve walked into is not a rock. It’s a headstone. It’s old. Very old. The stone nearly black and so rough it looks almost like tree bark. I wonder if that’s why I didn’t notice it. And it’s not the only one. Looking around, I see three headstones in a row, all looking like the earth is slowly consuming them. I bend down and touch the cool, rough face of one of the stones. I can just barely make out the image of a skull, with wings sprouting out of its sides. The inscription is faded, though I think I can make out the name. Lavinia Brown. The year is too difficult to read. Two other headstones are marked for Amias Smith and Hester Proctor. As with the first, the dates on these are faded. Strange. As I scan the stones, I notice a fourth one that has fallen over onto the earth and is covered by moss and bramble. These graves are ancient, older, maybe, than the ones in the cemetery across from Wildwood. And there’s something that feels different about these. These feel abandoned.

I am just about to go when I notice something else. It is another cluster of stones, set maybe fifteen feet back. I approach them, cautiously. There are four of them, as well, and smaller than the other stones, made out of nothing more than fieldstone, perhaps. They are tilted toward each other, like crooked teeth. I kneel down and touch the surface of one. A cool chill runs through my body and I feel the hairs on my neck stand up. The stone feels smooth and there’s not even a ghost of an inscription on it, or any of them. Four unmarked graves.

Quickly, I’m hit with a strange sensation and fall forward onto my hands. Maybe it’s the heat of the day or the pregnancy. Or maybe it’s because I’ve just stumbled upon something that feels like it was meant to be forgotten. But my head is beginning to throb and the edges of my vision are blurry. The forest floor seems to swim beneath my hands and the trees around me seem to contract and expand, almost like breathing. I lean forward, digging my fingers into the dirt and pine needles, as though I could still the movement with my bare hands. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths. In. And out.

Finally, my vision clears and the forest stills. I’m just dehydrated, I tell myself, though even the voice in my head sounds desperate. I just need water. I hoist myself back up into a sitting position. I glance down at my watch and press a button to ping the location, so I can find my way back here.

I’m about to leave, anxious to get back to the house, when I feel eyes on me. I look around, but no one is there. Then I hear a noise above my head, the faint fluttering of wings. A black bird that I think is a crow swoops down and lands on one of the unmarked graves. It looks at me with its head cocked to one side, its eyes like tiny black marbles. My mind flits to the black bird in the conservatory, the spiderweb of cracks and the convulsing little body. My breath quickens. And then the bird flies directly at me. I lift my hands to cover my face, bracing for sharp claws and beating feathers, and scream.

My shriek echoes through the forest. But nothing happens. I slowly open my eyes and lower my trembling hands. The crow is gone. There’s a warmth on my leg and I look down. I laugh, almost psychotically, at the realization that I’ve peed myself. I’m losing it. I’m losing it, I think, clenching my fists. Then I jog, more recklessly than a pregnant person should, out of the woods, desperate to clean myself. Because the scent of urine feels primal. Though not like I’ve marked my territory. More like I’ve marked myself, for someone or something to come and get me.

* * *

“Topher!” I bark, slamming the front door behind me.

No response. He must still be sleeping. I am jogging toward the stairs, feeling oddly exhilarated, when I hear his voice from out back. He must be on a call.

I fling open the screen door that leads to the back deck, unable to wait to tell him what I’ve found.

“Topher—” I begin and then halt, as I realize Madeline is sitting on the deck with him, glowing in the afternoon sun, glass of white wine in hand. Leftover from our date night, judging by the familiar bottle by her feet.

“Elinor!” She smiles warmly, standing up.

“Madeline.” I’m momentarily wrong-footed, feeling as though I’ve just intruded on something.

“I just stopped by to say hi, and Topher was nice enough to offer me a drink.”

“That’s great.” I give a strained smile. “Yes, of course.” A trickle of sweat rolls down my back and I wish I could pound a glass of wine myself.

“Are you okay?” Topher asks, coming up beside me and touching my forehead. “Your skin’s a little clammy.”

I take a tiny step back, out of his reach.

“I’m fine,” I say, nodding aggressively, hoping Madeline doesn’t notice how pale and sweaty I am.

She sets her half-drunk glass of wine down and makes a show of glancing at her gold watch as she stands. “Well, I should be going.”

“Are you sure—” Topher begins, but I cut him off.