Page 2 of Pareidolia

My life feels like an endless cycle of fucking up and having to start over… but what else am I supposed to do? I’m great at making a mess; I’m not always the best at making sure I keep myself clean.

At least I didn’t kill someone.

This time.

I switch off the engine of my van and lean against the steering wheel. The woods in front of me loom like a living thing with the dark branches swaying in the wind, the whisper of leaves like a siren song for those with wanderlust. I know they’re enormous. Duskfen Forest spans for miles, crawling up the edge of mountains and caves. There’s a huge river that cuts a winding path through the center.

It’s a perfect place for hikers who want adventure and a bit of a thrill—people also say it has the record high for missing people in the United States, and it’s held that record for nearly a century. The entire place feels like one dense thicket of trees to get lost in and never come back out of.

It’s a dream come true for someone like me.

My eyes flick back toward the road that leads to town. I followed some shitty instructions on a Reddit post to find the closest path that allowed overnight parking and would lead me to the fire tower… but at least some part of me is aware I’m being ridiculous.

I have a house back in Duskfen.

It’s the house where I grew up.

And even though I hadn’t spoken to my parents in the eight years since I left, they still left it to me. Or, well, it automatically went to me since they didn’t leave it to anyone.

I could at least sleep there.

But I’d rather pull my own teeth out than plant myself somewhere with roots. If I stay in one spot for too long, I’m going to end up getting close to people.

If I get close to people, there’s every chance they’ll see behind the mask I put on every day. I’ve only let a few people do that, and it’s never really ended well for anyone.

Better to stick to the woods and the siren call of the whispering trees.

Come get lost, Aspen. You belong to the detritus.

To the ground. To death. To rot.

Fuck, the whispers aren’t wrong.

I get out of the van, locking the doors behind me after I grab my hiking pack. I’m tired of traveling.

I want to settle down, at least for a little while. I need to write my next book if I want to afford to put gas in my fucking van for when I get wanderlust again.

I need to pretend I can be normal long enough to be around people before I forget how they act. I can’t write horror books if the only perspective I know is the monster.

Maybe a house and a town full of people who know me might not be the place to do it, but these trees are so thick a person could get lost and never come out again.

It’s everything I could ever want or need.

I hitch the bag onto my shoulder and pull out my phone, clicking on the flashlight so I can use it to start up the winding trail toward the abandoned fire tower I know is about a half-mile trek into the trees. It’s a first come, first served location that hikers are welcome to stay in as long as they do their part to maintain it.

From what I saw online, most people skip it.

Something about the forest eating people and being too afraid to spend any time alone.

Which makes it perfect for me. I prefer to be alone, and I’m not afraid of getting eaten by monsters in the dark.

I’m not really afraid of anything. Not that I don’t want to be, it’s just that I don’t know how.

My mother blamed the way I am on a high fever I got when I was a baby.

“So high it roasted the part of your brain that knows how to feel. You’re broken, but I didn’t make you that way.” She spat the words at me when I was packing to leave the house at fifteen.

I wanted to tell her that was ridiculous, that sometimes people were just born without the ability to properly feel things.