Sage. Wendy Anne

      XIII

      Bloody Valentine’s Day

      I decided to vacate my home and venture on to the large piece of property I own for some tranquility. I need to bond with the only mother I recognize: nature.

      It’s certainly no weather for a pleasure hike, but New Englanders become accustomed to getting past the weather patterns, and on with their lives. It’s too quiet, an unforgiving welcome for this overimaginative mind of mine. That frantic old woman had to flip a perfectly smooth day upside down. Grabbing a fall fleece unfit for the brisk weather, I walk among the trees alone in the dark for some solace, unfazed by the winter coldness. I’m sure to regret it once the weather penetrates my clothing, which still has a tinge of warmth from inside. I can scarcely see my hand if placed straight in front of my face; this would usually instill adrenaline-induced fear that I’d typically feel when I lose one of my senses, but it doesn’t. I cannot make sense of anything that has been taking place lately, and fear would only cloud my judgment even more, so I lead it to a place in my gut where I can ignore it for now. I pull out my keys and flip on the tiny LED flashlight attached to the ring on my keychain. Good for finding my way to the lock on my car door, not so much for illuminating a path through the woods at night. But something is better than nothing. I keep going anyway, slowly feeling my way between the trees. Somewhere off to my left, I hear crackling sounds. It is probably some suburban kids drinking beer in the woods where their parents won’t catch them. I have no problem with that as long as they stay off my property; I’ve caught them there several times. I was one of them once, and now I’m the adult who dreads finding them and their mess. When I come across them in the woods, I usually tell them to “get lost before I call the cops for trespassing” (as if I ever would). But drunk kids and flames? Yeah, this is not a good combination if I want to prevent my property from catching ablaze. If someone is going to burn down my property, it will be by my hands or at one of my bonfire parties. I follow the sound into the woods, but as the sound becomes louder, there’s still no sign of a flame or anything else to illuminate the darkness or clarify the cause of the noise. There’s no laughing or whispers to coincide with the crackling, and as I draw closer to the place I first assumed the sound resonated, I am beginning to wonder if this is even a fire at all. Perhaps it is several animals tearing bark from a tree or snapping twigs in its path on a nocturnal hunt?

      Out of the blue, a horrid scent fills my nose and mouth, turning my stomach. But it’s still too dark to discern anything. Curiosity overwhelms me as I draw closer to the source of the noise. As the smell increases and becomes overbearing, the tearing and ripping noise grows louder. The stench is so powerful I can virtually taste the death of whatever unlucky animal had met its demise. With my feeble source of light, I manage to find a stick long enough to poke around, and the sound stops. I must have startled the creatures from continuing their midnight snack, although there is no scuffle of retreating movement.

      Knowing I have to be practically touching the creature to see anything conclusive with my little flashlight, I kneel in the icy, muddy mess of decomposing leaves, and dead grass. I lean in, compelled to determine the nature of the carcass despite the bile rising in my throat. It’s…it’s a human! I gasp, before taking a second look, trying to convince my eyes that they’re wrong, but the double take doesn’t change the fact that it is indeed a person.

      A familiar face, half ripped apart and saturated in blood and dirt, presents itself in my narrow view. Her hair seems to have been ripped clear from her scalp because there is nothing but a few loose strands stuck to a remaining patch of skin. Then suddenly it hits me, and I can no longer choke back the fear.

      It is that crazy old lady, Fran! Shock locks a scream in my lungs. I’m in the dark, with a corpse at my side. She had been torn apart so savagely that I can only make out one dark-brown eye, sunken deep in the socket, the same one that stared me down at the museum. This has to be my imagination. Coaxing myself into a different position to better situate, I direct my light towards the grisly remains—it’s certainly Fran. Suddenly, howling laughter surrounds me from every direction. It sounds like a mix of human laughter and the howling of canines. Instinctively, I click off the light and lie beside the smelly corpse in an attempt to hide. If the laughter came from those responsible for the corpse beside me, and they suspected I might have seen it, I could, without doubt, join her like an extensive meal for the creatures that had been gorging on her remains. The inhuman laughter continues, back and forth in the manner of a conversation, only without words and shared in hysteria. I futilely shut my eyes and hold my breath, assuming they may become blind and deaf to my existence if I lock them away from mine. My efforts lack reasonable strategy, because whoever and whatever they are, they must have seen me by now.

      I wasn’t quiet whiling trotting through the woods, nor while examining the corpse—at least not enough for a murderous predator fond of killing and eating during nocturnal hours. Just the same, I sit paralyzed in a panic worried they might hear me, and hear me they do. The sounds of footsteps draw closer as I glance up to find myself in a circle of monstrous-looking creatures, with eyes like red orbs that could easily burn a hole in my core. Their sounds increase in volume and pitch, and their communication becomes more distinct while they stare at me. The circle tightens as the red orbs come closer.

      Jolted by sudden recollection, I realize that they too are as familiar as Fran. Their haunting faces and wretched sounds are more pronounced up close, but I’m sure that these are the same demons like the ones that were on the beach where Marcus and I met during my last dream. They look like etched gray stone, though their movements are sloppy and seemingly malleable like damp clay. They are relatively short, and though grotesque, they’re powerfully built. Each has three-toed V-shape claws in place of hands and feet. Their gleaming perfectly round and gleaming red eyes reveal no pupils, and their mouths full with what appears to be razor-sharp knifelike teeth, and their noseless faces belie hateful expression.

      I realize this is a dream, and I am no longer as feeble as I was before having this knowledge, having this lucidity. Gathering all the courage I can amass, I push away from Fran’s stiff body to elevate mine, and as I rip my saturated clothing away from her exposed, sticky flesh, I feel encouraged by rage. Drenched in her rotten scent, my skin icy with its fetid wetness, and covered in vile ooze, I turn to face my tormentors with a gleam of ferocious power in my eyes.

      I scream at them fiercely in a deep voice—that is not my own, but summoned from hatred more frightening than they. “Go back to your leader! You’re all nameless slaves from the pits of hell! Tell your leader I’m coming for him and that I won’t be lost and unaware forever.”

      All of a sudden, the darkness turns to light; and they vanish, as does Fran’s corpse and the brisk night.