Rachel poked at her head, stumbling in the process over an old tree that had been half-reclaimed by the soil. She grimaced, her scalp aching. The Sprites had tied braids to her head so tight, she was sure the blood supply to her brain was being cut off second by second. She was confident she looked like Heidi after a bender right now. Granted, maybe about twentish—okay, maybe twenty-five years older than the little German girl.
It was easier to focus on the braids than the fact that she was utterly, miserably, hopelessly, and terribly lost.
“I wonder if fire would get rid of them,” she mumbled under her breath, just in case one of the little beasts had followed her. They kind of looked like they were made of water. Maybe fire would only heat them up. She ignored the pang of guilt at leaving Sir Fishbits and the book behind. That cat may have been a bit of a jerk, but it was clearly very thin and very lonely. The book was not so terribly different. A little more quiet, perhaps.
Shaking away those thoughts, she instead thanked the unknown entity that had known her shoe size. If she’d fled the cottage without sneakers, her feet would be bloody stumps by now. There were so many rocks and broken branches. Dreadforest indeed. Hopefully the dread ended there. She’d hate to find out how the place earned its name.
Her stomach twisted in knots, now that she’d run far enough for her adrenaline rush of fear to dissipate. It had to have been at least an hour if the dimming sunlight was anything to go by. She couldn’t find her way back to the cottage if she tried. God, she was hungry. So hungry she’d even eat the boiled vegetables Sir Fishbits had magically thrown together. If what she’d learned about the cat so far was anything to go by, she had some serious concerns he was going to burn the place down.
It was impossible to feel any sense of fear now. The well had run dry. All Rachel could focus on now was how tired she was getting. She realized she couldn’t quite remember how long it had been since she’d eaten anything. Even the odd root she’d be able to scrounge up would feel like a special treat.
Tired eyes scanned the trees around her. She’d seen a web video about foraging once. The only thing she’d really remembered was the mushrooms not to eat if she came across any of them. She didn’t remember any of the good ones, if she was lucky enough to even come across them.
“Alright, if Alice found some lousy bread in Wonderland, and Dorothy got apples from a pissed off tree, I can at least find a couple of berries,” she muttered, getting a little more calm. Shock and hunger were an incredible motivator.
Paralyzing fear and trauma aside, the bath and finally healing from her injury had helped. She was glad she could walk without pain. Glad she didn’t have to rely on Sir Fishbits to bring her a bowl of boiled vegetables. Then again–
Grbl-squee!
Rachel put a hand over her stomach, wincing. The noises it was making would attract predators if she wasn’t careful. What kind of horrible things, she wondered, lurked in these woods? She shivered, unable to resist the urge to look around just in case the thought had summoned something terrible from the shadows.
There were trees. Rocks. Twisted, gnarled clumps of grass and sticks. Even knee-high wildflowers. Nothing more than that. Nothing more. It was starting to get dark.
Food. God, she needed food! She’d do anything for it. Shake hands with a devil at this point if it meant quelling this terrible feeling.
“Hide behind a tree, quickly!” A thought popped into her head, frantic. It was definitely her own thought, but so very forceful. She didn’t question it, stumbling quickly to hide. Maybe it was fear. A sixth sense. A bizarre premonition brought on by desperate starvation. Either way, she didn’t regret it one bit when she heard a sharp and dangerous-sounding cluck echo in the distance. At least, she thought it was a cluck.
The grass began to twitch and shift, as if self aware. Dead leaves fizzled, sparked by unseen flames. Then she saw–it.
A chicken. No, a lizard. A snake? All of the above, really. No bigger than a cat, the fowl-headed creature had a chubby scaled body and a decently long tail twitching and trailing behind it. The thing hiss-clucked, scratching with fat claws at the dirt and grass. Everything blackened and burned in its wake.
Rachel held her breath.
She’d rather she didn’t see the next bit, but she didn’t think it was wise to run or draw the thing’s attention. Suffice it to say, the miracle of a monster’s birth is something best kept private, and the thing must have eaten very well. Within only a few minutes, it laid over a dozen eggs with several screech-hiss-clucks. By then the blackened grass and sticks around it had burnt to ash, looking rather like a gray nest.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Perhaps the cottage and the sprites weren’t so bad, Rachel thought.
Then, after what must have been about a decade of her precious life, the chicken/lizard/snake gave one last satisfied sound of unholy birdy joy, and hop slithered away through the trees. An attentive mother it was not.
Staring hard at the clutch of what must be eggs, but looked more like leathery riverstones, Rachel had some soul searching to do. She wasn’t nearly hungry enough to risk her sanity and life finding out if those things were edible. No, the best thing to do was head back to the cottage somehow, apologize to the book and cat, and eat her well-deserved bowl of watery dancing vegetables.
Once she had a good fire going, the eggs were surprisingly delicious. They didn’t need salt at all. In fact, there was a subtle flavor to them without any seasoning at all. Something like a combination between rotisserie chicken and catfish.
It hadn’t been easy to get a fire going, granted, and eating funny eggs off of some fig leaves she’d managed to find. The figs weren’t too bad either. She could have just eaten the figs when she’d been lucky enough to literally trip and find the tree, but curiosity won her over (and there didn’t seem to be enough figs left on the tree for a decent meal anyway).
The funny thing about it all, was that she could swear the thing appeared out of nowhere. Maybe Dreadforest was magic too, she mused. Everything here seemed to be, so why not the place itself? She used a stick to poke idly at the logs of her cookfire, a proud smile plastered on her weary face.
Yes, her knuckles hurt from making the damned thing and trying a dozen different variations of techniques she vaguely remembered from movies like Castaway, but she’d done it. Her. Rachel. Without a lighter or kerosene. Just patience, kindling, and maybe a smoking stick she’d managed to stumble over in the path left behind by the chicken lizard.
“Not too shabby, Rachel. Maybe you’re gonna be alright after all. Start your own hotel out here, even.” She smirked at the silly thought, staring into the flames.
“I’m not too sure about that,” a voice interrupted her conversation with herself, very rudely, “I have to go through hell every time I try to find this damned place.”
It was someone behind her. She could feel eyes burning through the back of her head. Very calmly, Rachel gripped the stick she was using to poke at the fire and let the end rest in the flames.
“Let’s just get this over with. Who or what the hell am I going to see when I turn around?” She asked the voice, deciding before she turned around that she was at least going to get into the habit of preparing herself for insanity before facing it again. She’d had enough surprises in the last day or so.
----------------------------------------
The sound of water dripping was the only music they ever got to hear. It didn’t happen very often, and they never found the source, but the ghosts enjoyed it. That sound was their favorite song, story, and shared hobby.
“I think,” Anders began with a matter-of-fact tone, “it’s a monster. Some great beast deep within the depths of the cave, with an eternally bleeding wound dripping on the ground.”
Richard shook his head, leaning back against the cave wall with a pensive look on his ghostly face, “no. We’d have seen it by now. Even dragons have to stretch their legs every decade or so between naps.”
“Agreed,” Terry chimed in, “I think there’s a cursed whirlpool somewhere, so powerful that it broke the laws of sound–except maybe sometimes a little bit splashes out and drips on the rocks.” He was always the one with the daft ideas for the dripping sound.
Maybe in their heart of hearts, they all knew it was just regular water dripping in a cave through some cracks, but where was the fun in that?
“I can’t believe it was dripping on the count of twos and threes last summer,” Anders threw in, sitting cross legged as he scratched at the arrow sticking through his head. Sometimes it had a literal phantom itch. The weapon by now was sort of an extension of himself.
“I hated that season,” Terry replied quickly, “it made no sense. Why would it drip faster? No, I’m glad it got back to normal. Nobody likes when things drip faster than they usually do.”
Richard took a very deep and unnecessary breath (being dead and all), then let it out. “Lads,” he said, “I’ve said it before and I think this bears repeating. We’ve all gone just a bit funny.”
None of them could argue against that very obvious fact. So instead they just remained silent. Occasionally Terry would shift in the position he sat in and adjust the two halves of his head to align more evenly.
“Now that I think about it, though,” Richard spoke up again, “I mean it’s not impossible there’s a dragon somewhere here.”
The others nodded eagerly, happy to return to the illusion that they had something interesting to talk about.
“I think we should look for it!” Terry exclaimed, “settle the argument once and for all.”
There was more silence. There was a very real danger in that suggestion, and one they’d often debated over before. Whether they found a dragon, a whirlpool, or just a regular bit of water dripping from a ceiling somewhere in the cave – the fun was in not knowing.
Anders furrowed his brows thoughtfully. It had a very odd effect, with the arrow adding a bizarre contrast under his wrinkling eyelid. “Could be something to eat,” he suggested. Richard and Terry both perked up at the thought.
“I’m sure Braggart won’t mind missing the fun,” Richard added, “if he comes back.”
So, it was settled. The ghosts were going to find the source of their favorite song and confront it, hoping above hope it also happened to be something to eat. Yes, there was some merit to what Richard had said before and many times in the past. They had all gone just a tiny bit funny.