1

Michael didn't like the dark.

He was pushing thirty, so it wasn't a very pleasant feeling. It made him feel childish, especially after having two children and seeing how they reacted similarly to him only to leave it behind when he was incapable. Even though he knew he had very good reasons to be afraid of the dark, while his children's were just childhood fears.

Years of therapy hadn't fixed it. Drinking hadn't either, in fact it had only made things worse until he got rid of that bad habit.

Michael liked camping.

These two facts were usually unrelated, but today, sadly, they were. They had been forced to camp for the night instead of going back and perhaps, secretly, Michael wanted to take this opportunity to prove something to himself and to the world.

That night he dreamed he was a child and was trapped in the basement. In the dark, alone and helpless, shivering from the cold. The nightmare he had lived through during his childhood, only not accidentally at all and that cold was mitigated by how his whole body burned after being beaten up.

Only vaguely aware that he was sleeping, he struggled to find his way out. To wake up.

But his awakening, in the middle of the night, wasn't even somewhat more pleasant. Quite the opposite.

He woke up to hear Larry screaming.

All his life he had been in shit up to his neck, but he had never heard anything so horrible. He came out of his tent (because the siblings had insisted on sleeping together, of course) with a heavy heart and without wasting a second to look for the flashlight, of course not, there was no time to waste.

Not only did his little boy sound terrified. There was also some pain in his voice and he didn't believe that it was his imagination, a product of the overactive imagination of a father frightened for the only thing that was more valuable than his own life.

It could be that his little boy had been having a nightmare too, waking up frightened and confused in the dark, getting out of the tent and hurting himself after falling.

It could be just that, and he wished for it with all his might.

But what if it wasn't? What if he had been attacked by a wild animal? Then he would need a weapon, wouldn't he? Michael wasn't the bravest man in the world, but he believed he was capable of taking on, say, a bear to save his children.

But he couldn't save anyone with his bare hands. At least he needed a weapon.

The problem was that he had nothing, and anyway, surely if he wasted time looking for one, it would be too late to save him. So he swallowed hard and plucked up his courage, stepping into a darkness illuminated only by starlight.

A natural light, far from civilization.

From safety.

From rationality.

Larry hadn't been attacked and dragged out of the tent by a wild animal. If only that were what had happened. There was something coiled around his ankle, which seemed especially thick and strong in comparison to his son's thin, white ankle, which looked like it could shatter him as easily as breathing.

But the thing that had grabbed him wasn't breathing, and it shouldn't be able to do anything on its own, either.

Not in a rational world.

The forest itself. What had grabbed and lifted him by the ankle had been one of the thousands of branches in the forest, stretching out like a whip.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The wind blew through the trees and Michael was forced to reconsider a few things. Because it definitely seemed like the forest was really breathing, now. He shivered.

He knew he had to do something.

His son was in danger and very scared. So scared that he was just screaming. He'd seen him, but he wasn't able to form words, just scream and scream. He noticed blood stains on his shirt only when a few drops hit his face.

(what happened to Brian?)

This had to be a continuation of the nightmare. It certainly was, and one from which a pretentious psychologist could extract a gold mine: it represented a fear of falling or perhaps regressing to the purest and harshest nature, of his turning against his children as his own father had done because, although unlike his old man he did love his children he hadn't had a good example, so he had been broken from the beginning.

Something like that. Something like that. Something like that.

Michael lunged for Larry and by the third jump at least managed to grab his arms and pull his son towards him.

(what happened to Brian, damn it?)

But what did he believe, what exactly did he believe, that he could win a grapple against the forest? The truth was as simple as possible: he was thinking of absolutely nothing. Just pulling, filled with a primal fear that both instilled strength and made him want to stick his head in the sand and never pull it out again. His brain could spin around, trying to fool himself that it wasn't happening, but his heart understood that this was very real and the only thing that mattered was at stake.

(what happened to Brian)

He pulled

(damn it what happened to my)

He pulled and pulled, but

(my son what has happened to my son)

But nothing. He won the struggle.

He triumphed over the worst nightmare with eyes open for most adults and hugged his little boy to his chest, ignoring the blood, crying already as if he had escaped.

He had to escape, but his feet were as if nailed to the ground. In that cursed ground. Why? He should run. He didn't care too much about his life, but he should run to save Larry.

(what happened to)

The branches, like the tentacles of some huge beast, crawled backward. Back into the darkness.

(my son what has happened to)

Had he given up already? So easily? So...?

(Larry)

It wasn't like that. It hadn't given up, it had gotten what it wanted. Michael had managed to pull Larry, yes...

But only his top half. That was the only thing he was holding on to. Larry wasn't breathing. How could he? The only heartbeats that could be heard in the unfathomable darkness of this nightmarish forest, this living forest, were the beating of his own heart.

The blood was still falling. In gushes.

Like a red waterfall, gathering in a pool at his feet. He could see hanging

(the branches waving in the darkness)

Something too terrible for words.

Michael didn't scream, didn't cry.

He did nothing except rock what was left of his children against his chest.

Until the branches took him away.

2

Dracula landed in front of the forest, regaining his human form in mid-air and landing on one knee. Pretty cool, if he could say so himself.

The forest's own branches were blocking his entrance.

Of course, it wasn't really a forest at all.

"Come on, let me in. You know if you don't, I will. Besides, I'm your lord. You can't forget that even if a thousand years have passed." It wasn't quite a thousand years, he had checked, but it was close enough to count in his opinion. And it was more comfortable to round off such figures.

In any case that wasn't the point.

He didn't get an answer. That is, the branches were still blocking his path. Okay, he hadn't expected that. This forest, the massacring forest Bob, was his servant.

It couldn't talk because it was, you know, a forest. But it should have opened the way for him.

What's going on here? Well, whatever.

Dracula rolled his eyes and vomited blood into the branches. A torrent of blood that forced them to back away and hide again in the darkness of the forest.

He didn't need anyone to open the way for him.

He had asked simply out of courtesy and respect for his years of service. Much could change in a thousand years. Perhaps it wasn't that whoever had made the decision to give him a fragment of his castle medallion had made a mistake, but that Bob had finally lost his mind from existing too long as a forest. Something that shouldn't be able to think or have a will.

If that was what happened, he would apologize before ripping out his heart and reducing it to ashes.

Metaphorically. Maybe he didn't even have a heart anymore, after all. Anyway.

Dracula wandered into the forest of slaughter, which reeked of blood as if the trees exuded blood instead of sap. Alone. Everyone knew that the best thing for a comedy, after establishing a cast with good banter, was to split them up and leave the protagonist alone with no one to talk to.

Sorry, I'm the Narrator, a discarded concept. I was considered useless since I have common sense, unlike all the characters in this story. Dracula's voice will return in the next line.

"I think I'm lost," said Dracula.

Yes, some time passed while I was talking. I'm sorry. A scene break would have been nice, I guess, but then the joke wouldn't have worked. Okay, okay, I'm leaving now. I guess it was a lame idea.

"Yeah. I'm lost. Shit."

The Prince of Darkness Walking Down Fifth Avenue (9): END