Before sunrise, I leaned into the open trunk of my car, and double-checked my supplies for the long hike: the bundled tent, the containers of water, the bags upon bags of trail mix, protein bars, beef jerky, peanut butter M&Ms, and other calorie-dense foods. It looked like a lot for one person to carry, but once I managed to get it all in my special-grade hiking backpack, except for the water, which would dangle from the straps hanging from the bottom of the pack, it was far more manageable.
I ran my hand through my hair, slammed the trunk shut, and turned to the empty house. It, like everything that was once inside, would be sold soon, gone to someone who would be far happier within than I ever would be. The white paint and black trim, like a checkerboard, Victoria had said; the dark wood floors that she immediately loved; the study with floor-to-ceiling shelves brimming with books we collected over the years; the master bedroom, where we shared our first night together, where I would sit by the window overlooking the backyard, listen to her wind chime ring in the breeze, watch as she tended to her garden full of roses and daisies and lilacs and—
I sighed, rubbed my eyes.
Going from one place we loved, we shared, to another.
I grabbed the house key from the driver’s seat, and went and locked the front door, leaving it in a lockbox hanging from the knob. Then, I got into the car.
Everything was already worked out with the realtor, there was nothing left to do but to leave.
I found someone who lived near Shenandoah National Park two weeks before to store my car during the hike. After I left the car in their garage, my bag filled, weighing heavy on my back, the dangling water hitting off my thighs, I walked to and through the park to the beginning of the park’s 100-mile section of the Appalachian Trail.
Pink and orange was starting to tinge the sky, and I was thankful no one was out yet. I inhaled the crisp, cool air and sighed. My hands tingled and my feet were cold, but not from the morning. It was like being there for the first time, like being there when there should’ve been two people instead of one. It felt like I stood there with only half my body, unsure if I could truly hike that many miles on my own.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes.
A thought wriggled its way forefront from the back of my mind.
The sooner I begin, the closer I will be.
I took a step forward, the ferns flanking the path tickling my legs, and took another.
This is where I scattered Victoria’s ashes, after all.
* * *
The oak trees were lush with green leaves, damp with morning dew. Their branches reached for the sherbet-colored sky as the sun gradually rose. Birds chirped in the distance, and I searched the trees, but couldn’t find any. An owl hooted deep in the woods, echoing through the still air. I nearly stepped on a chipmunk darting across the path.
It was a few minutes later when I stopped.
“There it is,” I whispered, as though people were nearby. I clenched my hands, released, clenched again, released…
Victoria and I had walked past this section of the trail dozens of times, never even attempting the full hundred miles. We spent hours upon hours up and down the path. She always said this was her second home, that once we could both retire we would buy a plot of land in the nearby woods and build a cabin, a new home there…
Seemingly as quickly as the doctor explained that the prolonged cough she had for weeks wasn’t just a cold, the cancer had metastasized to her lungs.
Then, there were no more trails, no more woods or trees or animals; only waiting rooms and doctors and a hospital room with nurses running back and forth and always bags of poison present hanging by her side, dripping ever-so-slowly into her shriveling arm until nothing was left for the drug to invade. Then, there was only me standing over her gnarled, beautiful body as I held her hand gently like the flowers she grew, and my tears fell on her closed eyes—
“You ever walked this trail before?” A man said from behind me.
I wiped my eyes, coughed into my arm, wiped my eyes again, and moved to the side of the trail.
“No, never, heard it takes almost a year to walk the whole thing,” a woman replied.
A tall man with brown hair and glasses, and a shorter woman wearing black yoga pants and a hot pink t-shirt were coming from the park-side of the trail. As they passed, I waved and said, “Good morning.” They returned the pleasantry.
Only after they had disappeared farther down the trail, I began hiking again.
The woods came to life when the sun reached its peak. A woodpecker high in a tree berated its bark. Two squirrels zipped through the ferns, climbed fallen logs, leapt onto a tree and scurried up in a twisting chase until they became lost from sight in the canopy above. More birds twittered here and there, and still none could be seen.
I took a swig from my water, and wiped the sweat from my forehead.
The flatter part of the trail was the easiest, but the most boring. I kept my eyes to the ground, ensuring that I wasn’t going to trip on any snaking roots or jutting rocks. My thoughts began to drift… The floors were dark red and the faux wood paneling reminded me of her parent’s house. It stunk of potpourri and the kind of fake flowers that people spray with cheap perfume. My legs were like dead logs as I walked down the aisle between the cushioned seats. It was before her— our friends showed up. Her parents had passed before her, and she passed before we had the chance to become parents.
The polished black casket was open, revealing her beauty. The wig that matched her once chestnut hair framed her face. Her bangs streamed down onto her shoulders and the floral dress she wore on our first date. I told the mortician not to doll her up, only eyeliner and cover-up, the things she normally wore.
I ran my hand down her reddened skin, the make-up masking the paleness the drugs and disease had left, and when I leaned over to kiss her forehead, I could smell her flowers, her garden, our home—
“Excuse me,” a woman said behind me, pulling me back into the world, “can you let us pass?”
I peered into a darkened sky; the sun hidden behind the trees. I shook my head, mumbling, “Yeah, sorry,” and stood aside.
She and two other women wearing bright t-shirts and shorts power-walked past me. One at the end of their group glanced at me before quickly turning away. She whispered to the woman in front of her: “Was he crying?”
Shit.
I wiped my eyes, and stopped until the wracking sobs calmed.
After allowing some distance to gather, I started the hike once more. The man and woman from the morning passed by, returning to the park, and it must’ve been nearly an hour later when the group of women power-walked past me again, going the opposite direction, back to their cars, their homes, their families…
Time hiking seemed to flow like a river, fast enough that if I wasn’t paying attention, it would become a one, prolonged blur. Soon, the chipmunks and squirrels were nowhere to be found and the birds quieted. The chirping of crickets replaced them as the woods darkened.
I stopped, took a drink while glancing down both ends of the trail and the forest off the path. I hadn’t noticed, but the ferns had receded, now only scattered oaks mingled with patches of underbrush, grass, and fallen leaves.
This is as good a place as any, I thought, shrugging.
I walked into the woods, passing fallen trees, stepping over thickets, crunching leaves and twigs underfoot, until I came to a small grassy patch in between a couple of trees. I unlatched and set my bag against one of the trees, and gathered stones, fallen branches, and a handful of dry leaves. I formed a small circle with the stones in a bald patch in the grass, and made a TP design with the sticks, and used the lighter and instant-starter I brought. The leaves quickly caught fire, and soon the flames engulfed the branches. By the firelight, I unrolled and erected my tent.
Night settled in, forming a thick gloom outside the fire’s glow. I chewed on beef jerky and sipped my water, staring into the dancing flames, wishing I would’ve brought a tin pot, to boil water in, and a couple of packages of instant coffee to keep the chill away.
Victoria would’ve remembered them—
“No,” I spat through gritted teeth, shaking my head, pushing the thoughts away.
I didn’t want to cry anymore, didn’t want to dwell on her, just wanted a reprieve from it all…
After a while, I put my things in the tent and kicked dirt into the fire until nothing but dull embers remained.
Then, I laid down, hardly sleeping.
* * *
Before sunrise, I ate a handful of peanut butter M&Ms and some jerky, drank more water, and packed up the tent. I double-checked my gear and kicked more dirt into the fire before returning to the trail. My knees cracked and popped, and the muscles in my calves and thighs were tight, but after about a mile in, they loosened and moved easily.
The flanking trees thickened, their branches reaching further and further towards the sky, almost forming a tunnel of webbing of off-shooting branches. Even when the sun rose, only faint light seeped through the dense canopy. It reminded me of the trees in horror movies, the shadows, the thin, scratching branches, the sound of nothing but my feet clunking along and my breathing in my ears.
An hour or two later, like opening wings, the branches and trees lessened and receded from the trail, allowing the harsh, berating sunlight in.
I regretted forgetting sunglasses as I shielded my eyes with my arm.
Photo by David Mancini on Unsplash
Victoria and I had hiked the trail many times, but never this far. I tried to imagine the map of the trail, and assumed that I had at least traveled thirty-five miles. It felt weird, almost uncomfortable. There were usually people coming and going, having conversations, children shouting as their parents hiked, and even the animals seemed to not to bother this far out. I was utterly alone.
I didn’t ponder too much, focusing on the trail, to the burning in my legs.
Sometime later, as I took a short break, there was a noise from deep within the woods. I capped my water bottle, and craned my neck, pointing my ear skyward.
Nothing.
Maybe a trick of the wind?
I lowered my ear, but it sounded again, clearly now.
It was a wind chime.
Her wind chime.
A cold wave washed over me. My hands prickled and gooseflesh rose on my forearms.
How?
I focused on the silence, anticipating the sound—
It came again, from my right, radiating through the air like mist. I stole a glance down both ends of the trail. No one was around to make the sound. I waited and when it rang again, I raced towards it.
The twigs crunching beneath my feet, the wind blowing through the trees, my heavy breath as I ran; every sound but the wind chime pulled away, reeling into the ether. The trees lessened until they completely stopped around a clearing. They leaned into the clearing, their long branches heavy with ash-colored bells dangling from their ends, jingling with her chime. Scratchy, gray symbols marked each one.
I looked from the bells to the hut in the center of the clearing. Tightly woven crimson hide covered its sloping roof, and its walls were dark wood, save for the rounded ash-gray door standing over a smell set of moss-covered logs serving as stairs.
The breeze weakened, stopped, and Victoria’s chime silenced. I wanted it to start again, wanted to hear a remembrance of her, but it never came, but another sound did: laughter… A woman laughing from inside the hut.
I slowly walked around the clearing, coming to the hovel’s rear. There were holes in the back wall, symbols that matched the ones on the bells. I crept to an opening, and peeked through.
A short woman wearing a heavy brown and red stained cloak leaned over a table off to the side. She tucked her long chestnut hair behind her ear—
Victoria!
Her beautiful blue eyes, her warm cheeks, her full lips—
No, that’s not her— it can’t be her.
I shook my head. It looked like her, but it was impossible. My Victoria was gone, scattered into the woods miles and miles back, nothing but ash and dust… But this woman could’ve been her twin… She smirked Victoria’s smirk as she turned the page in a book on the table.
My head swam when I straightened and ran around the hut, lunging up the stairs, and pounded on the door.
It didn’t matter if it was impossible, it didn’t matter that she was already gone, scattered in another form into the trees. Logic, reality, rationality: those became just words. There was a chance of her being beyond the doorway, of her being in an isolated place in the woods, like she had always wanted… If I was wrong, if I stumbled onto a woman who only looked like Victoria—
I pushed the thought away. I didn’t want it to be true, didn’t want to lose her again, even if she truly wasn’t there to begin with.
The door wrenched open. I held my fist in the air, mid-knock. The woman before me looked up with beautiful, wide blue eyes. She smiled with lips I remembered kissing countless times.
“Oh, God…” I muttered. It was her; it was my wife, it was Victoria. Tears formed, spilling down my face, and my lips quivered as I tried to speak. I swayed as the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders.
She placed her hands gently onto my arms, steadying me. She set a delicate finger onto my lips and wrapped her arm around my neck. I smelled lilacs on her breath when she kissed the tears on my face. She took my arm and pulled me inside.
* * *
For what felt like years, I lay nude on thick animal hide blankets sprawled on the floor below the rear wall openings. I inhaled the rich scents of smoke and leaves that seemingly radiated from the hide. I tried to recall where I was, tried to remember if I had ever worn clothes, but as I aimlessly groped through my foggy memory, only Victoria's fingers moving down my chest, her lips on mine, her tangled hair dangling over her breasts could be found.
I pushed the images away, pushed the desire to remember down. I was with my wife now, that’s all that mattered, except presently, for she left hours ago to retrieve food.
She hunts now, or always had.
I propped myself up on my forearms. Shelves lined the ceiling, brimming with rusted trinkets and wax sealed vials full of earthy colored liquids; lit candles in gnarled root-like holders jutted from the walls; books bound in twine and blackened leaves and small corked bottles containing gray-black sand littered the uneven table; opposite to the table, a black steel pot hung above a patch of still smoking kindling within an inlaid hovel.
I smiled, and lay back down, closing my eyes. Victoria would return soon. I allowed the hut’s smells and the hide’s warmth pull me back to sleep.
Crackling wood and a sour stench woke me. A blazing fire licked the pot’s bottom as smoke billowed out from burning leaves. The smoke stung my eyes and burned my lungs. Coughing into my arm and sitting up, I went to call for Victoria, but before the words left my lips, she was before me. Her cold hands gripped my arms, pushing me back down onto the hide. Her cloak rustled like dried leaves as she placed her palm onto my forehead, as though I was a sick child.
She straddled me, put her soft lips to my ear, and whispered the sounds of a babbling brook, of wind-stirred leaves, of swaying, groaning trees. Her hand slid down my face, my neck, and her fingers uncurled over my chest. A numbing chill slithered from her fingertips, blanketing my flesh, before her nails suddenly dug into me. A sharp, fiery pain shot through my veins.
I hissed through clenched teeth, reached for her wrist, but she knocked my hand away with a flick of her wrist. She licked the sweat beading my neck as she leaned forward, pushing away the blankets, taking my member, forcing me inside her.
I gasped. She exhaled the scent of wildflowers.
She set her nose to mine while her nails burrowed deeper. Smoke swelled in the hut, over us, into her, me… Her eyes glowed within the dense gray, but not the beautiful blues that I loved, the ones I could look into forever and more, but deep-seated pits brimming with smoldering coals.
The world rippled with her hips’ movements, her eyes brightening as though someone blew on the coals, giving momentary life. My strength vanished, drained from me into her.
Please.
I couldn’t buck her off.
Stop.
I couldn’t breathe.
Please Victoria.
Everything swam, the smoke thickening, building pressure like a vacuum around us.
A coldness filled my lungs, ran through my veins, numbing my extremities. A darkness enclosed around me, pulsed over my eyes like a heartbeat.
Stop.
Then, like a tree snapping, like the clapping of thunder, the pressure, reality gave way. My head trembled, my chest rattled, my muscles sighed. My groin and legs spasmed and tingled.
I don’t want—
She sat back, vanishing into the smoke.
—this.
Soon, there was only darkness.
I stared up at the wall.
The openings were dark, or always were.
Something bubbled in the back of my mind, raising from the haze.
Weren’t those holes to the outside?
Windows, without glass?
I rubbed my face, shaking my head. The smell of smoke still radiated from everything, even after two — five? ten? thirty? — days.
Deep-seated pits brimming with smoldering coals, burrowing into me, searing my flesh, like her fingers.
I sat up, wincing with pain. Her fingernails had left small red pricks on my chest, forming a symbol, like a constellation.
Another thought formed, but it felt like only a sliver, the rest still hidden behind the mental fog.
Clothes, where are my clothes?
And then:
Where is my hiking gear?
I stood, my knees popping and legs moaning, and searched the hut, but my things weren’t there. When I moved towards the door, the room shook, blurring. Lightheadedness rushed over me, and I put my hand out to catch myself on the table, but it was like moving through gelatin. The books on the table were splotches of dark paint, their outlines snaking across the desk, through smudges of corked gray vials and smeared brown walls. It was as though I was inside an abstract painting. I spun to right myself, slipped, and crashed to the floor.
Her marks on my chest burned like brands beneath my skin.
I drunkenly looked at the door, finding the same marks drawn there in dark mud.
The door opened as the feeling in my arms and legs disappeared.
Beyond Victoria was a field of white and snow powered trees.
“How long…” I said, gasping, “how long have I been here?”
She closed the door and set down a weaved basket, animal hide and carcases spilling out, and knelt before me. She ran her freezing fingers through my hair, kissed my cheek with frigid lips.
She took my face in her hands, turning it towards her, and our eyes locked. Victoria put her lips to mine, and moved her hand from my face to my chest—
No, I’m begging you, stop!
The world darkened as she pressed her mouth harder against mine. Her fingers roved down my body, beneath my waist. Her breath smelled of burnt leaves, her roaming tongue the taste of wet loam. Bile surged up my throat, but she moved her tongue deeper into my mouth, exhaled, and a numbness flooded into me, calming my stomach.
This isn’t her; this isn’t—
She grasped my member and exhaled more until darkness swirled over my vision and solidified.
I awoke underneath the hides.
Something sour bubbled in the steel pot above the crackling fire. Victoria hunched over the table, her hands flat on top, focusing on what must’ve been one of the books. Her hair—
No, no, that’s not right…
Her patchy hair dangled over her face like seaweed clinging to wet stone.
I rubbed my eyes.
She tucked a piece of her slick hair behind a dirtied ear. Parts of her head were bald, oily with sweat. Her eyes—
Those aren’t her’s…
Her eyes were no longer blue, but deep-seated, bottomless pits of smoldering coals. Her nose was no longer adorable, but gnarled, and her lipless mouth formed a grin, revealing black tinged gums.
The pot was boiling, frothing a dark liquid that spilled and hissed onto the fire. She turned to the pot, a vial of grayish black sand in her hand. She uncorked it with her mouth, and sprinkled some into the pot. Deep, umber smoke streamed over the pot, blanketing the flames, the floor.
She removed an empty vial from the table, and dipped it into the pot, lifted it out, and put it to her mouth. Earth green, maroon sludge slopped into her, spilling from the sides of her lips, falling in clumps on her cloak.
Her seaweed hair—
Her deep-seated, dark eyes—
Her lipless mouth—
Victoria’s hair.
Victoria’s eyes.
Victoria’s lips.
“Oh— oh Jesus, no,” I moaned, tears falling down my face. The haze suffocating my mind lifted, revealing the connections that were until now hidden.
The vials, her ashes—
The marks on the door matching my chest—
Never to leave the hut, my prison.
Vic— that hideous woman faced me, threw the vial into the pot, and the hut became washed in umber smoke. Then, she was upon me, her long fingers reaching for my groin, her now full lips on mine, her breath filling me with the taste and smell burning, wet earth. She used for what felt like eons until I shuddered, giving what little was left of myself to her. I lay against the hides and closed my eyes, allowing nothingness to pull me away, to free me from her bonds…
The nothingness throbbed like my temples… I became lighter than a feather… Brown, dark tan colors underneath, above… They were casted aside, revealing a door…
Creaking…
Whining of rusted hinges…
My stomach churned with each step down, down into a colder place…
I heard a man say, “See your wife too, eh?” in the darkness. Then, there was laughing — throaty, dry chuckling…
Photo by James Sutton on Unsplash
The world swirled, and I was on the ground… A bearded, nude man with his ankles bound in twine, attached to wooden pegs in the dirt-packed wall. He was illuminated by the dim light coming from above…
Tears oozed from my eyes, pooled beneath me, soaked into the earth…
Something tightened around my ankles…
The man turned away from the shadow moving towards the light and faced me, puffed out his chest, showing beaded scabs on his splotchy, sunken chest. He ran his hand over them, gave a toothless grin…
Weakly, I touched my chest, over the healing marks matching his.
Then, the door slammed shut, and the darkness was absolute.
The man began to laugh.
Micah Castle is a weird fiction and horror writer. His stories have appeared in various magazines, websites, and anthologies, and has three collections currently out.
While away from the keyboard, he enjoys spending time with his wife, aimlessly spending hours hiking through the woods, playing with his animals, and can typically be found reading a book somewhere in his Pennsylvania home.
Micah can be found at: