Here's the thing: nobody wants to start their story with it's a dark and stormy night. It's cheesy, it's lame, it makes me feel all Addams Family. Unfortunately, the night that changed my life was dark and stormy; parts of it, anyway. The weather had changed swiftly around noon, covering a bright sky with heavy, slate-gray clouds. And yet, no matter how much it threatened, rain wouldn't fall.
I stand at the window of my small, cramped apartment, nose pressed against the cold glass. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating distant high-rise buildings - and I blink in surprise, then jump at the following crash of thunder. Thunder does generally follow lightning, but I promise you, I'm not the brightest. Fanning myself, I step away from the glass, thankful that the air conditioner was fixed. Though it was cooling down outside, my apartment retained the ridiculous heat and humidity from earlier that day.
My friends are here, laid out in various positions of I feel like I own the place. We'd returned to my apartment that, by all rights, shouldn't fit four people in a single room after we'd swung by a burger place for takeout. Tonight was the highlight of the week, and it was my turn to host. Dungeons and Dragons night. Call us out; we're nerds. Okay, they were nerds. I was still new at the game, since Wyatt had introduced me only two months prior.
With my hands on my hips, I assess my friends. There's Wyatt, lounging on the couch; he's a tall and skinny figure with scruffy hair hanging down to his chin and a crooked nose covered liberally with freckles. He is, I assume, napping, given the waterpark brochure he'd picked up is covering his eyes from the harsh ceiling light. Wyatt's an enigma, and my best friend for seven years. He's usually awesome, but everyone has their Achilles heel. Wyatt's comes in the form of the fact that he usually looks like the nineties threw up on him.
Opal sits near him, cross-legged on the floor, her nose buried in the Monster Manual. She has a beer next to her. That's smart, considering it usually takes several drinks to prepare oneself for DnD night. The beer also happens to be Milwaukee's Best - which is every other place's worst - but Opal nurses it faithfully as she reads about green dragons. Her twin, Mabel, is sitting on the kitchen counter next to the microwave. The pair are related, but they look nothing alike. Mabel's taller and less proportionate; all arms and legs and elbows, and her massive head of hair is now brushing the ceiling of the kitchen. She's staring at the microwave intently. That's her popcorn addiction, flaring up again.
They're all silent and stuck in their own little worlds. I stare at them for a few moments, and then, plopping down on the questionably colored carpet, I chirp, "Looks like rain, eh?" If there's one thing I don't like, it's silence. There's a lot attached to that for me - things as mundane as mom's voice whenever I asked about dad. Then bigger things, more terrifying things. A door at home that mom never let me go through.
Yeah, silence kind of sucks.
Wyatt lifts the brochure from his eyes and peers at me, not unlike he's fearing for my sanity. "It's looked like rain all day." I don't like his tone, so I flick a piece of fuzz at him. It lands in Opal's solo cup of beer, and after a moment of hesitation, I decide not to pluck it out. Opal's probably too engrossed in reading to notice. Wyatt gives me a look - one that says that we're all tired and I shouldn't make anyone more irritated than we already are - and I ignore it, for the most part. Sending him only a mocking stare in return.
We're interrupted by the microwave's loud PING and Mabel sliding off the counter with an enthusiastic half-screech-half-squeal. I press my hand to my temple at the sudden, shrill noise. "Oh, geez. Pterodactyl much?" Mabel apologizes, sitting unceremoniously on Wyatt's knees and earning a wheeze of pain from him, but I'm still massaging my head. Mabel's shriek leaves a ringing in my ears, and a headache that's not going away.
Pounding at the base of my skull - which, in retrospect, probably wasn't the smartest idea - I growl, "Damned sinuses. Why does this happen to me, of all people? . . . I don't even have insurance."
Vertigo and migraines had been plaguing me a lot lately, but I'm too broke to even consider going to the doctor. Public safety announcement, kids: if you ever feel continuously shitty, give the doc a call. You might end up six feet under, or in a coma, or possibly in an alternate dimension, and believe me, the latter is the worst of the bunch. ( But, hey, it happens to the best of us. ) Also don't do drugs, and never drink and drive.
But I digress.
Struggling to my feet, I peer around the room. Everyone's stuck in their own little worlds again, but I interrupt it by announcing, "I'm going to the bathroom." Mabel grimaces at me, saying around the popcorn stuffed in her mouth, "Wow, okay. TMI, Leo." I pass the couch and steal some of her popcorn; she, having decided to hoard the bag, makes a strangled noise in protest. Before she could follow and elicit revenge, I stuff the handful in my mouth and skid down the hall before arriving at the one bathroom housed in my too-small apartment.
It's dingy, with tacky tile and a single light bulb for a light source. I'm a poor college student and this is the best I can afford, but something about the mold on the walls has become endearing, but not endearing enough that I'm not considering hiring Mr. Clean.
Bracing my arms on either side of the porcelain sink, I stare at my reflection. It's probably better to tell you now and get it over with. I'm not considered an attractive person. It must come from my dad's side, because my mom - tall and dark with a big smile and thick, curly hair - is actually kind of pretty. I never could achieve her level of beauty, and I definitely blame it on my deadbeat dad. He's the reason my odd-colored hair - red, which doesn't suit my dark complexion at all - looks like I use lard as hair gel. Mom used to say he was handsome underneath all of his facial hair, but if his bone structure was anything like mine, I can only imagine his cheekbones were Tom Hiddleston's on steroids.
I look past the pimple on my cheek and rub my clammy forehead. I look worse than usual; my skin seems pale, yellow, like I have jaundice. My eyes are puffy and red, and the rings under them are so dark not even concealer could do a decent job at making me look like I didn't need a visit to the doctor.
I sigh, splash water on my face, and tell myself in what I know is a lie that I'll go to a doc-in-a-box soon. Then I leave the bathroom, poking my head into the hall to ask my friends why they didn't tell me I look like shit.
But instead, the words die in my throat, and silence swallows me.
It's. . . hard to explain what happens next, but I know for sure that I spend several moments frozen in place before I fall on my ass in shock.
You see, it's not scientifically possible - people don't just blink and reappear somewhere else. It can't happen. I failed physics, but I'm ninety percent sure that breaks several of its laws.
Except. . . I did.
One moment, my yell is building in my throat, and I'm prepared to kick down the door in my teasing rage. The next, there's no door. No hallway. No skyscrapers, No thunderstorm. I turn around; there's no bathroom. A light lingers in the sky, maybe my eyes holding on to the memory of the lightbulb, but it blinks and it's gone.
My heart skips a beat. Maybe several beats. For the next few minutes, my memory's mangled: thrown into a blender with fear and confusion. Then everything clears, and I cast a look at my surroundings. There's trees. Okay, that's cool. They're tall, dark and twisting, casting shadows over the ground, reaching up to the sky to find a sun that I'm half afraid doesn't exist because the canopy of leaves above me is so thick I can hardly see the sky. Just a few spots of bleak light shining down when the leaves rustle and shift.
I get to my feet as my jeans grow sharp and cold from the remnants of a recent thunderstorm soaking into the moss. My legs are shaking, but I manage to root myself to the ground. I'm half sure that the slightest breeze will knock me down again, since my socks are soaking into the earth and I think, for a moment, that bugs are crawling into my skin. The latter is probably fear getting to me, but I'm too scared to check.
Instead I scratch my thigh and inhale. Every breath I take seems to be a whistle through the cold air - air that penetrated my tee shirt and cardigan - and, as it sweeps by, I shiver and rub my biceps.
God, this has to be some acid-induced nightmare. I hold on to that thought as I take a hesitant step forward, but in the back of my mind I know I've never taken acid in my life. Something about this feels all too real, and I don't want to believe it.
Another step. I hiss as my foot lands in a small puddle of scummy water, but it's not as if my socks aren't already ruined. Wincing, I try to quiet my breathing. Normal people might've called hello, might've tried to find something close to civilization. Wyatt's forced me through too many horror movie nights - there's no way I'm going to alert anything potentially deadly to my presence.
With that cheery thought, I try to calm my rapidly beating heart, and force myself to think about something else. Anything else. C'mon, Leo. What would Bear Grylls do?
God, I knew I should've stayed awake during Mabel's National Geographic Channel marathons.
Mabel's one of those nutty survivalists. I remember the last time we went camping together, when she'd drilled into all of us what to do if we got lost. At the time, we laughed and pushed it aside. It never seemed like something I'd have to put to use. Now, I thank my lucky stars that Mabel is so prepared for the apocalypse. Find shelter, I remember, my tongue darting out to lick my rapidly drying lips. Exposure can kill me long before starvation or thirst will. That's smart - it's really hecking cold.
I shuffle forwards, now keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid any more puddles of water. My head jerks up at any sound, but it's still so quiet, at times I think it'd be easier if I was being chased by some sort of Eldritch monster. At one point, a bird - or maybe a bat - flutters past my ear and I utter a harsh and almost silent scream. As if even my vocal chords have dried up in fear. After that, I kept my fists clenched and rigid at my side, but I know I'm far too scared to unleash full-blown jiujitsu on any forest creature that comes near me.
Which is good, because I don't know jiujitsu. Goddammit. What a shitty time to be helpless.
I wander helplessly for maybe thirty minutes, and when I'm convinced I'm going in circles, I collapse on a fallen, mossy log that I've probably passed ten times before. After, of course, meticulously checking it for creepy crawlies and dead bodies.
I bury my face in my hands and hold in a sob. God, what's happening? It couldn't be possible. I don't believe in gods or magic or sudden transportation. This isn't Star Trek. I never asked for Scotty to "beam me up". I don't even know where up is.
My hands fall to my lap and I wring them, shivering slightly as another breeze envelops my shoulders. "Mushrooms." I surprise myself at the sudden voice. It's my own voice, hoarse and caked in fear. "Yeah, that's it." It's barely enough to comfort me. But, God, I must be passed out on the floor in the bathroom, suffering violent hallucinations. I'll wake up tomorrow and we'll all have a good laugh about it.
Something tickles the back of my mind. I knew, I knew, it wasn't true. But I want to believe it so bad that I chuckle to myself, one that is swallowed in the darkness and lost to the wind. A real comfort.
Mushrooms, I decide, or I'm finally going nuts.
I glance up at the sky, or what passes for the sky since I can't really see it due to the leaves. Night must have fallen, I guess, and immediately my mind trips a little. It'd already been night back home, but reverted to dusk when I found myself in the forest. I almost ponder it more, but the wet moss has finally penetrated my jeans enough for me to stand and stare at the log in annoyance for a few moments before reluctantly sitting back down.
Gross. Now I'm cold, filthy, tired, and missing DnD night. What a day.
The wind rustles through the trees again, interrupting my gripping thoughts, and I jump for about the twelfth time that hour. It's steadily growing colder, I realize with a hint of fear, and I still haven't found anything that remotely resembles shelter. It's, what, five degrees lower? How much had the temperature dropped? How much would it drop?
By this time, I'm half sure the 'shroom-induced hallucination will freeze me to death. It'd already ruined my jeans.
I place my head in my hands again, pushing back my hair. It's frizzing from the damp air and tickling my forehead.
Calm down, Leo. Calm down. Think.
I don't, though. I sit there, my shoulders tensed in fear, my back hunched against the wind. I figure that I probably look like some sort of demented, red-headed goblin, and the thought doesn't comfort me much, but the image is hilarious, anyway.
Slowly - far too slowly - time stretches on. An owl hoots in the trees, and my head jerks up as I desperately search for it, straining my eyes in the darkness. Birdwatching is something I used to do with my mom, and I'd always liked it, but I like distractions even more. Anything - anything to take my mind off this.
That's when I smell it. The aroma of cooking meat, combined with the comforting smell of burning wood, wafting on the breeze. It brings with it tinkling laughter and a gush of warm air. The entirety of it invades my sense, and I immediately felt as if years have been added to my life.
I almost faceplant in my haste to stand. Before I know it, my legs are churning into a stumbling run, tripping over my own feet. I seem to hit every puddle I come across, sending splatters of mud all over my jeans, but I no longer care. There's one thought on my mind, and for once, it isn't food.
People.
I finally slow as I see it. It's a faint glow at first that grows larger as I approach. I peek through a bunch of ferns - it's a large, crackling bonfire, illuminating its surroundings - and a ring of white birches. The trees are delicate, so delicate they don't match the twisting forest around them.
But most importantly, I can't ignore the tall and elegant figures that stand around the fire. They laugh and speak amongst each other, their words too quiet for me to make out. The fire dances, distracting me from the tones of a language I don't recognize and, briefly, from the fact that most of the people are wearing sweeping robes. It speaks to me, it tells me that this is happiness. Warmth and joy. It tugs on me, and I want in.
So, naturally, I step through the ring of birches and shout, "Hey!"
And just like that, it flickers and disappears.
The fire, the people, the whole shabang. Boom, gone. The first feeling to set in is confusion. I blink once, twice, and rub my eyes. The smell, the feeling, the voices - they're lingering on the air, but faint and empty.
Then, hundreds of yards ahead, it flickers back to life.
Okay. That's weird.
I want to stay where I am, hidden by the ferns. It's dark and horrifying lonely, but the fire, though beckoning to me again, seems unnatural and strange. I'm not too big on the whole idea of a bunch of wood-dwellers packing up their fire and fleeing from me in the blink of an eye. I don't want to believe it's magic - but I'm getting real tired of answering everything questionable with "shrooms".
I'm slower as I approach the next bonfire. Maybe if I sneak up on them, I think dimly. Maybe they're just scared and ran away. Somewhere within me, I knew that it was shady and fishy and every other synonym for wrong. Something's clouding my judgment; judgment that clears when I open my mouth again to call a greeting, and everything disappears again.
I frown and enter the circle of trees, thin but dark; the light must've tricked me into thinking they were birches. The forest floor bears no sign of footprints or a fire. Seconds tick by, and I wait, my eyes flicking around the woods. Then, maybe five hundred yards to my right, the scene comes back to life. Now the laughter has an underlying, mocking tone. And now I'm determined, starting towards it, hanging back, and finally creeping around from a different angle. My attempt fails as I reach the white trees and the fire immediately dies.
I'm not proud to say I spend the next several hours chasing the mystery scene, probably zig-zagging over a better portion of the forest as I do so. I try to climb trees and drop down from above, but I only land on my tailbone and not in a fire; I deck myself in fern leaves to appear as if I'm wearing robes, but infiltrating their ranks is a bad decision, and I end up with ant bites on my shoulders.
Nothing works. I give up at midnight - I can tell because of the moon set high in the sky, which I can see through a gap in the leaves - and fall to my knees, touching the telltale knot in my throat. I can't be crying. It's been - what, nine, ten years since I've cried?
But I am. And I cry a lot. Every impossible explanation is pushed away as I realize this is real. Utterly real. And horrible. I'm terrified and alone, and there are wild animals out there, and if they didn't get to me, the exposure probably would. If that didn't, dehydration and starvation. My legs burn as if I've walked miles and yet I've seen no sign of people, and my hallucinations don't count.
I'm a goner, I tell myself. And with that cheery thought, my eyes roll back into my head. I pitch forward, passing out before my cheek even lands on the damp, packed earth.
