(Lauren's POV)
From the shadows
Veiled in darkness
Near a secret path
To a buried truth
They lay in wait
For a dance
in pale moonlight
.
Through the night
Such pleasures taken
Dancing to such measure
A Lust unrivaled
A Wrath unseen
….
.
There is no hope more sorrowful than freedom and freedom is only an illusion.
Ten yards. Twenty yards. Thirty yards.
Mercilessly I push myself further. My lungs feel ablaze and the tops of my cheeks sting beyond tolerance, my mask having slipped down ever so slightly several yards ago. The snow surrenders beneath the weight of each step, however, each one too quick to fully sink within its unknown depth. The furious drift pushes against me, attempting to slow my pace, but I am determined.
Sixty yards. Seventy yards. Eighty yards.
Each step appears to echo through the valley, challenging the uncompromising howl of the wind for attention-for caution. Gradually it begins to create the presence of something imaginary running along with me or more accurately, after me. Each step sounds louder, closer and I must remind myself it's nothing. I tell myself there is nothing there—but the anxiety irrationally grows, and my steps become fast, urging me through the agony. The lingering 'what-if' question whispers in the back of my mind. It slithers up my neck to my ear and I almost swear I can feel chilled lips pressed to my skin whispering it isn't in my imagination.
Hundred yards. Hundred-ten yards. Hundred-twenty yards.
Vivid memories creep into the forefront of my mind, reminding me of the very real company to be found in these parts of the valley. They are flashes, us running through the forest and us huddled in the shack. Her falling beneath the ice and the trees moving unnaturally as we ran. Although, what keeps them all quite so vivid is the feeling of its presence. The memory of looking into the trees and seeing nothing, however, knowing with certainty that something was there deep within the trees waiting for the perfect moment. It wanted me—us. In that moment we were nothing more than prey to whatever it was, and I felt it.
Hundred-forty yards. Hundred-fifty yards. Hundred-sixty yards.
A masochist by misfortune or perhaps nature I run the same trail this morning as I have every morning, dancing upon the very tightrope between safety and horror. The tree line ever in sight, calling to me, attempting to lure me in. A deep-rooted curiosity begging to be satisfied. An answer to the question of what was in the tree line that night months ago which nearly killed us awaiting me just a few yards away. However, this morning is not the morning I find the strength nor the stupidity to search for such an answer. Instead, I stay on the path, my path which is ran by solely me. The terrain is far too treacherous for the average morning runner to attempt and too out of the way for the sporadic new year resolution having runner to think of. No, this path is specifically crafted for me and me alone.
Two hundred yards.
An unfamiliar howl of the wind jolts me to a stop, my knees locking without warning. My body nearly topples over itself with such an abrupt hesitation which only half of my body had decided upon. Attempting to gain my bearings, I search for what had incited such a dramatic reaction, however come up empty. The sky gray and empty as it was. To my left the side of the cliff's wall, keeping me protected, at least from one direction. To my far right a vast emptiness, covered by a thick blanket of snow. Even with the drift dancing through the air, a good hundred or so yards is clearly visible. Straight and off to the right the beginning of the tree line, however I see nothing there either. Calming my breathing I look behind myself once more and then back to the tree line and wait.
Although, nothing comes.
And soon I am waiting for nothing more than the feeling of apprehension to pass. Every morning without fail I had run this trail and less than three times could I remember having this feeling—this fear. As my heartrate slows and my lungs cool, the feeling begins to fade, carried away with the steady wind. I pull the hem of my mask back up into proper position, stalling for moments until I am unable to justify the semi-irrational hesitation any longer. I draw in a single breath before forcing my legs to once again obey.
Two-thirty yards. Two-forty yards. Two-fifty yards.
The tail is nearing its end now. Twenty yards and I will be at the widest angle of the bend. Sixteen more yards and I will be around it. Three-hundred and eighty yards and I will be in the clearing. Four hundred and six yards and I will be at the road. A little less than half of a mile and I will have conquered the valley again—at least for the day. A half of mile is nothing, it is laughable. A mile is laughable. A mile is four minutes and eighteen seconds to be exact. It is a heartrate of a hundred and twenty-two, if the weather is anywhere near cooperative.
Twenty yards. Thirty-six yards. Forty yards.
I only manage to make it forty yards further before I find myself at another abrupt halt. Only this time it is not because of something imaginary waiting in the wings for me. It is not because of a semi-irrational fear created by a mixture of memories and possibilities. No, it is due to something very real and very threatening. Something very present and horrific to say the least.
Ten yards away the unblemished snow becomes tainted. Blood splattered across the once pure canvas indiscriminately. Without rhyme or reason, it taints everything in front of me. My breath hitches, as my heart begins to race. Inch by inch I force myself closer, nearing what carnage lay wait for me. With tentative steps, I stay along the narrow, jagged path left for me in the snow untouched. My eyes survey the picture painted, because it is evident that is what this is. I had in my time with Cunningham become well acquainted with the difference between intentional and unintentional slaughter. This is very much intentional. The sheer amount of area covered alone makes this clear. Chunks of human flesh sporadically left sprinkled, some with tattered fabric still attached and some without. A femur nearly picked clean discarded. A kneecap near sunk within the cover of the snow, however, unmistakable.
It lasts for twenty-four yards.
Twenty-four yards worth of blood, flesh, bones and shredded fabric. Each cautious step allowing time for my eyes to observe every detail allowing me to arrive at the conclusion that this devastation in front of myself took the bodies of four separate individuals to create. It would take at the very least fifteen liters of blood for this display and that is being generous. Fifteen liters equals three individuals, assuming they were of average stature, however, to be safe, assume four. I have come to learn in my time in this world, always assume the absolute worst possible outcome because the likelihood of it being correct is astronomical.
I keel down, hands on my knees I observe the bloodied bone protruding from the snow narrowly missing the weight of my step. Glove covered hand, carefully brushing away snow from the area until I have an acceptable view. A lower jawbone tore away, no—ripped away. By the size of it, my assumption would reasonably be an adolescent female., specifically middle-adolescent. Perhaps my assumption was not quite the worst possible outcome, perhaps it is five individuals used to create this piece.
Whack!
My attention snaps to the tree line. I see nothing, although my heart is racing now. It is racing so quickly that I can feel my stomach begin to turn. The hairs on the nape of my neck rise and I know this time what I had heard was not imaginary. It came from within the shelter of the trees, hidden in the shadows, swallowed by obscurity. It sounded like—it sounded like an axe to a tree truck, only louder, as if the axe had gone through a foot rather than a couple of inches. My hands grip my knees tightly, ready to push off if the moment arose, however nothing follows.
Standing upright, I survey the area, confident whatever had done this is long gone.
As my eyes run back over the discarded scraps of something's meal memories of the night on the road demand attention. I had only regained consciousness moments before, Kenzi helping to hold me up, my back pressed against the car door. Blurred vision as I attempted to gain my bearings. Although clear enough to witness Syra's two wolves rip Cunningham's body into pieces, devouring some and leaving others to cover the road without remorse. Bo had fallen unconscious, failing to witness the sight, however, the rest of us had not been quite as fortunate.
Begrudgingly I pull my glove off and my mask down underneath my chin before reaching for my phone. My thumb scrolling through my short list of contacts, six to be exact—although only one mattered. I moved passed her name, hesitating for a mere moment. Ultimately, I decide on his. Pressing his name, I bring the phone to my ear waiting for an answer. It takes five rings before he does, somewhat to my surprise. His tone low and impatient, it is all the courtesy he can muster up for me.
"It's happened again-I'm sure of it."
