What Happens in the Forest

Sylvie 

My mother liked to pretend that I was too young to remember the first stranger who came to the forest. But I did—remember him, that was. ​

     I could never remember what the man looked like—in the memories, it was like a photograph where the camera hadn't quite focused, or perhaps where someone had taken a pair of scissors and scratched out the face—but I remembered the scent on his clothes. Cigar smoke and peppermint. A smell like rotten eggs that I knew now was car exhaust. ​

     I also remembered the feeling on the back of my neck. Like dozens of tiny spiders hatching and skittering across my skin. ​

     We'd been playing hide-and-seek, my mother and sister and I. That was how I found him. ​I jerked to a stop when I saw him—not my mother or sister, but a stranger. An Outsider. I stood so still that it was another minute before he finally noticed me. ​

     Then he straightened from the bank of the river and wiped his hands off on the legs of his jeans. They left damp spots on the dark blue denim. ​

     We stood like that for a while, just staring at one another. I kept thinking of everything my grandmother had told me, about what to do when you encountered wild animals. Never look them in the eye. That was always one of the first rules. ​

     Finally, the man spoke. ​

     He asked my name, and I told him that it was Sylvie. He told me his—but like his face, his words were foggy, because I couldn't ever remember what he'd said. Not that it mattered anyway. ​

     He explained that his car had broken down on the side of the road and that he'd been following the river in the hopes that it would lead to a town. Then he showed me the grease stains on his handkerchief, in case I didn't believe him. 

     ​I told him that he was going the wrong way. He was heading west, and the nearest town—Hawthorne—was southeast. 

     ​He said that I was smart for a little girl and asked how old I was. ​

     As he was talking, he took several steps toward me. ​

     I had never been warned away from strangers like other children—there had been no need for it, because no strangers ever came into the forest. Not normally. ​

     But everything about the man set me on edge: the scent of his skin, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the tilt of his head. The flash of his eyes, a look my older sister got when she spotted something small and furry darting through the underbrush. ​

     So I told him that I needed to get home, that my mother was looking for me. 

     ​“Wait,” he said. 

     ​I turned back to face him. That had been a mistake. ​

     He asked if I was a fairy. He said that he'd heard there were fairies in these woods, and that if you captured one, they had to grant you a wish. It reminded me of a nursery rhyme my mother had taught me for skipping rope: “Are you a witch, or are you a fairy? / Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?” 

     ​I laughed even though I was nervous. “No, I'm not a fairy,” I said. “I'm a girl.” ​

     Then he grabbed me. 

     ​His fingernails dug into my wrist, piercing the skin, and I screamed. He shook me, roughly, my head snapping back and forth on my neck like a ragdoll as he hissed for me to be quiet. I struck him hard across the face, my own nails raking across his cheek. ​

     He bellowed a curse and released me. ​

     I fell, scraping myself on a jagged rock, and I scrambled to my feet as blood welled from the cut on my calf. ​

     He yelled and chased after me, but I was quick, and he was large and clumsy and the brambles snagged around his ankles like sharp, crooked fingers. The trees were shrieking, high and sharp like wounded animals, and I clasped my hands over my ears as I ran. ​

     The blood had seeped through the hem of my skirt by the time I reached home. ​

     I nearly collided with my grandmother as she stumbled from the house. My eyes were blurred with tears. She wrapped her arms around me, and I clung to her as my legs gave out beneath me. ​

     She carried me inside and gave me a bit of mulled wine to calm me down, and I sipped on it while she ran me a hot bath. 

     ​I was asleep when my mother and sister returned home, frantic and out of breath, white with panic. They'd still been in the midst of their game when they'd heard the trees' screams. My mother collapsed to her knees at the sight of me curled up on the couch in the living room, snoring softly. ​

     We locked all of the doors on the house that night. ​

     Three days later, the man's body turned up in the river, caught amongst the rocks, bloated and pale like the fish that lived in the darkest parts of the ocean. His eyes had been picked away by scavengers—my grandmother told me they were always the first to go. ​

     Whenever I dreamt about him, the black, empty sockets always managed to stare at me, following me wherever I went. Sometimes, I pushed him back into the river; other times, I crammed the sockets full of mud and weeds. ​

     But at the time it happened, I just stood there, staring back at him. ​

     Then my grandmother touched a hand to my shoulder and told me it was time to go. ​

     We left him there for the forest to finish off.