Iâve been walking in the woods for some time when I see it: a bright synthetic pulse of colour, about a stoneâs throw from the trail, peeking out from the dead leaves. Upon further inspection itâs a cross, tole painted in uneven coats of periwinkle blue. In a careful and tidy hand, someone has written KIMOTHYâ1986-2002âTAKEN FROM US. The cross is hung with a wreath of fabric flowers, their petals faded to a pale mauve by seasons past.
A chill runs down my spine. Am I standing on someoneâs final resting place? And yet the earth looks undisturbed. Maybe they died here, and a sister monument stands in the consecrated soil of a nearby cemeteryâa granite headstone embroidered with moss and lichen. Or perhaps this Kimothy has been taken in another sense. Given the setting, maybe an evangelical parent erected the cross for their errant child. OrâI notice a beer can lying in the undergrowthâmaybe someone marked the beloved hangout spot of a friend who abandoned them for Jesus.
The mushrooms are more elusive than anticipated. My wicker basket is nearly empty; what Iâve collected barely covers its gingham lining. Abigail talks about the chanterelles in the woods beside her childhood home as if theyâre ambrosia. Their golden flesh, she says, is peppery, with a divine hint of peach. Iâm going to serve the mushrooms in a rich cream sauce with ribbons of tagliatelle, and then Iâm going to propose.
Further from the trail I glimpse a golden cap under the canopy of an immense oak. I wade through the bramble, and Iâm kneeling to cut the mushroomâs stem when the rhythmic pounding of shoes against gravel reaches my ears. My pulse quickens at the sound, my knuckles grow white around the knifeâs handle. A jogger emerges through the dense vegetation, his bare torso gleaming in the sunlight. He waves to me and then disappears around a bend in the trail.
I am, like many survivors, hypervigilant. A year before I wouldâve bolted through the trees at the sight of him, but my actions are no longer governed by my hyperactive nervous system. Besides, this isnât the sort of place where sinister things happen to young women. Granted the cross was creepy, but I saw one just like it on the side of the highway this morning. Abigail seldom speaks of home, but when she does, itâs of a folksy community where neighbours lend each other cups of sugar and no one locks their doors. Her fire-and-brimstone parents donât love the fact that their only child is a lesbian, and so Iâve never been invited to visit. But the folks I met at the diner were welcomingâone of them gave me a quaint book of prayers.
I spy more chanterelles through the trees; they beckon like a trail of breadcrumbs. The sun is sinking in the sky, and Iâm hesitant to leave the path proper, but it seems to be the only way to fill my basket. I conjure a vision of the sparkling joy in my girlfriendâs amber eyes when I present her with the sentimental meal. Iâve driven two hours to get here, Iâm not about to return empty-handed. And so I make my way through the woods, and the birches and poplars taper off, giving way to massive walls of sea-green pines beyond which stretches the forestâs hidden depths.
My basket is nearly full when the sun begins to set in earnest, and it dawns on me that I am lost. Itâs eerily still, and I feel as if Iâve crossed a threshold into the forestâs core, where the vast expanse of foliage muffles any sound of civilization. I wrestle against a creeping sense of panicâthereâs a full moon tonight, I tell myself, and the forest is only three hundred acres. I count my steps under my breath, and with every hundred taken, I tear a strip of cloth from my basket and tie it to a branch for good measure. Iâm not going to be like those hopeless souls in the Blair Witch Project who circled back on themselves like a snake eating its tail.
Iâve counted six hundred and fifty-four steps when I come across a path. Itâs overgrown; in several places itâs barely there. A desire path, one might call it. Itâs an improvement on the labyrinth of trees from which Iâve emerged, and so I take it. Country barn stars are nailed to trees here and there, presumably as wayfinders. I recognize these objectsâI saw larger versions mounted on the strawberry-box houses in the surrounding area. Their deep ochre finish is barely visible against the dark trunks.
I walk until I reach a gate set in a wrought-iron fence. Along its perimeter, wild rose bushes spurt from the ground like pricked fingers of the earth. A Pinterest-worthy sign hangs from the gate. WELCOME, it reads, in twee cursive lettering. I push it openâits creaking hinges cut the silence of the woodsâand I walk into the clearing beyond.
At first I think itâs a tree, but then I notice the hands. The statue is at least six feet tall, carved out of wood. It depicts a woman kneeling, her hands stretched towards the sky in a pose of supplication. Itâs like finding a shipwreck on an ocean floor; it doesnât belong.
Adirondack chairs are arranged in a horseshoe before the statue. I pass between them, taking in the rough-hewn features of the womanâs faceâthe corners of her mouth are downturned in an expression of grief, or maybe terror. Someone has dripped candle wax down the statueâs cheeks so that it looks as if she is weeping. I feel lightheaded; my ears are ringing.
âAre you lost, little lamb?â
I spin around to find a shadowy figure leaning against a tree. His eyes are green as grass; there is a frenzied glimmer in them.
âUm, no. I thinkâmaybe?â I canât tell what frequency heâs vibrating at, mentally speaking, and I donât want to provoke him.
âHave you come to the house of God in search of salvation?â He takes an occasional step towards me as he speaks, almost as if in a trance. His eyes look through me more than at me.
âOh my god, no.â I back away slowly, cautiously.
âHeâs my God too,â says the man with a look of rebuke.
âExcuse me?â
âI said heâs my God, too.â He moves out of the shadows, and in the waning light I can see that heâs in his forties, clean-shaven, smartly dressed in a wool suit. âYou are come unto Mount Zion,â he says, âunto the city of the living God.â He pauses for a moment, as if to let the silence of the woods punctuate his words. âWe have found what Abraham was looking for.â He points to the darkening sky. âAnd by the grace of God weâre going to walk up there. Let Godâs enemies be scattered, and he will open the door.â
âIf you could tellââ
âShhhhh.â He puts a finger to his lips. Blindly I back into a chair and fall into a seated position. âThe Devil is here,â he says in an almost-whisper. And then, for the first timeâas if heâs only just noticed meâhe looks directly into my eyes. âYoung lady, I donât think youâre going to leave here like you came.â
He extends his arms towards me and I lose it. The blade glints in the lingering embers of daylight; a long crimson ribbon appears on his forearm. His lungs unleash a terrible lupine howl as I spring from the chair and dart towards the trees.
Sharp thorns claw at my limbs as I tear through the darkness, between towering trees, their teal-black outlines barely there against the inky sky. I trip over a root and fall to my knees as my basket sails through the air, its contents catapulting into the night. I recover and run on, leaving in my wake a trail of broken chanterelles, and the faint thuddingâimagined or realâof footsteps behind me.
â â â
Abigail dabs at my skinned knee with hydrogen peroxide, and I wince. Itâs 1:18am and we are side-by-side on the brocade loveseat in our living room. Half-eaten bowls of store-bought tortellini sit abandoned on the heart-shaped coffee table.
âHonestly, itâs a blur,â I say. âIt was pure animal instinct that got me out of thatâthat place.â
âThe forest chapel,â she says, smoothing a bandage over my knee. âItâs super weird, I know.â She tells me that the clearing in the woodsâwhere I saw the weeping statueâis some kind of al fresco church where the community meets to worship, weather permitting.
âWhat you tried to do for me, with the mushrooms, that was so nice.â She smiles sadly and looks down at her lap. âMaybe I talk about the chanterelles because theyâre the only good memory I have of that place.â I take her hand in mine and squeeze it. âI canât believe you slashed one of those Jesus freaks,â she says. âI wouldâve paid to see it.â A blush creeps over her freckled face. âOh my god,â she says. âIâm sorry. Too soon.â
We sit in silence for a moment. Then I turn to her, and with a straight face, I say, âHeâs my god, too.â We laugh so hard we canât breathe. When the hysterics die down, we find ourselves in each otherâs arms. âI feel kind of bad, in a sense,â I say, stroking Abigailâs hair. âI donât think he meant to hurt me. I think he wanted to bless me.â
âKnowing those people, I think he wanted to exorcise you.â She laughs darkly. âOr worse.â
We start on our bedtime routine. The altercation in the clearing has all but eclipsed my memory of the cross in the woods. Iâm washing my face when the scene returns to the surface of my mind. âAbby,â I say, looking at her through the mirror. âDoes the name Kimothy mean anything to you?â
The colour drains from her face. But she says no, sheâs never heard the name before. Then she turns on her heel and vanishes into the shadow of the hallway.
I lay in bed under a sliver of moonlight, counting my breaths in the darkness. The stranger in the woods is going to be okay. Iâm no murdererâthe paring knife is capable of nothing more than a shallow wound. Undoubtedly, heâll have a scar on his forearm for the rest of his life. My own scar from the encounter will be less tangible.
How little I know of my girlfriendâs origins; the things sheâs seen, heard, felt. It seems we both have secret chambers of the mind. Or worse, sheâd said. What could be worse? In the moment I lacked the energy to pursue it, but now the words return to haunt me.
In the silence of the room, her eyelashes make scraping sounds against the cotton pillowcase. I know sheâs sleepless as well. The velvet ring box is buried deep beneath our summer clothes, in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, where it will remain for some time yet.
…
Miriam Richer is a writer, a digital artist, and an information professional. They were born in California, and have spent most of their life on unceded Wolastoqiyik territory. They are currently under the influence of folklore, the uncanny, and the rural gothic.