By Joseph Ziesing
I
A Knock in the Night
It is a misfortunate but not altogether unusual occurrence that finds the individual tossing and turning without means of rest. That is to say, falling asleep is all that an individual might wish for once they find themselves snugly tucked between their sheets and mattress after retiring for the day.
This was just such the situation that Professor Macabre found himself in on the night of the seventeenth of October. The wind was howling outside. Tree branches threw themselves unabashedly upon the glass windows framing the upper room, while the bed attempted to seduce the old man’s consciousness into a cozy stupor.
Silhouettes of wispy and ever-changing clouds hovered then darted across the moonlit sky. At first, they seemed to block the harsh light from peeking through the unsuitable curtains drawn across the window, but then—at the perfectly imperfect moment—the specters would jump aside, casting fistfuls of white light between the tears in the curtains and into the lazy eyelids of the uneasy professor.
He could not sleep.
At times, the moonlight would dim; the hoots and howls of the night would hush, but only for a moment—a tortuous respite.
It was in such one of these moments, as the professor’s eyes drooped closed again—for what seemed to him a final moment before serenity—that there was a sound at the door.
Knock.
Eyes popped open with arid disdain. A strained body bolting upright and twisting—hoping to locate the source of this malignant interruption. Then again:
Knock.
The professor could not withhold his incredulity. The clock struck 2:00 A.M. Fingers scraped along blankets and squeezed pillows bitterly.
Who? At this hour? Surely a mistake. No one would be so unreasonable as to wake a man from the edge of sleep. Not merely at night, but at the peak of misfortunate exhaustion. But in his moment of disbelief, it happened again.
Knock.
The professor leapt from his bed—covers flying like vapors through the air. He marched, outlining the greater part of the oblong mahogany chest and rectangular bed crammed into one corner of the room. He stomped towards the staircase, stumbling for a moment as he slipped into wool slippers, and fastened his robe around himself. Then, having descended rather stubbornly, the professor paused at the door.
Who? He took a moment and hid his hazy frustration. He stuffed his improprieties into the pockets of his robes. Then Professor Macabre twisted the three deadbolts of his door.
Click.
Clack.
Clunk.
He twisted the doorknob, pulled up then pushed out against the resolute door. It complied with a low groan and a creaking creep into the house. The professor strained his neck forward, then twisted it around just outside the apparently abandoned doorstep.
“Who?” He looked around, his improprieties threatening to leap from his pockets.
“Macabre,” the woods echoed.
The professor shook with a start. Eyes widened then snapped open and close in quick succession. His eyes swept the forest looking for the source of the disembodied chant. But he saw no one. For a fleeting moment, Macabre felt like a child—who after witnessing the simplest of parlor tricks could not begin to form an explanation. He remained, transfixed, still. The professor shook in the cold nocturnal air. The moon pasted withering silhouettes against the cottage wall.
Not more than a minute passed of Macabre staring into the woods. Then, lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and—inexplicably—a sapling sat squarely on his porch. It appeared against reason.
“Macabre,” the voice rang out, still and small, residing in his ear. The professor’s eyes shot towards the canopy before scanning the wood.
It was the same voice as before, but this time somehow different. Material. It seemed to carry more breath. The professor could not put his finger on it, but somehow the voice seemed closer—and, for a fleeting moment, Professor Macabre seemed to believe it had been the voice of the tree.
Disbelief struck the professor squarely in his chest.
On his porch the tree sat still. Not a mighty oak, or chestnut, or spruce. An ordinary sapling: a fig tree it seemed—abandoned, but now at home upon his porch.
How miserable, to feel such intense bewilderment in my own home—at this hour! Surely, an apparition. A figment of a fig tree. I only need to wake up and see for myself. He eyed the sapling; he looked it up and down. It did not move; it was content upon the porch.
The professor felt his eyelids drooping. Perhaps he was tired, but this was more than a dream. Though his mind churned, he could not comprehend. Yet somehow the professor knew. The night air nipped at his throat and chewed on his robe. Perhaps, not a dream at all.
The professor paused and stared blankly. A fig tree on my porch. It does not make sense—though sense is most hard to find when the clock has creeped past midnight.
Macabre. It still rang in his ears. He could not draw his name from the air. It hung there hammering upon his better wisdom. Though he tried, he could not make sense of the voice. Trees cannot. Living in this forest, the professor knew quite well. Trees do not speak.
He felt his mind spiraling. It ran along byroads taking turns down dark paths. It looked in every corner: the impossible, the forsaken. Finding nothing, it climbed trees beside the roads; pushing aside branch arms and leaves, it scoured for fruit. Finding nothing, it descended to the dirt. There it dug. Handful by hasty handful, into the earth. Looking. Searching.
Desperate, the professor took a step towards the tree. Then another. Then another. Then another. He held the sapling: his hand grasped its branch. Not so peculiar, the familiar wisp of a young tree, the flex of the wood, but how did it come to my door? Would someone leave this tree on my porch? Why—no, who? Who would know where to go? Or else who—when stumbling upon this home, would knock, only to leave a small tree at the doorstep? The wispy branch remained, and the professor continued to tire. Tomorrow would do. Until then, this impropriety would stay. The present of some strange breed of houseguest that knocked but left no trace… save, a tree—and just past two.
Turning, the professor’s eye caught the clock. Indeed! Not past two, but three and a quarter! An hour had passed since the professor had found himself leaping from bed. How could the time have gone? The professor quieted the question. Time to sleep. This night had been long; he would need these few hours to make sense of it, come morning. He turned to go, but his arm remained stopped.
His hand held the branch, or rather, the branch held his hand. Macabre’s arm tensed. His heart started to race. He pulled his hand swiftly—tug after tug—it was trapped by that tree.
The branch would not budge! It was at this moment, the professor’s arm started to numb. He flailed his arm wildly—an attempt to free it—but it only held firmer. The branch was twisting up his arm. It started at his wrist then it crawled up his forearm and along his bicep—up to his chest. It was not quite to his neck. It stopped a bit short. Instead, the frail, small branch reached towards his heart—squeezing like a vice all the while.
He began to panic.
He could not move himself or the tree. Both were planted so firmly to the house. He looked to the forest, then the plant, then inside. He felt his blood freezing as his fears took hold, and in that moment, the professor did something—peculiar. He looked at the sapling and then looked at his hand. Macabre spoke to the tree. The words came choked out, as if they were prompted by the pain and not his own reason.
“What is this devilry? Why have you come to torment me?”
This seemed to produce an effect. The tree began to change—its shape loosened and stretched. Rather than tighten, the branches seemed to slacken and slump. Macabre, wary, moved slowly further from the tree and his arm began to slide out of its grip. Spirits rising, he pulled again, but as his wrist began to pull free—the tree cinched fast. His arm was stuck. Shackled to the sapling. Macabre lifted his face and the young sapling lifted Macabre.
Up,
Up,
Up,
Up.
As it lifted Macabre into the air, the tree began to move. Its roots retracted from below the porch and twisted together as though feet themselves. Dirt-clogged footpads stepping, it moved to the lawn. Roots splaying at odd ends. The tree carried him by the arm, the branch lowering Macabre only momentarily to clear the door before lifting him high once more.
He stared at the sapling—no longer so frail. It towered above him, planted deep in the earth with roots like legs and a division of trunks twisting and turning together. Some branches wove together, others twisted around the trunk, as though this tree had a face. A thick, groaning face, with notches for eyes that seemed to glow green. The shades of the wood seemed to shadow and sharpen its features. In the center, two thick branches seemed to make the rugged outline of mouth and lips. Mossy eyebrows and beard framed its countenance. Boughs sprung up and out from the trunk—a wide leafy crown. Professor Macabre seemed to shrink.
“Macabre,” the tree said without a doubt, “I have come to collect you. Your time has run out.” Still, it held him by its branch; it lifted him so that only his toes touched the ground. Macabre swallowed hard.
“What have I done, that you seek me out? A tree, murderer? What do I owe, that you collect from me?”
The sapling dragged Macabre forward, near to its maw. It lowered him further; the professor fell to his knees. Then the tree seemed to stoop forward, the wood groaning as it did. Whispering, the tree said:
“This choice propagule
moribund severing
left to take root
and reach its weathering.
And so each stump,
rinded trunk and sap
draught bead by bead
succumbs to dewlap.
You hidden-hearted
home dwelling tome,
defile and fill your
dry-pocketed phloem.
Else swarth-footed
ivy-like decay garners
non-climacteric
erudite martyrs.
Macabre, find your binding
the others soon advance.”
As the last words were spoken, the tree went stiff. Its branches turned a strange gray and hardened like stone. Its face seemed to fade as the wood lost its color, and so the professor froze too.
Horrified, he flung himself away from the tree. With a snap, the branch broke from the trunk and the professor went tumbling, heels overhead. He came to rest a few feet down the lawn.
He took jagged breaths. He shook with each one. Then he saw it—his hands lifted to wipe perspiration from his brow. The branch remained. It was wound around his arm seven times before tapering up his bicep and towards his heart.
He stared at himself. Frightened. The tumble had seemed to loosen the branches so that he could bend his arm, but the branch itself was twisted firm around his wrist, like a strong vine. He could not remove it.
His hand still throbbing, he looked back towards the tree, but the tree was gone. In its place—a stump—a husk of a tree. And planted firm in the stump was the shining, glimmering blade of an axe. The handle pointed up to the moon.
The professor’s eyes widened; he felt a cold sweat trace his throat. He looked towards the house, then towards the woods. Then pushing himself up, he stood unsure before the two. Mud and grass-stained his robe; his slippers were cold and wet. He made up his mind and hobbled towards the porch. Wasting no time, he slammed the door shut.
Clunk.
Clack.
Click.
II
Meager Arrangements
Professor Macabre slumped to the floor, relying on the stiff support of the old oak door. He sat still, hardly moving, though his mind tremored uncontrollably—he could not help himself.
“Others.”
Macabre winced at the thought. He shrank into the dead wood of the door. It is not safe. With shaking uncertainty, he coaxed his legs underneath himself. Then amassing some semblance of will, they pushed him upright.
His back firm against the door and his feet quite unfirm below him, Macabre stood for a moment and swallowed a breath. He collected his anxieties, a fistful at a time, and stuffed them deep down in his stomach. Take heart, Macabre. He let the words guide him, and—in a wavering moment of courage—the professor pushed himself away from the door and into the parlor. He limped forward. Soggy slippers slapped against the floor with each step. He summoned his dignity and walked through the parlor. Step by step.
Finally, fumbling fingers felt the familiar banister—the beginning of the winding staircase upstairs. Thus, he began his climb—step by begrudging step—and all the while, he counted to himself. One pair of socks, one pair of pants, one pair of boots, and one pair of trousers. Step. One undershirt, one corduroy dress shirt, one waistcoat, and one wool overcoat. Step. One pair of mittens, the keys to the buggy, one… no, two torches, and my manuscripts. Step. As he reached the top of the stairs, he was quite certain his original count would never do. Yes indeed, it would never do.
Thus, Macabre came to a new and final count after several steps and several reasonable adjustments: two pairs of socks, one pair of pants, one pair of boots, two pairs of trousers, two handkerchiefs, two pouches of tobacco, one pipe, two undershirts, one corduroy dress shirt and one starched white, one waistcoat, one wool overcoat, two pairs of mittens, the keys to the buggy, three torches (in the event that two should die out), three days rations, two spare cans of gasoline, one loaded revolver (with an additional five rounds), and my manuscripts.
Yes. That will suffice.
It was a meager list for the four-hour drive to come, but one Macabre would be best suited to, should he depart with haste. He pried open the chest at the foot of his bed—took out his pants, socks, undershirts, and trousers and placed them in a neat stack beside the chest. He fumbled out from his robe and into fresh vestments.
He moved towards his closet and proceeded to don a dress shirt, but—as he slipped his left arm through the shirt—he was put off by a realization: the branch still held true to his arm. It had seemed in the last few moments, so far relegated from his recollection, that he would have thought the night a dream.
It was no dream. He pulled at the branch, attempting to lever his fingers beneath the wooden cord. It was cinched fast. Tight enough to become a nuisance, but not enough to prevent circulation. He could not remove it.
Perhaps, my seeker… no, a knife.
Macabre moved to the desk that occupied the wealth of the room. His right arm hung high so as to keep on the half of the donned dress shirt. His left arm twisted before him as he examined the edges of the branch.
The wood itself was dull. It had the smallness of the fig tree, while maintaining the stiff, slate texture of the old tree. It was smooth-grained and ruddy grey. But rather than one thick branch, it was woven of many parts. Each root and fiber twisted and flattened into itself. The effect was a mosaic of piebald-grey branches that twisted beautifully with each turn of grain. He shuddered.
Serrated sheepsfoot in hand, Macabre leveled the blade onto the branch, parallel to his arm. He sawed slowly at first, careful to avoid nicking himself, but soon built speed as thin spindly branches fell away from the weave. Soon there was a pile of torn tree at his feet, and he eased the knife away. To his alarm the dead branch held strong. It was undeniably different, yet it continued in beauty and strength. As though the branch was growing within itself always.
Macabre dropped the knife. Its point buried itself in the floorboards with a thunk. The handle tremored slightly in the wood, pointing up. The professor turned his gaze, pushed his other arm through the sleeve of the shirt until only a glimpse of the branch was noticeable. The starched cuff of the shirt itself hardly hinted towards the branch’s existence beneath. He buttoned the shirt, top to bottom, before snapping his waistcoat around himself. Snap. Snap. Snap.
He moved, retrieved his boots, and sitting, unceremoniously thrust his feet into them. Whether it be confidence of habit or sheer focused haste, the professor did not stop to adjust his waistcoat or the collar of his dress shirt as he had so many other days. Instead, passing his mirror, Macabre limped to his bedside. Tugging on the drawer of his nightstand, he produced a small black pipe which he quickly deposited into the outer pocket of his waistcoat before turning to descend the stairway once again.
These moments of gathering a perfectly natural—if not meager—arrangement of provisions and articles—at least by the professor’s standards—passed in a heated hurry. Soon the professor stood facing the solid oak door once again. He nervously palmed his pipe in his waistcoat pocket.
His suitcase sat by hand. It was a short, stout companion filled with canned goods, canteens, spare clothes, pens, paper, torches, matches, spices, tobacco, handkerchiefs, and of course his manuscripts—which contrary to the other contents had been well-padded by spare newspapers and tissues, so as to keep distance between it and the other lesser contents.
An anxiety slipped free from the professor’s stomach and floated up into his throat. He swallowed it. Then he counted once more, eyeing his arrangements. He was unsure of his preparations, but the count was there. Feet planted firm, he steeled himself with what reason he could muster. Then retrieving the keys to his buggy, he found himself ready to depart. His hand shook as it reached forward.
Apprehensive fingers found the first bolt.
Click.
Is this my best course? Macabre paused; his arm froze and did not dare move. Perhaps, I have gone mad—I feel this branch wreathing my arm—moving with each pulse—I have seen it with my own eyes. But. Do I dare wait herein? His arm dropped slightly. His hand hung on the next bolt—barely, but there it rested. This is my best course.
Clack.
The lock twisted and Macabre felt himself recoil. If this was all real, do I dare face whatever may await me in this dark and late night? Is that my best path? Am I to face it or am I to fear it? I will be found out soon enough if I stay. I do not have the necessary arrangements to wait—holed away like some rat or beast awaiting the inevitable. Soon enough, my mind will lose faith and I will answer some future fateful knock or else starve. If I shall wait, how long will I gaze up at this axe strung above my head—ever daring to fall swift and sharp?
Macabre was motionless. His arm was now fixed to the second bolt. It was prepared to reverse the action. If only he could derive such a judgement and begin his ascent to bed. No. He would not remain with the axe poised to strike. Instead, moving swift and sharp, he would flee, in hopes of marooning himself from that fateful blade—perhaps he could even find some less enchanted place where he may be truly safe. He looked to the clock.
Ten over four.
Time was short; he must make up his mind. If he was to go, it must be now.
Uncertain fingers dripped—melting from the second to the third—then, resting for only a moment, they pulled swift against the stiff strong bolt.
Clunk.
Macabre did not offer himself time for a repose. His hand grasped the doorknob and pulling up then pushing out, he opened the door.
Tendrils of cold air seeped into the parlor as Macabre slipped into the night.
III
One Thing After Another
The buggy was loaded; its pale headlights shone on the dirt road tapering through the wood. Everything else was dark, save for the sliver of moon that illuminated some select trees and cast jagged silhouettes and fearful shadows along his path.
Trees with faces.
At least, that is precisely what the professor warned himself from imagining as he steered his buggy with calm recklessness—along the overgrown brush path in the depth of night. The weathered, underused tires wobbled in their axles, seemingly shaking with the professor’s anxieties. Something had come loose in the trunk and was drifting aimlessly side to side in the belly of it, knocking against one thing after another as the road wound on.
Macabre bolstered himself against the steering wheel. Two pale hands gripped vengefully around the wheel—not quite rough enough to do permanent harm, but enough to leave their mark. Nonetheless, the face of the tree found its way into the face of every other thing along the road.
The professor assuaged the phantoms swirling towards his mind by numbering their causes: Tree, noun: a woody perennial plant, typically having a single stem or trunk, growing to a considerable height and bearing lateral branches at some distance from the ground. Purpose? The expulsion of oxygen as a consequence of photosynthesis—ordered to counteract the displacement of carbon dioxide by other higher organisms. Furthermore, useful in combustion as a means of warmth, fuel, or chemical reaction. Furthermore, furthermore, useful in the construction of houses, tools, paper, and other necessities. Tree: suited to the purpose most afforded by each.
“Yes, that has helped considerably,” Macabre said to himself.
Indeed, by all accounts, the professor’s breath seemed to slacken. His gaze on the trees blurred—no longer held captive by the shadows along the road. His hands seemed even to loosen their grip, and at last, his heart turned predictable, still.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Macabre let out a sigh. The first sigh—it seemed to him—since this whole affair had begun. Perhaps… His thoughts trailed off; he was uncertain where they were headed. He stopped himself from pursuing them and refocused on the road.
He was coming to the first fork in the road. Although fork was a generous term—as the byroad itself was more of an overgrown pathway trailing down deeper into the woods. That path had not been used since well before the professor’s tenure had begun, and the time showed. Ivy and thistles sprung up at odd angles all along the path. There was no longer bare dirt and gravel, but instead assortments of shale collected in heaps alongside vegetation sprouting in overrun tire ruts. Three trees crossed over the entrance of the path, twisting together into one unified perch well above the ground. The professor might not have noticed the fork at all, if not for the glare of the moon upon a dilapidated road sign marking the way.
As the professor’s automobile neared the fork, he could not help glancing at the sign. The car slowed—as much as for the bend of the road, as the professor’s own curiosity—allowing the professor to make out the faded ivory letters notched into the sign:
Entropy.
The professor recoiled; he had never thought to read the sign, having in fact passed it only on the infrequent and disinterested occasion. And while he could not explain it, he quite disliked the sign. He loathed it.
Turning from the sight, the professor put his foot on the throttle and fed the engine. The tires spun suddenly, and the car lurched forward.
Straight towards a tree—a tree.
Planted firm in the road was a tree. The professor reeled and turned the wheel with vicious dexterity, betraying his fears. The car groaned under the duress but complied with a high-pitched squeal and the slipping of tires. The car whipped around the tree, but it would not turn from the forsaken road. The professor’s hands yanked to turn back the wheel, but the car did not respond—or rather, the steering wheel held fast.
Macabre’s eyes widened. He felt his hand grow numb; his arm went cold and limp against the helm. Then it slipped from the wheel altogether but remained suspended between his lap and the dashboard—held up torturously by the branch. The branch once so grey dead against his skin was now alive with enmity. It tugged back on the wheel, wrapping branches firmly around it and planting spindles of roots deep into the dashboard.
“Damn you, cruel wood!” the professor shouted. He dug his foot firmly into the brake and all the while pulled at the wheel with his free hand. The tires spun in a weak attempt to slow the car. To no avail.
The car crashed into the path. Thistles were torn and thrown asunder before its hood. Tires struck a pile of stone. The car was whipped up unevenly into the air. The professor’s temple smacked against the wheel as the car crashed back to the ground, still rolling. He braced himself one-handedly while plying at the brakes. Blood dripped into his eyes and from his nose. The car continued to rock and toss the professor ruthlessly as it plowed down into the forest. It ripped through the forest, carrying chunks of bindweed and streamers of thistles along its perilous circuit.
Macabre mashed the brakes ruthlessly, but the car refused to slow. A boulder tossed up by the fray crashed against the windshield. Glass shattered and scattered into the vehicle, slicing leather and flesh indiscriminately. The professor’s hand slipped once again; his head tumbled forward into the dashboard.
He pushed himself up and used his hand to wipe blood from his eyes, bracing himself against the dash with his other. The other? Sure enough! The branch had loosened its fiendish grip on him and had returned to inanimate wreath. He spent no time on the thought, for mere meters away was his demise.
A boulder, or rather, a behemoth of stone slate. Set upright and not far ahead of his car. He would surely collide with it on this present pathway.
The professor made one final effort. He flung both hands around the wheel and, twisting sharply with both hands while returning his foot firm upon the break, turned the car. The car twisted awkwardly, meanderingly, rapidly away from the block and into a stream. Chunks of dirt and stone sprayed forward as the buggy ran through the creek bank, coming to a heaving stop.
Macabre’s vision was hazy. He took a moment to lift his bruised head from the dashboard, all the while groaning with indignation. Dried blood cracked in his weary hands as he lifted one of them toward his head. His whole body shook. His head throbbed as if smashed against cliffs by relentless waves. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to look through the once windshield now mere frame of his buggy.
It was dark. Foggy. Damp. Beyond the dim flickering of the remaining headlight and the immediate creek bank, he could only make out murky shapes outlined by intruding moonlight. He moved slowly and pushed open the misshapen, albeit functional, door of his buggy. He swung one leg outward, then the next, and hobbled out. Fumbling to the back of the automobile, he lifted open the ajar, battered trunk. Searching the internal wreckage, he eventually found a torch that flickered to life as he pushed the switch forward. The other torch was useless; its lens had been shattered and the bulb bashed somewhere along the way. The third torch doubtlessly lay somewhere behind him.
Macabre swept the light across the forest floor and up the trees. Although he could tell definitively that the buggy had come from opposite its current position, he could not find the trail of torn vegetation and destruction he had anticipated. It was as if the trees, bush, and weed had already swallowed up any trace of his crash. There were no ruts, no broken branches. Everything seemed quite undisturbed. The crash had the opposite effect on the professor.
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
To Macabre’s relief, the forest remained silent.
He limped around the buggy, his eyes darting from one shadow to the next. There is devilry at work here. Devilry was not something the professor would allow. Keeping his eyes level with the tree line—scanning it regularly—Macabre strode back to the buggy and slumped against its side. His limp had soured into something quite noticeable, for his left leg was altogether stiff and puffy, requiring an incredible amount of effort to bend. His breaths were heavy and uncertain. His nose was broken, although for the moment the pain itself was a dull throb. He closed his eyes for a moment, contorting the lacerations along his face. He dipped his head and rocked slightly.
For what seemed like hours, but were truly moments, Macabre groaned as he sat shakily beside the beaten buggy. It was not long before the pain began to come into its own. Half aware, Macabre hobbled to the trunk and finding spare clothes, tore them into haphazard bandages. Most of his lacerations were left untreated, but the major bleeding subsided into stains bound around his forehead and arms.
He returned to the driver's side of the buggy—his secondary clothes shredded to bandages—when he realized that he was beginning to get cold—cold and hungry. He looked around wildly, desperately, before realizing he had packed food:
Three days rations: two canteens of water, two parcels of tea, four tins of corned beef, one loaf of bread, a wedge of stiff cheddar, two packages of boiled and salted tubers, and my remaining watercress egg salad sandwiches.
Wandering again to the trunk, he carried back a crumpled paper package and sat down for what was becoming one too many times. He unwrapped one half of a watercress and egg salad sandwich from the package and nibbled timidly at its edge before disregarding pleasantries and stuffing the thing largely into his mouth in the second bite.
“You are dead, Macabre.”
The professor dropped the second half of the sandwich—bread and egg salad spilling apart as it hit the ground. There was no clear origin of the voice. The wood was still.
“Excuse me?” Macabre cried as he pushed himself up into the buggy and looked for the revolver.
“You are dead. It is quite simple really,”
“It’s rather complicated, I think you’ll find. Seeing as I am currently breathing and intend to keep on doing so.” His voice shook as he turned to the glove box. It was ajar—the revolver missing.
“I am certain of it. They said you would be here at just this time. Here you are.”
The professor’s eyes widened. He scanned the car; he scoured it. “Perhaps you have the wrong person, you see, we are in the middle of the wood, along a path I was never meant to find.” His voice was muffled as he reached beneath the passenger seat, fingers groping for the misplaced revolver.
“I have made no mistake. As for paths, I think you will come to see that this one was meant to find you.”
Finding the revolver between his fingers, Macabre pulled back the hammer of the revolver and swung himself around just as a hand came to rest on his shoulder. Unblinkingly, he pulled the trigger. A round exploded out of the chamber and into the man’s gut. The man’s eyes opened wide—not so much in shock as in necessary reception of the bullet’s momentum.
Macabre’s returned the gesture. The eyes fixed together were thus the same. Two sets of identical twinkling green eyes. Macabre stumbled backward, dropping the revolver. He did not hear the soft thud as the metal hit the grass. He stood face to face with a man who—while made of clay and standing naked in the woods—Macabre knew to be himself.
The man across from the professor stood tall and serene. His skin shone with an earthy vitality; darker than Macabre’s own pale countenance. His eyes were green too, though with a mossy somberness that shook the professor. Sprouts of vegetation and tufts of moss covered his chest and arms with a brown and green hairiness that was disturbingly familiar.
He seemed every bit to reflect Macabre’s own appearance—only he reflected a sharper image, more healthy, fit, and natural. The man was at peace. In fact, had it not been for the red sap dripping from the hole in his abdomen, the professor may not have been able to borrow enough credence to perceive the man’s separation from the creek and trees surrounding him.
Macabre retched.
“Oh, God,” Macabre said in response to his sense of raw guilt. I shot a man. I shot him. I shot… me? His mind began to spin as he could not begin to understand any of the conditions which he found himself firmly rooted between—he steadied himself by grasping his own abdomen while staring at the pieces of bread and watercress strewn across the forest floor—sandwiched rather.
“Are you alright?”
Macabre stared eyes agape at the duplicate bleeding out in front of him. He could not help but share the urgent sense of mortality pouring out from the man’s bullet wound.
The bullet Macabre had lodged in him.
“Please.” Macabre looked up; the man had stepped nearer. He towered above him, “you must know, I meant no harm.”
“Oh, but of course you did—hence the gun,” His eyes shone mournfully as he regarded the pistol to Macabre’s side with a meek nod. “The question is not if you shot me, but if you will do something about it.” The man offered him his hand.
It was in this moment that the professor realized the duplicate was not towering over him—he stood at his full and natural height—rather, Macabre sat in a clump of fear, curled against the tire of his buggy in what might simply be referred to as a hug of desperation. He seemed to be seeking refuge, but no one would push open the hubcap—as though on door hinges leading towards some hidden sanctuary. He pushed himself away from the hubcap lightly and looked back at the earthen man.
“Yes… of course, what is wrong with me? Sir—" the professor faltered, “I have little that can help you. I’m afraid there is no feasible way for me to transport us to safety, seeing as the buggy is utterly ruined. I don’t know what I can offer you.”
“Let’s start with getting you up.” The man’s hand remained outstretched.
Macabre stared at the hand a moment, frozen. He felt the branch throb around his arm. He offered his other and their hands met. His hand was warm and strong full of strength. The man pulled Macabre up from the ground.
“You may call me Adam,” the duplicate said, locking his gaze with Macabre’s own.
Macabre’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.
“I’m sure that must be startling, but I assure you, it’s the name best suited to me.” His hand remained clasped to Macabre’s hand, but it began to grow cold. He smiled weakly at the professor and began to fall as Macabre stood to his full height. He let out a slight wince as he hit the ground. Macabre’s grasp slowed him—albeit unnoticeably. The ground offered a generally warm reception.
“I think now is the time you might help me, Michael,” the man said weakly from the professor’s arms.
Macabre was already down on his knees again, weighing the consequences of abandoning the man for a moment to retrieve the medical supplies he had packed. His name—Michael—had stopped him from deliberating.
“What—what is the meaning of this?” Macabre responded.
“A name is meant to be used. You have hidden behind your title for too long, Michael. Now enough of this delay; help me to the river.”
Macabre showed no signs of hearing Adam’s words, but the warm red stains leaking onto his hands left Macabre unable to freeze. The bright green of Adam’s eyes had faded to a dull and dusty sage. Macabre looked at the creek mere feet from their entangled tired bodies.
“Oh, of course—of course,” Macabre managed. He proceeded to bind his arms firmly around Adam by moving behind him. It was hardly the decorous recovery that Macabre had in mind, but there was hardly a moment for him to weigh such trivialities. He was not a strong man in his tenured age; he had been well wizened by the world and his studies, but his body was no better worn for it. Thus, the affair was largely hilarious as the aged Macabre weakly dragged his seeming duplicate towards the river in slow painstaking surges of effort.
Needless to say, Macabre slowly entered the cool waters of the river, nudging sticks out of his way as Adam was slowly brought to the edge of the riverbed. As the river began to deepen, the professor slowed to a stop, not daring to wade further.
“Further, Michael.”
The professor shuddered in the cold water swirling above his knees, “Are you sure? I’m of the mind that much further would not only trigger hypothermic shock in both of us, but likely result in the drowning of one of us—likely you.” But Adam did not respond; his eyes were closed, a smile pressed to his lips. Macabre was at first alarmed, and surges of fear filled his arms with the strength to draw Adam higher up from the river. Adam responded strangely; his body began to grow hot.
The man’s skin started to radiate a golden hue in contrast to its earlier tan tone and Macabre’s hands began to blister underneath the naked man. However, rather than dropping Adam, his instinct was to cede further into the cool waters. Macabre stumbled backward, tripping head over heels into the midst of the river—and Adam followed suit.
Macabre sputtered and pushed himself above the water—it now swirled around his chest, not quite to his neck. His arms were empty, and his clothes wet. He spun wildly in the middle of the river.
“Adam! Adam!”
“Here I am.”
The professor spun, wet strands of greyish hair flinging themselves across his face. Adam stood beside Macabre—quite relaxed, the smile still ingrained in his features. Macabre scanned him for peculiarities—which were of course difficult to separate from his very existence—but there were none to be found. Even the wound had disappeared—not a trace in the water to give it away.
Nonetheless, Macabre felt some burden for the clay man. He drew near and placed his hand squarely on the man’s back. He had meant to support Adam—but by all appearances it seemed the other way around.
The waters seemed to calm too—the steady stream embracing both men in the middle of its currents. In fact, the river seemed to disregard the notion that the pair had any sort of diversion to its flow entirely. The river seemed to flow right through them, at least in a sense.
“Are you alright?” Adam asked.
Macabre wiped his wet face with a wet hand.
“Quite.”
Adam seemed perfectly fine, better even than when the professor had first seen him—obviously the removal of the bullet seemed to help. Macabre—no, Michael—laughed aloud. Here I am, standing in the river with a naked man in the dead of the night. Adam smiled pleasantly, as though he knew the hilarity of the thoughts tracing Michael’s mind.
“I must admit, Adam. I have many questions.”
“I suspected no less… but my time with you is short. This night will not last forever, and there are far more things to take place. Allow me to say some things, that I might at least quiet some of the buzz in that mind of yours.”
“This is related to that tree, isn’t it?” Macabre eyed Adam with a suspicious curiosity.
“Isn’t it all, Michael?”
Michael Macabre did not respond; he merely stared, his hand no longer supporting Adam’s back. He listened.
“You were told of others. You must not worry—I am of course one of these others, but I do not serve the sort of role you fear. I am merely a gatekeeper of sorts. You have of course recognized our similitudes and differences—there are many parts pulling you towards me and away from me—you must decide which way you will turn. You stand at the gate; I am here to usher you in. Likewise, I offer you the key—from here forward you control your path, Michael.”
Without saying another word, Adam began to sink into the river. He not only sank but began to dissolve into a cloudy tan, changing the color of the water. Particles of dust began swirling around Macabre and then downstream.
His eyes widened in horror. He kicked away from Adam’s disintegrating corpse—not daring to look back—and moved towards the shore. Naturally, he could not flee—his legs churned uselessly in the rushing water. His arm had gone limp.
“No! Damn you! No!”
The creek surged with water; a gush rushed downstream towards Macabre. It was as though a veil of water had been broken and the wall now crashed toward him. Macabre looked back at this limp left arm. It floated casually above the water as it could, the rest of it tethered by tree branch to the river bottom that had moments ago held Adam. Macabre thrashed against his arm—were he a stronger man he might have been able to tear himself free (whether from river bottom or arm it is unclear). The river raged towards Macabre. He gasped a large breath as the wall of water hit him. His arm came loose.
Everything else went dark.
IV
A Problematic Acorn
Macabre awoke submerged beneath water. Lights danced above him, although the professor lacked confidence of direction. Indeed, his sensibilities only extended to the vague recognition that lights do not dwell at the bottom of deep waters, at least in most circumstances. Of course, I must remember the Angler fish, known to lure its victim towards its enticing light in the depths of the ocean.
This momentary system of conscious negotiations and reasonings took place between early chokings on water and sporadic, flailing strokes toward the surface. All together, Macabre did not in fact seem to second guess the light at all—for fear of death—should he dare to do anything other than peddle towards the light.
Frantic claws full of water pushed the old man toward the light, and as the professor neared the surface, he felt himself being pulled from the water—not as though by the hands or limbs of something, but rather by a familiar and binding force of which Macabre had a matter-of-fact assurance from over the years. Gravity.
The water made a sucking, swirling sound as Macabre was pulled free of the surface and began to fall—fall—out of the surface of water and into the light. He hit the ground with a solid slap and laid there groaning. He could not have fallen far.
How could I have fallen at all?
He was drenched in water, but there was none to be found around him. He lay in a meadow, the dry feathery grass towering above his laid-out form. The sky was full of stars above him. Pale purple, yellow, and white wildflowers dotted themselves along the clearing. They popped up in clumps at odd angles in bursts of passion and ingenuity. Macabre sat up with an equally potent lack of ingenuity and passion that betrayed his confusion and weariness.
He looked around. The sky was clear; few strati swirled high above the meadow, but so faint were their shadows that the stars were merely blanketed in the wispiness with a sort of cosmic froth. The professor’s eyes shone with the light of the brightest star—a planet, rather—for although most proficient in botanical and floral sciences, Macabre made it his habit to know all the sciences well. He was bedfellows with them all. The planet shone bright and white, with a pale orange shade tracing its corners.
Clothed in fire.
Macabre looked around as though searching for the origin of the thought. His gaze returned to Mercury. Then it dropped to his own clenched hand. He stared at it. The hand, white as slate from its endeavor. He examined it closer, willing his fingers to open. Slowly, they obeyed.
In his hand, he held an acorn.
Wonderful.
“I am glad to see I have my wits to cling to the most important things, even now.” He clicked his tongue indignantly and tipped his hand over slowly. The acorn fell to the meadow floor and landing lightly, rolled slightly. Then it stood still. Macabre could not remove his eyes from it—try as he might.
There was nothing intriguing, beautiful, or exciting about the acorn. It was an acorn. It lacked anything that would distinguish it from any other acorn a botanist professor might notice while strolling the campus greens strewn with them. It was unoriginal. Yet, he watched it. Frustrated with himself, he reached for the acorn. Then thinking better of it, he slapped his own hand and taking the perpetrating hand, turned his head by force away from it. He sealed his decision by promptly taking a step away from it altogether.
The night was still dark, but the clear starry sky allowed Macabre far more vision than the previously crowded canopy of the forest. He scanned the distant trees and a new puzzle flitted into his mind. These trees were largely willow. All around him in fact. The forest seemed to be comprised entirely of willow trees.
This fact confused Macabre for numerous reasons. The unlikelihood of willow trees forming such an arrangement, the lack of recorded willow forests local to himself or at all natural to occur in any region known to man, the seemingly light blue wisps in place of the familiarly golden-green ones, but most strange—the fact that the trees around him, the canopy jutting all around him—bore no resemblance to the forest he knew himself lost in moments ago, when his car crashed and everything around him bent.
I am somewhere new.
Turning, startled, the professor searched for old familiarity. Reassurance. But the acorn was gone, leaving only a mostly invisible dent in the meadow where it had lain a moment ago. A twisted blade of grass pointed accusingly at Macabre. His eyes widened. His hand tensed and he looked down in disbelief. His left hand was already, unconsciously closefisted.
He opened his palm tentatively. Moving unassumingly with the motion, the acorn settled in the pale palm of the professor. He stared at it again. A new sense of comfort was drawn out of him by its simple, familiar presence. His right came forward with a tentative stroke from his pointer finger. Michael Macabre sighed. There was nothing complex or overdrawn about it; it was beautiful. For a long time, the man did not take his eyes from the acorn, and for a long time he was content. Tears leaked out of his eyes and ran along his gaunt face and neckline before disappearing into his disheveled shirt collar.
Eventually, the professor regained his composure, clenched the nut in his fist, and placed it squarely in his waistcoat pocket. His fingers loosened slowly, as though winched open begrudgingly, and removed the pipe still laying within the pocket—so as to decrease the volume occupied. Shaky fingers brought the pipe to his lips and proceeded to offer a loose pinch of snuff for its bowl. Short exhalations puffed through the pipe, ensuring he had filled it to satisfaction. Then his right hand wandered his waistcoat, searching for a lighter.
The result was a dented bronze lighter gifted to Macabre by the dean of the university on account of his tenure. It was standard practice, and it was engraved with the school’s crest—an owl perched among bramble, its head twisted backwards away from the thorns looking forward.
Macabre flicked open the lighter habitually and brought it near the pipe. He struck the steel—kisch.
Sparks flew but failed to grow. He continued the ritual. Kisch, kisch, kisch. A flurry of orange showered downward, but quickly extinguished with each stroke of the lighter. He drew back the steel back lightly, then plied forward again.
Kisch!
The sparks began, but this time caught the oil and began to flicker with flame. He cupped his hands around the pipe and allowed the flame to catch on the snuff. Dull vapor began to spill from the bowl and the scent of lavender permeated the air.
The professor puffed deeply on the pipe. The spiced tobacco flickered in his lung—it stung a bit—and soon offered the peace of mind he hoped to regain. His mind began to unwrap itself; his shoulders slackened and, puffing the pipe casually, his good-naturedness seemed to return.
I suppose I shall now embark on some journey home, from wherever this illusion strands me. He yawned with a slight smile. Clearly, this is all some sort of illusion. Some joke or fever dream that merely inhabits my perception with bright clarity.
He returned his left hand to his waistcoat pocket and reproduced the acorn in his grip. Two firm fingers sandwiched it between them as his eyes grazed across its surface.
Bright clarity indeed. He could see the striations and textures of the nut; his taste and smell embraced the rich smoke coming from his pipe. Even the floral comfort of the tobacco did not allow his mind to betray him. I have no idea where I am.
The pipe slipped to his free palm, a thin vapor trailing from the bowl of it and lingering around his mouth. Macabre blew a slight puff, his eyes never leaving the acorn. The vapor flickered then dissipated. He continued to puff away leisurely, delighting himself with that moment. Eventually, this too became taxing, and he held the smoldering snuff away from himself, watching the pale vapor dance on the moonlight.
Further along the meadow, he saw another vapor dancing. A pale luminescence bobbed up and down as a dull mauve flame—no larger than a fist. It milled near the tree line in the shadow of a blue willow’s canopy. The light was steady while the flame itself hardly changed in size. Instead, it pulsated with life—its outline twinkled and flickered. Macabre’s dim eyes watched the flame tentatively.
It did not move closer.
He stepped toward it, forgetting the pipe in hand and stowing the acorn carefully in his waistcoat once again. As he did, the light purple orb retreated with a slight hum and a backwards bob. It was aggressive—frightened… no, it was excited.
The professor thought to hesitate but knew not why. He stepped forward and walked towards the lavender flame a few steps further. The flame, as he grew fond of thinking of it, retreated again still further into a footpath through the tree line—only far enough to remain seen—entreating him to follow—or so he gathered.
He pressed forward, and the process continued. Always moving, the two of them. A pale specter and a flickering light. Soon Michael found himself chasing hurriedly after the flame, his fatigue seemingly forgotten. A sense of youthful exuberance bound upon himself and that thing of mystery. He delighted in the chase. Michael brushed aside ferns and wafts of willow leaves, their blue silhouettes floating gleefully at the touch. The ground underfoot was soft and largely a lush swath of dark mossy greens and pale blues. He continued the chase, giving his rigid curiosities the sense that he was altogether unworried or at least uninterested in the foliage and landscape, wholly redefining his understanding of his own study. This was naturally not the case, as normally, Macabre simply pursued his greatest curiosity foremost, unwilling to relent until he knew it better.
The light twinkled ahead of him, leading him steadily through the willow grove for miles upon miles. He did not seem to get weary, although his sensibilities began to question him more severely. I must not forget Adam. He warned me. This thing can only be thought of as intelligent. How else to explain what little I understand of this light?
Indeed, while intelligence is not a physical attribute, it is perceivable in many of the minute interactions people experience between one another and sometimes even other forms. Yes, I must not forget Adam’s warning. Macabre’s pace slowed, his eyes wandered, and he began to recognize that he had indeed passed through most of the grove all together and was being led towards a marsh.
The marsh was well hidden, its surface seemingly solid and similar to that of the undergrowth. The largest distinction was the thick strands of moss that sweated with humidity all along the trees nearest to and sprouting from it. The willows went from blue topped to blue bodied, and Macabre smelled a foul stench. Sulfur.
Of course. The professor stopped, suddenly overwhelmed with trepidation. This flame is no spirit. It is a flame of the bog. Fueled by the gas and moving only because I move the air near it, extinguishing and moving its own fuel. The professor chided his own haughtiness. This wisp could have meant a choking sputtering mouthful of mud and water. Death.
“I’m afraid you can’t kill a professor of botany so easily,” Macabre scoffed aloud. “Almost, admittedly—this strange atmosphere had left me quite confounded, but now I am quite recentered on truth.”
“Who?”
The professor twirled on his feet to face the intruding voice. Perched high in a nearby willow, a horned owl looked wide-eyed and steadily at the professor. It was not alien as most of the forest seemed. Only its feathers wore a darker shade than he recalled as typical. So dark in fact it seemed to absorb some of the blue and reflect shards of this pale color out along its silhouette. Its eyes were wholly white. It stared deeply at the professor; its head spun back over its shoulder with a slight tilt—in an effort to best spy the stranger more easily.
The professor stared a moment; he was struck deeply by its attentiveness. Of course. Why had he not thought of it sooner? What creature was wiser and more intelligent than the owl? Slowly, the professor stepped forward and produced the acorn from his pocket, turning his back to the bog and facing the owl fully.
The acorn was wrong. It looked misplaced and false. Not to Macabre of course, but the owl, spinning its body toward it and focusing its gaze upon it knew it was not of this forest. Its white eyes traced the shape—locking firmly onto the nut.
Macabre waited patiently. Finally, he was getting somewhere. With somber humility, he dared to address the figurehead of wisdom. “If you could please help me return home, I would be most indebted to you. I know little of this place, and even less of my part in it. Please, help me.”
The owl looked back to Macabre, its head tilting yet again in comprehension. It bowed forward slightly, then clicked its beak sharply several times. Then, it spoke:
“Who?”
Macabre thought it was joking. He looked incredulously at the owl and his mind could not find the proper words to air his grievances with this beast. Before he had chosen between the two sharpest of his retorts, the horned beast dropped from its perch and swooped sharply down upon him.
Macabre flung his hands up, covering his face and cowering away from the attack, but he was not struck. Instead, the owl stole away the acorn with a sharp talon clasp around it and flapped steadily away, retreating into the forest.
The professor’s hands grasped frantically into the air for his only anchor home. He was too late and too slow. Fistfuls of air were released with flagrant anger and suddenly the professor was running again. The forest thrashed upon his sides with stiff branches and rough ground. He stumbled along the pathway, searching frantically for the owl.
The bird was visible in flashes just above the canopy of willow. It flapped its wings gregariously and clutched the acorn tightly in its own grasp. Macabre followed it through the willow, struggling to track its flight while zigzagging around trees and undergrowth crowding the forest floor. His breaths were quickly becoming labored and sour. His legs, heavy as his blood and tissue, became hot like lead and pulled him closer to earth at every moment. There was a break in the forest, another meadow, and he dashed hurriedly after the bird—pushing through the ardors with disapproval. His gaze fixed upon the acorn in the clutches of that betrayer. He saw his chance. Ahead the bird seemed to circle and drop; it swooped lower and disappeared behind a close-knit grouping of willows near at hand. The professor thrust himself forward violently, hopping over tree roots and bushes to squeeze quickly beyond the wall of willow obscuring the thief.
He pressed through and lost hold of the tree.
He fell.
And he continued to fall, chasing the bird that clutched the world as he knew it, directly over a steep outcrop from the valley that dropped suddenly. As he fell, he spied the owl coming to rest well above him now in one of the trees he had thrown himself through so readily.
Professor Macabre hit the ground with a crunch of shoulder and arm and a resounding cry of pain that further shattered his strength and knocked the wind from him. He looked up to see the owl again in flight, disappearing from where he had moments ago fallen. Then his vision became black and rigid and disappeared into a murky grotto altogether.
V
Worms
Twisted tangles of limbs sat rooted to the muddy forest floor. The ground was sticky with the moisture of rain and sap: blood and water. Macabre was dead.
Near to the body sat a thin veiled wisp—the professor—staring. It was the professor in a wholly different yet wholly unchanged sense—as is often the case with bodiless mortals. Therefore, the wisp stared in its flesh-fashioned shape at the dead man. It was no longer Macabre, yet the keen-eyed reader might discern—should they dare to trace the likeness—great similitudes between the shape of the corpse and the thin wisp of the professor.
The wisp sat in the bloodied mud—not above such things but muddled within it. It hunched forward, unblinking, glassy-eyed, staring, lost. The rain began to thicken the mud. Blood-dusted water—churning into Noah’s muddy bane.
Raindrops spattered across Macabre’s face and cheeks as his corpse lay twisted awkwardly, messily motionless in a pool of mud and moss.
The vapor did not stare at the body; it had done so for long enough. Instead, face held low in lap-bent hands—it moaned—loud enough to be heard above the pattering raindrops all around him, but only just.
Worms began to rise from the churning mud and squirmed through the dirt, basking in the luxurious weave of earth and water. They churned the dirt and specter. At first these worms seemed quite ordinary; Macabre may have found some comfort in them, but they too were unlike the worms he had known. Fleshy gray with hook-pointed noses, they snaked forward like long-pried nails. There was something to the worms. Something sinister—yet totally natural. Violent and virulent. Macabre would have no comfort in them at all; but they would have their comfort with him. Him being now departed.
Strangeness worked itself into these worms and soon they were twisting forward, wrestling one another towards the oozing center. Gone were their playful, rain-fallen clamberings. With purpose they pushed each other aside and worked their hooked scalps forward. Mud and man, worm and water, they burrowed into each cavity. The thrashing worms did not settle until each had found its hearth in Macabre’s corpse.
Bespeckled and writhing, the corpse dripped with fresh holes and squirming appendage. Macabre was looking much more than himself: man and worm. This had a due effect on the wisp—breaking his dis-concentration and dragging him back to horrible ponderances—it twitched and shook as though itself riveted with the hideous hook worms. Yet, the wisp did not move; it stayed in the mud.
The worm-holed man twisted once violently, then collapsed. The wisp looked on; its gaze fastened surely. Slowly, the abomination twisted and began to push itself up from the mud. Hunchbacked and oozing, Macabre’s worm-eyed face lifted to spy the feint quivering vapor. It rose, twisted and incorrect. Worms suspending unfused muscle and balancing meager flesh between twisted backwards bones and grey wriggling appendages. Two pale eyes gazed through the wisp—not the eyes the professor knew, but a dead gaze, ravaged by cold.
“Hello, worm,” the mud-man said, oozing out the words.