Distant memories that breach at the most unexpected times, like an ancient whale coming up for air after a hundred-year meditation. Suddenly I remember. It all comes back to me in a single instant:

It started with the sickness.

Gray clouds blanket the sky, the smell of the ocean on the wind, carrying salt. I am no older than six or seven. I’ve been sick for almost two weeks, wracked nightly with nightmares of a man with a blurred face. I can’t stop coughing, mucus coming from my lungs black as tar. My eyes are bloodshot and there’s a constant, hollow din in my ears. I’ve been to the doctor—multiple doctors—but no one knows what’s wrong with me. Probably just a bug. Lots of rest, lots of fluid. But I throw up half of everything I eat and I’m growing thinner and thinner, my ribs protruding from my chest like the teeth in a grin.

I lie in my bed and look out the window. The wind is picking up, cooling off the summer air. The wind chime on my back porch sings softly, accompanied by the rustling of leaves. It’s going to rain soon, I think. I can smell it in the air. The tension just before the water begins to fall. It’s the first time it’s rained in a month, since I’ve been sick. I look down at my backyard and spot my little blue truck.

It’s sitting by a handful of other toys underneath a cluster of trees, but I don’t care about them. The truck is my favorite, given to me by my father before he went away. In a moment of horror, I realize it’s going to get caught in rain. I think of all the other toys that have gotten ruined by the rain, covered in mud and mold and away in the trash—and the next thing I know, I’m on my feet, the world spinning around me as I stumble towards my bedroom door. 

I go down the stairs, feeling a little better as I keep moving, and wander outside, not bothering to even put on my velcro shoes. The ground outside is cool and the tough grass scratches at my feet. There are sheets hanging up to dry, strung up by my mom that morning. She didn’t know it was going to rain and I think it’s kind of funny that they’re about to get wet all over again. She’s out at the store getting groceries and I don’t think she’ll get back before it starts. The sheets crack in the wind.

There’s a small patch of woods in my backyard, between my house and the ocean. I like to play in them, but they’re dark and they scare me a little. I think of all the stories of trolls I’ve heard, waiting to eat good little Christians and I can’t help but think that there’s some living in there. I only go in there when I’m feeling especially brave.

I see the truck lying on the ground in the middle of the yard, just between me and the woods. I take a few steps forward and then I see him:

His face is hidden by the lower branches of the tree and his body nearly blends into its trunk, but I see him. He’s tall. Extremely tall. I almost can’t see the top half of him in the shade of the branches. The skin on his long, relaxed hands are sullen, ashy. They look almost like wax. His clothes are very fine and black like a void—they catch no night—but they seem to be a part of him. He watches me—I can’t see his face, but I know he is watching—completely unmoving. At first I can’t even tell if he’s alive or some kind of weird statue. He gives no presence.

I freeze. The fear running through my body is so strong it feels like somebody just grabbed a hold of my heart and began to squeeze, gently. A cough begins to build in my throat, like there’s suddenly smoke in the air.

I know without knowing that he wants me to come with him. Follow him into the woods. Into the dark. And for a moment, I feel a tug. A pull somewhere in my chest, like a magnet, just behind my heart. I know that I want to follow him. Wherever he may lead.

I take a step towards him, then another. His hand rises with glacial slowness, so slow I do not even notice it move. It extends out, impossibly long, and touches the diffused light through the clouds. Slender fingers and long, cracked nails. I want to take his hand.

His form seems to shimmer as I move closer. Twisting and flickering. Black tendrils rise out of his body, writhing like a thousand lolling tongues and then disappear. He still isn’t there, though. Like a shadow in a shadow. But I feel excitement coming from him and it tastes like iron.

No matter how hard I look, I still cannot see his face through the branches.

I’m so close now. His hand extends towards me. His arm is a mile long, stretched out like the body of a snake, swaying gently in the wind. I feel rain on my face, gentle sprinkles. His fingers twitch. I extend my own hand out towards his, ready to grasp.

Then my foot hits something and I stumble. I look down, trance broken. It’s my truck. Its sharp, metal corner has nicked my big toe, just under the nail. Blood begins to well up. I reach down and pick up the truck, cradle it in my hands. When I look back up, he’s back where he was, as if he never moved. 

Suddenly I’m terrified again. What is this thing standing before me? It’s not human. It can’t be human.

And then I’m running, back across the lawn, back towards my house. I slam the door behind me and hide in my bed, clutching my truck underneath the covers.

I know he’s still out there, waiting for me, watching me through the leaves. He is patient.

It begins to pour.

…

I’ve forgotten about this. I don’t know how I could have.

My sickness disappeared shortly afterwards, unexplained, not a trace left behind.

And then, last week I woke up before work, my lungs burning like I’d been inhaling toxic smoke from a building fire. I can’t stop coughing and I’m haunted by dreams of a man with a blurred face.

I should’ve known why he didn’t come after me that day. He is patient. And he can wait forever.

I am terrified.

- Jamie Kinn

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