Quiet

I took a walk in the woods. I love being out in the wild, the racket that nature makes when it's left alone. I live near a very large, state-protected forest, and while it's not exactly legal to do, sometimes I go along trails that aren't mapped. I've lived here my whole life, I know this area well. I'm used to going out and getting lost, though with GPS it's hard to get really, truly lost. It's relaxing to find myself in places I've never been, I don't find it eerie or intimidating. With my new job, I haven't had as much time to go out as I'd like. Adult life brings along things 'more important' than strapping on my pack and wandering out into nature with a can of bug spray and a book or two. But this weekend, I had some free time. So I went for a long walk. I live in the Northwest, and if you've been in the woods here, you know how dense the undergrowth gets in the summer. But it's fall right now, and while it's certainly still jungle-y out there, it's not impassible like it can be at the height of the growing season. I went along the mapped trail for a few miles, then struck out on my own. It was beautiful, the trees were on fire with bright orange leaves. A carpet of them had already fallen; they crunched under my feet in an entirely satisfying way. I listened to the birds calling, the rustle of small animals in the bushes. There's no more beautiful place on earth than a Northwest forest in fall.

I went for about four miles, going in no particular direction, before I stopped to eat the small lunch I'd packed. I sat on a rock and closed my eyes, the sun leaking through the canopy and warming pieces of my face. A squirrel screamed at me from somewhere above, and in time it prompted me to move on. I went another three or so miles before I stopped and set up camp.

Normally, I limit my trips to same-day excursions. But how could I pass up a weekend spent in the woods when it was so lit up, so dripping with fall? The night was clear, bitterly cold. I huddled in my sleeping bag and listened to the forest come to life around me. At some point, I heard the soft scrape of a muzzle against the side of my tent. A deer, coming to inspect the odd spot of green in the clearing. I slept very well and woke refreshed, feeling more myself than I had in a long time.

I walked through the woods at a casual pace, monitoring my progress with my GPS. By noon, I'd gone another four miles, leaving me about ten from where I'd started. Far from home, from the noise and bustle and anti-like stupidity of modern life. So it was a surprise when I stepped on something and heard the unmistakable snap of plastic shattering.

I looked down, coming out of my pseudo-trance. Lifting my boot, I saw a flash of bright blue pressed into the dirt. I bent down, picked it up. The cap to a ballpoint pen, now broken into several pieces. I stood up and glanced around. Litter isn't uncommon, we're a generally filthy species, but I'd rarely found it so far out before. I saw no signs of recent human activity, but the pen cap was new, hardly faded. I put it in my pocket with a small spark of irritation. It seems we can't go anywhere without leaving traces of ourselves behind. I kept walking. I had only gone another quarter of a mile when I saw the pen stuck into the ground, point up. I growled, honestly angry now, and pulled it out of the ground. I shoved it in my pocket, entertaining evil thoughts directed at whoever had been out here and felt it necessary to leave parts of their life behind.

Something glinted, sparked a beam of sunlight halfway up a tree ahead of me. I squinted, tried to make it out. It wasn't just one spark of light, I realized. Something reflective had been placed up the tree. What on earth...? I went closer, my neck craned up to get a better look. It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. Pens. At least forty or fifty. They'd been pushed into the bark of the tree, point first. All different kinds, from what I could tell. Cheap ballpoints, fine tip, gel, even one Monte Blanc. They bristled out of the tree like porcupine quills. I stood for a long time, my mouth screwed tight, brow furrowed.

An art project, I decided. Some sort of odd, modern statement of the banality of modern life against the harshness and beauty of nature. I lived in a hippie-centric area of the country, and this was just the sort of thing I could see someone doing. Coming out here, to this remote part of the woods, and filling a tree with pens. How many other people would ever see this? Maybe that was the point. It would certainly make an excellent story. I touched the pen in my pocket and moved on.

I walked through the woods, allowing my mind to clear again. But something had changed. The once calm, tranquil atmosphere of my walk had been shattered with the knowledge that someone else had been here. Could, I supposed, still be out here. And I began feeling something that I'd never felt out in the woods before. A tightness in my chest, the temptation to glance behind me. Sweat pooled under my armpits, ran down my sides. I was nervous. For the first time in my life, I was scared of the emptiness and simultaneous fullness of the forest around me. I hummed to myself, told myself I was being childish. But the image kept coming back to me: a hippie, their hair in long dreadlocks, lugging a bag full of pens into the middle of the woods. Following the exact non-trail I'd taken to end up here, so far from anything. How had they gotten that far up the tree? I imagined them scrambling up with a home-cooked device, using a hammer to pound the pens into the bark. The sound echoing around, slamming into the trees and ricocheting off like bullets. That, more than anything, disturbed me. The sound of a hammer in the wilderness. I was so deep in thought that I didn't notice I'd come to the clearing until I'd almost stepped on the shirt. I stopped just in time, my foot only an inch or two above it. I pinwheeled my arms, stumbling backward to the edge of the clearing.

My eyes focused, took in the scene in front of me. Blood rushed to my head, my hands and feet going cold. My hand went to my pocket, gripped the pen, as I scanned from left to right. The clearing was square. Almost perfectly so. The bushes, undergrowth, everything had been stripped away. All that remained was the rich, dark soil. In the middle of the clearing was a stunted, scrawny tree of middling size; the branches were knobbly, oddly twisted.

Beginning at the edge of the clearing, where I now stood, a spiral pattern had been created, winding around many times until it ended at the foot of the strange tree. Clothes. Laid out as if waiting to be put on. All different, but all belonging, it seemed, to men. The outfit nearest me closely resembled my own: a plaid shirt, workman's jeans, leather boots. Neatly laid out, free of any debris or fallen leaves. I followed the spiral, taking note of certain outfits. A very nice, expensive suit, complete with tie and leather dress shoes. A polyester fast food uniform. A blazer and slacks. A cotton t-shirt and sweatpants, the sneakers well worn. My gaze returned to the outfit at my feet, and at the collar of the shirt, it appeared something had been planted. A row of something, dull white. I bent down, the popping of my knees causing my heart to leap. I reached out, brushed one of the white things, before recoiling with a strangled yelp.

Teeth. Pressed into the dirt. The molars still had bits of food in the creases. The teeth were in order, evenly spaced in a horrible grin. The roots had been pressed into the soil, ensuring they would not be easily disturbed. I stood, gingerly stepped into the clearing, and walked along the spiral. Every outfit was complete with teeth. All evenly spaced, all accurate down to the last canine. As I got closer to the tree, shivering with a primal fear and dreadful fascination I'd never known, I began to hear a humming. It vibrated through the air and into the small bones of my ears. I could feel it deep in my head, in the darkest part of my brain. It was coming from the tree. I stood in front of it, carefully avoiding the cotton long-sleeved shirt at the base. The top of the tree was only a few feet above my head, and I was able to clearly observe the strange, shriveled seed pods on the tips of the branches. I'd never seen anything like them. Upon closer inspection, it seemed that they were almost impaled upon the points of the skinny, shriveled branches. One near my eye level was thicker than the others, more ripe. I reached out to touch it.

The surface of it erupted, exploding out toward me in a fury of humming and buzzing. I cried out, flinching backward, and felt the brush of wings against my hands. I looked at the seed pod, now clear of flies, and saw that it was not a seed pod at all. It was a tongue. One end ragged, as if ripped off by force. The flies began to return, crawling over the surface, lapping at the liquefying tissue. They clambered over one another in a frenzy, their awful wings humming and burrowing into my ears, my head.

It felt as if my head was coming apart. The buzzing got louder, and I felt a stinging sensation on my stomach. I stumbled back, my vision tunneling, and all I could hear was the resonating thrum of the flies. I slipped on a shirt, could feel the teeth under my boot, and I ran. I ran out of the clearing, crashed through the woods, but still I could hear the flies. No matter how fast I ran, I couldn't hear anything but the buzzing of the flies. I screamed and my head ripped apart inside. As I fell, I could feel thousands of tiny legs crawling on my face, into my ears. I blacked out, shrieking into the all-consuming rumble and thrumming of the flies.

I woke up, how much later I couldn't tell. I was on the trail, in sight of the entrance to the woods. I could not remember getting here. Could not remember my desperate flight through the woods that would have taken me back to where I'd started. I picked myself up, the scratches covering my face and arms burning. I limped back to my car. Drove home in a daze. I entered my apartment, heard from some distance the meowing of my two cats, angry about my late arrival and offended by their bowls that had only been empty for a few hours. I fed them to pacify them. I stripped my clothes off, dropped into a warm bath, and fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours ago. I have cleaned my scratches, thrown away my filthy, torn clothes. And I have only now noticed that the rash on my stomach is something more than that. In the mirror, it is reversed. But if I were able to step outside myself, I would be able to read what it says:

quiet