Color of Fear

Surely it was going to be a good night, the kind that made waking up worth it, and going to bed after almost a chore. I wanted to consider it worth my time, otherwise it would seem nothing more than another waste to even leave the house. Of course, it didn’t start to feel worthwhile at first. No, it started with the same mediocrity that accompanied every other visit to Langdon Park.

There was the car ride in the morning, which on the whole made my stomach feel like it had been the subject of a Piñata beating. After we hit the toll road on I-190 W the traffic thinned and dad’s lead foot found a home nestled in the carpet of the floorboard of the Chevy 350. It was nice to feel the wind kick in and the cool air whip about the cabin like a maelstrom, but even that didn’t help the beating my gut had taken in the stop-and-go traffic leaving Killeen.

“You doin’ good, kid?” Dad always asked even though he knew I wouldn’t be any more of a burden than I had to. Never any more than I already was.

“Yeah, just…you know.”

He grunted in acknowledgement but didn’t slow down. What was the point? We both knew sooner or later the bagel and cream cheese I had earlier would either be in a plastic bag, or on the floor if I missed as usual. The truck lurched to the side with each lane change, but after a while I sat back and let my mind try to wander.

We arrived at Langdon Park by the time it was warm enough out that I could leave my jacket in the back seat, so I tossed it over my shoulder and opened the door. I felt along the inside jam until my hands found the thin fiberglass cane.

“I’m commin’ hun, give me just a sec to dig out my pack. Someone seems to have buried it under a jacket.”

“Wasn’t me.” I said. I knew he was smiling. It was in his voice.

“You sure? It sure looks like yours kid.”

“No way. What color is it?”

“Red. Got a yellow stripe down the side.”

“Nope. Mine is black, dad.”

His door shut and I could hear him toss the pack onto his back. The water sloshed in the canteens with a rhythm as he rounded the cab and guided me out of way of the door. “Funny, could have sworn you were wearing a red one earlier.”

“Nope; definitely black. I would remember red. It’s my favorite color.”

“You don’t have a favorite color Sam. Now give me your hand and let’s get to some sight-seeing.”

“Sight hearing,” I corrected.

The asphalt was welcoming. It always reminded me how tame the wilderness was. It always told me this was the edge of your reality, the boundary of your world. This asphalt was more than a boundary though, it was a doorway. Getting along in Killeen was easy, just a matter of memory. Seventeen steps from the door to the mailbox. Seven on the stone path, and ten in the grass. If I hit the dip in the grass after four in the grass I was too far to the right. Touch the driveway and I was too far to the left. I had mapped it all and it only took seven weeks after we moved in before dad was okay with taking me to map the sidewalk from one end of the street to the other. I had that one done in eight. Twenty seven to the left (sun on my right in morning) and fifty-six to the right (sun on my left in the morning). It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Back in Alabama, without sidewalks, my world had been a lot smaller.

But out here, Langdon Park was a new world. An alien world that defied reality. There were no cars; there were no sidewalks. The first few times had been sheer terror. I didn’t know what I would have done if I was alone, not that that was possible, but the thought still lingered. Every step away from the asphalt had been another into a dark abyss of untracked land. Every step was further from safety. I cried the first time. I think dad freaked out a bit, but it was a good cry, the kind every fourteen year-old girl deserves once in a while. Of course the second time I didn’t let him see me cry. I waited till I got home.

This time it was different. This time I would make it all the way to the river.

“Miss Baker says the Foundation will be delivering Jerry next week. Maybe he can come out with us next time.” Jerry was the seeing-eye dog the Foundation had donated to us. A Labrador from a long line of seeing-eye dogs bred somewhere in upstate North Carolina.

“What color is he again? I know you keep telling me, but—”

“Black, Sam. Black Lab. Hence the color is black.”

“You sure?” I wondered sometimes if he was getting me back for things like the jacket.

The forest closed around us only four steps after we left the asphalt. Sun to the right, I thought, and even dirt ground. My world had changed four steps back, but this was where dad’s changed. I could feel his body stiffen a bit, waiting for me to start asking the easy questions that we both knew just masked the ball of fear rolling around in my gut. What do you see? How tall are the trees? What’s that bird I hear to the left?

I bit back the urge to start so quickly. Time enough later on.

We walked for what seemed forever before the trees thinned and the sun warmed my face again. I wished I had brought that jacket after all, but no point whining. Never be a burden.

The forest ached and cried. It echoed with silence that was pierced every so often by a crow, and occasionally a mocking bird in retort. The breeze lifted after that and the trees jostled back and forth, singing praises to their own beauty. I don’t think anyone could truly enjoy the song of those trees if they were distracted by the beauty of their shape. But then again I wouldn’t know for sure. I hadn’t seen a tree since I was five. Not since my world started getting darker with each day that passed.

“Hungry Sam?” He was already slinging the pack off his shoulders as he asked. I dropped his hand and faced the warmth that parted the canopy overhead.

Left to go forward, right to go back.

I could hear him digging through the Tupperware in the background, but it was the singing of the trees that enveloped me. I could almost see them, though I suppose what I saw was filtered through nine years of fading memory.

“What kind of trees are they?”

“Pine, some low poplar mixed in.” I smelled something off and wondered for a moment if the leftovers we packed were spoiled, but the wind was wrong. It came from the same direction as the warmth, the same direction as the singing poplars and their towering pine cousins. There was a rustle of leaves, but it didn’t seem right. The breeze was dying down, the trees were at the end of their symphony and had started winding it to a soft exit of strings and woodwinds. The leaves seemed out of character, a crash of symbols that should have reignited a crescendo.

“Dad?”

The rustling leaves drew closer, even, almost rhythmic.  They trotted back and forth along something as it shuffled through the orchestra.  Whatever it was it had picked up pace, clashing with the soft undertones of the forest and casting their lazy song into the background. I took a step back but somehow realized I hadn’t counted it. How far was dad? How far had we walked? Four-hundred thirty six steps, three curves and one hill. I reached back into nothing trying to find dad’s hand.

“Sam, get behind me.” His voice was afraid. What was out there? What was that smell? Rotten eggs and old milk?

“Dad?” I couldn’t find his hand, how far back was he? I took another step back but whatever was coming wasn’t slowing and it wasn’t afraid. The smell got worse. Something like the garbage after a week when dad had forgotten to take it out. We went to Alabama to visit mom for her birthday. We had left the air conditioner off to save on the bill, but the garbage had just baked in the July heat. This was worse. This was a lot worse.

“Samantha get behind me now!”

“Daddy I can’t find you! I can’t find anything!” I stumbled back twice, caught my foot on the pack, and fell into his arms.

He should have held me. He should have given me a hug, maybe a kiss to say it was all okay, but he didn’t. No, he didn’t hug me one bit. I sank maybe a few inches into his chest before I felt his hands shove me aside. I rolled a few times, felt my wrist bend the wrong way, and then there was the soft snap of fiber glass bent beyond its strength.

Thunder collided inches from me, dirt sprayed along the air and leaves rained down. There was a guttural grunt, something not quite human; something big. I tried to roll away but my leg had caught in the strap of the pack and something had pinned it to the trail.

“No! Sam—” dad was cut off by the sound of a tree branch snapping. It made no sense though, as there were no trees in the middle of the trail, and no branches so low to the ground that it would be that close. It sounded like it was only a few  inches…maybe a foot away.

The smell of rot was overbearing. It pressed me back, and clawed at my throat. I wanted to gasp at the sound of limbs and twigs snapping only feet away, but there was no air to pull in. There was nothing to breathe, just the foul rot of whatever was pinning the backpack down. It grunted and moaned, crunched and tore at something, but whatever it was eating was not in the same place as my leg’s captor. It was a bit to my right. Just a few feet back from her head and a few more away. It was just the right distance for rolling a few times and bending your wrist wrong. The right distance to dad.

“Daddy?” I tried to whisper but the words seemed lost in the cacophony of grunting and tearing. The sounds suddenly stopped and I felt the air chill with absence. Absence was hard to feel, but I could feel it. It was there, in a way that it was not there. Silence that was deafening. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, not even the wind.

Hot, stale rot forced its way into my nostrils, spittle and snot spattered my face as whatever it was blew a soft chuff at me. It was big, if the depth of its voice was any factor in size. I tried to place the sound from the last time we went to the zoo in Austin, but there had been nothing big there.

I scrambled up on my bottom and hurt wrist, putting most of the weight on the good one I scrambled back a few feet and tried to pretend I was crying.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s following me.

My back hit a tree. Pain shot up my wrist as I settled against it and the warmth of the sun was suddenly blotted out by a shadow. A shadow that smelled of rot. A shadow that had just eaten something that sounded like a tree. A shadow that moaned and bellowed in deep gurgling sounds that very much sounded like something very very big. I wanted to scream as I felt its hot breath against my cheek. But as I opened my mouth to draw in the air I nearly gagged again, the bagel and cream cheese threatening to return from breakfast yet again.

It chuffed again and turned to leave.  The Sun returned at my shoulder and I thought about calling for daddy once more but somehow I knew I was going to have to manage the four-hundred thirty six steps, three curves and one hill on my own. All I could think of was the smell of rot. The smell that had something new in its undertones. A hint of something coppery and harsh seething beneath spoiled milk and rotten eggs.

It smelled very much like something that should have been the color red.