Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Styx and Stones

The trees around me are thick, and the damp chilly air reeks with of decay. It’s dark—whether from the dusk or the dense woods, I’m not sure. I place my hand on a nearby oak, hoping to ground myself, to gain a sense of direction. But when my hand touches the rotten trunk, it cracks apart and pieces of it fall away. Glass. I jump back quickly to avoid the sharp shards. With no shoes, I walk gingerly around the disintegrated tree and pray my bare feet don’t slice on the scattered glass.

I walk to a different tree and try to ground myself again. It shatters at my touch as well, the muffled sound of slivers of glass plinking against the forest floor.

My heart starts to race. If I can’t connect with a living tree, I’ll never find my way out of these woods. The darkness around me grows heavier, pressing in tightly. Somewhere in the forest an owl lets out a long shriek, the single sign of another living creature. Part of me wants to run, but I do my best to keep a steady and slow pace, frightened of disturbing any more vitric trees.

I walk until I come upon a black flowing river, too wide to easily jump across. Every drop of moisture in my throat evaporates at the sight of the water, a powerful thirst demanding to be attended to. I sprint toward the river, falling to my knees at its murky bank, and try to cup some of the dark water into my hands. It slips away from my palm like mist, impossible to catch. My throat grows drier, my thirst more desperate. I lean down to drink straight from the river, but the water’s surface dips away from me. I lean farther still, dreaming of even a single drop of moisture to quench the cracked desert of my throat. But I go too far and lose my balance, toppling into the black.

The water rushes into my ears and mouth, a welcome sound from the deafening silence of this forest. I don’t struggle to breathe despite being submerged, my lungs accepting the liquid without any protestation. Maybe I’m finally safe? The thought lasts half a heartbeat before I see the faces. Thousands of them rising up from the deep below, screaming in silent horror, staring at me. With a start, I see Margaret Halliwell among the hoard. Her ghostly figure reaches out toward me. I kick and scramble, trying to swim back to the surface, but icy fingers grip my ankle.

I bolt awake and frantically push the bed quilt off my legs. My ankle stings, as if scratched by invisible nails, but there are no marks on my skin. Breathing heavily, I scan the darkness of my bedroom, half expecting the ghostly figures to have followed me into the conscious world. But there are only the wooden walls of my cottage. I am alone.