Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Ambrose

I ALMOST WONDER if this is partially my fault. Perhaps they sensed my energy when I watched them digging in the forest hours ago, and unknowingly followed it back here to my home.

Earlier in the night, I had seen these two nearly three miles away. I’d come upon them by accident and stuck around to watch them for thirty minutes or so because their presence had been unexpected and their actions piqued my interest. That deep in the forest, in the dark, in the freezing Vermont winter with a snowstorm blowing through…finding them there seemed almost serendipitous.

I’d watched as the boy hacked at the frozen ground, managing to dig out a body-sized hole by sheer force of will. I’d dug out enough of my own to recognize what they were trying to do, and that captivated my attention. These two wholesome-looking young adults were out burying a body in the forest in the middle of the night.

Whose body was it?

How had they died?

What did these two have to do with that death?

The girl had seemed agitated, constantly moving and fidgeting, playing with the light on her phone. At one point, I thought she’d seen me, but then she went back to her boyfriend or whoever he was and stayed by his side. Every time it looked like she was offering to help, he’d pushed on, insisting on doing the work himself.

Chivalrous, I suppose—a trait I don’t possess.

I’d left after watching them for a while…before they’d finished their dirty work. Their presence had distracted and confused me, and I’d left my axe behind, which was fucking dumb on my part. Normally, I wouldn’t worry about it, except for the fact that I’ve been found in an unfindable place. Clearly, I’ve become too comfortable, too complacent, thinking that no one would ever find me out here.

I head down the hallway toward the dim light, back into my bedroom. I grab a black hoodie from my closet and pull it on before perching on the bed to lace up my black boots. Then, stomping down the hallway, I head for the front door.

As I pass the open door of the room where I’ve trapped them, I dare a single glance at the two caged birds, and the sight of them makes my pulse quicken with anxious energy.

Why the fuck did I trap them?

Why didn’t I just send them away?

The sight of them makes me pause with my head turned in their direction, but they don’t immediately notice me. The boy has his arms wrapped around her, keeping her close. There’s so much affection and protective energy in the way he holds her, and I can feel it rippling through him, traveling outward in waves that strike me in the gut and make my stomach clench with a strange mixture of jealousy and need.

I’ve never known a feeling like that—a feeling of being protected and cared for.

I need a cigarette.

The boy turns his head just as I’m about to move and I expect him to shout at me, yell for me to let him out. But curiously, he doesn’t. His brow furrows, his forehead creases in heated resentment for his current predicament, and the passionate hatred in his brown eyes sparks in the air between us.

I can’t fucking look at them.

I stalk toward the door, grab my heavy black bomber jacket, and throw it on over my hoodie. I zip it in the front, tug my hood over my head, and walk out the front door, locking it behind me.

The snowfall has stopped, but there’s a solid five inches of fluff in the clearing surrounding my home. It doesn’t faze me. I trudge forward, stomping through the snow as I head for the tree line.

I walk for a solid mile before I stop to pull a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket. I take one out of the pack and light it up before continuing.

I’ve walked this path so many times before that I don’t even have to think about where I’m going. It’s muscle memory. The cold air doesn’t bother me much—it’s the same temperature as my frozen, dead heart—but the snow around my ankles soaks through my jeans, making each step feel heavy. The dampness around my ankles makes the traumatized neurons in my brain fire with the memories of my haunted past.

I sink into the unwelcome recollection of the cold winter nights when my father would march me into the forest, wearing nothing more than my tattered pajamas—a simple T-shirt and long flannel pants.

He would take me out miles into the deep, then leave me behind. He’d put his watch around my wrist and set it with a thirty-minute alarm, then demand that I stay put until the alarm went off, and when it did, I was to find my way back home.

He tried to convince me that he was doing it for my own good—to teach me survival and navigational skills—but of course, that was bullshit. He didn’t teach me a damn thing. He was hoping I’d die from exposure before finding my way back, so he didn’t have to deal with me anymore.

But I always found my way back.

I still wonder sometimes why I fought so hard to survive. It’s not like I was welcomed back with pride and praise. He’d just throw me back into the goddamn cage and leave me there for days. And I can’t fucking figure out why I’ve filled that same trauma-feeding cage with new souls to rip apart.

Because they found you…and you didn’t want to be found.

I veer off course without conscious thought, my feet carrying me the long way around to the place where I left my axe. A quarter-mile later, I come to a stop in front of the thick trunk of a familiar tree. Its base is wide, and it almost sits separately from the surrounding trees, as if its thick roots have pushed them all away as it grew…as if the rest of the forest were scattering from its looming presence.

I remember when I first found this tree when I was fourteen. I’d fought back against my dad for the first time and managed to get away from him before he could hit me. I ran as far and as fast as I could into the forest because I didn’t know if he was angry or following me. I didn’t look back. I just ran until I was tired, and then I wandered.

I wandered until I felt the pull of this tree.

Though autumn leaves had been scattered and piling across the forest floor that day, most of the maples still held on to their dying leaves, unwilling to let them go just yet.

But this tree—the one I’m standing before now—was completely bare, leaves piled thick around its base. There were no signs of disease or infection, it was a healthy tree. But somehow, it seemed eager to shed its leaves, eager to change seasons.

I felt so much the same—eager to leave my childhood behind, to take control, to fight back. That was the first time I felt like I might be able to take my power back.

And one year later, I did.

Now I stand on their graves, over the spot where, ten years ago, I dug and buried them beside this very tree, and I feel their evil trying to claw its way up from the ground. I don’t believe in God, so I sure as fuck don’t believe in the Devil. But I’m more than familiar with the sickness of humanity and the twisted energy it leaves behind. That energy breeds and searches, coiling around whatever new host it can find. I can feel it now in the roots of this tree, stretching far from the base beneath my feet, reaching out, infecting this forest, infecting me.

The trees speak in their silence, the wind kicking up and rustling through the bare branches above. I look up, moonlight peeking through the dark clouds, illuminating the claw-like branches as they sway. I can see how the wind blows through them, rippling still branches into movement, and my head tracks its direction, watching as it blows back south toward my home.

That home is infected, too.

And the two I’ve trapped within it will feel the effects of that soon.

I trapped them there like my parents trapped me.

I take a long drag off my cigarette and slowly blow out the smoke from the corner of my lips. I toss it down into the snow and stomp on it, making sure the light burns out before I turn away and head deeper into Sugar Wood Forest. I collect my forgotten axe and grab an armful of the wood I’d chopped earlier before turning back.

I should’ve sent those two away when they knocked on my door, but perhaps it was already too late for them by the time they’d arrived. They were already infected by the forest. They were already fading into sickness by the time they’d arrived on my doorstep. So, maybe it’s good that I’ve sentenced them to death by trapping them in the cage that’s been open and waiting for ten years.

Sugar Wood has made us all sick, and I can’t let them infect the rest of the world.