The Dancer

I was told I shouldn’t write this. My friends, those few that I have left, tell me it will be embarrassing, a public declaration of my mental illness. My father, dry as ever, reminded me that it would contradict my sworn testimony in court. And for my part, I know deep down that no one should know what happened in the woods. No one can ever go back there. I know this is wrong as I write it, but it does not matter. My reputation, my freedom, and even what’s right- none of that will matter by tomorrow morning. I can hear my death waiting for me outside this hospital room. I see him dancing every time I close my eyes. I have nothing left to lose. All that’s left to me is my story.

I’ll start at the beginning. A year ago, I tried to kill myself. At that time, I was a senior in high school, and when that school year ended, I was set to repeat the semester in the fall. At that point, my parents had gone well past their limit with my bullshit. They decided that, after an obligatory stay in the hospital, I was going to be spending the summer getting better. Now, I have been to rehabs, hospitals, and every facility of the sort in the city. At the time, I was taking enough medicine to make your head spin. Throwing money and pills at the problem didn’t seem to work, but my parents never knew another way. Nothing was working, though, so this time, they were done throwing money at traditional solutions. Instead, they thought it was time to start throwing money at alternative solutions—specifically an experimental retreat for at-risk teens somewhere in the north of Westchester County. So, as soon as I had come home from the hospital, my bags were packed, and my mother was waiting for me in the car.

On the ride up, the first thing I noticed after leaving the suburbs of New York was the suddenness of the trees. That’s a weird way to put it, but it’s the right way. One minute, we were going up what looked like the main road. We passed a bagel shop, a grocery, and a taqueria. Then I saw a big metal sign. It read, “Welcome to the village of Briarcliff Manor, established 1902.” As soon as I read the sign, it was gone, and suddenly, all I could see was a wall of trees. The sidewalk which had been to our left was gone, replaced by the banks of the Hudson River.

Maybe I was just a terminal urbanite, but by that point, I was starting to feel like we were going straight to the middle of nowhere and began to consider the possibility that my parents had decided to drop me off in the woods, never to be seen again, like a cursed baby in a fairytale. Looking back, I’m not sure I was wrong, but at the time, the thought dissipated as quickly as the wall of trees. Suddenly, we were back amidst civilization, and I could see nothing but identical houses flying by. On and on it went, shrubbery into suburbs as the car went on. I did notice, as we got closer, that the time spent amidst the thick flurry of trees was getting longer while the industrialized interruptions were getting ever briefer. I felt like drifting off to sleep, but the sight of a building through the trees stopped me. I was about to ask if we were there, but then I saw it.

In disbelief, I thought; That’s not the retreat. It can’t be. The building I saw was a ruin, some kind of rotted-out barn standing next to an out-of-place willow, bare on a hill just past the forest fence. There was something about it that made me uneasy, and I wondered why the wretched building hadn’t been torn down yet. I didn’t have much time to think about it then. Now I wish I had.

It was not long before we reached the place. A wooden pioneer-style sign loomed against a tree, with the words “Tawney Roberts Retreat for Troubled Teens” burnt into it. Just past the sign was a gravel path. The noisy, bumpy drive down the gravel was first set against a backdrop of trees and shrubbery, but the vegetation soon gave way on our left side, and bushes faded into fen, revealing the marshlands at the river’s edge. With the car’s window cracked, I could hear the cries of waterfowl just above the crunching of tires against the improvised road. We made one last turn, and I saw the retreat come into view.

The whole place was made up of three wooden longhouses extending like rays from one central and much grander cabin. My Mother pulled into a parking spot, and I noticed that there weren’t many other cars, just one beat-up red Subaru and a couple of white vans branded with the same logo I saw on the way in. Leaving our car and entering the campus, we didn’t see many more signs of life. Something felt wrong about that place, but I didn’t know what it was at first. It took a moment, but I figured it out before we reached the steps to the main building. It was quiet and terribly so. I had heard the sounds of nature on the way in, but amidst the cabins, in this clearing of trees, I could hear nothing but my own breathing.

I didn’t want to go in and remained unmoving on the flagstones. My mother saw my delay for what it was. I was dragging my feet like a child. She turned back and shot me a withering look. She didn’t say a word, but her expression was clear enough. It said, “After everything you’ve put us through, we still help you, and now you’re fighting me!” I cringed at the sight and, with a bit of effort, forced myself up the wood-slat steps towards the main office.

Almost as soon as I’d made it up to the main landing, the cabin’s double doors were thrown open. From the doorway emerged a small woman who I assumed to be the titular Tawny. She looked to be in her early forties. Her jet-black hair was flecked with grey and drawn up in an intricate braid, and smile lines were creased into the edges of her mouth. Her clothes were more practical than her hair. She wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt tucked into brown cargo pants that were pushed into black rubber boots that seemed to be caked in dried mud near the bottom. She gave us a warm look through her thick glasses and extended an arm. She shook hands with my Mother and then me. After a firm handshake and a friendly greeting, she proved my assumptions correct and introduced herself as Doctor Tawney Roberts, psychiatrist and founder of this retreat.

The Doctor waved us in through the double doors. The interior wasn’t as rustic as I had thought it would be. Wood-paneled walls met a vaulted ceiling held up by four grand oak columns, and The walls were decorated with pastoral paintings. Animals grazed against breathtaking vistas and pleasant fields. I thought that I liked this building. It somehow managed to feel classy and cozy all at once.

From this lobby, we were directed to a grand front desk. It was made of black painted wood and gilded with brass. Its massive surface was adorned by an ancient-looking brick of a desktop in one corner and a somewhat unstable-looking tower of documents on the other. Behind the desk sat the Doctor’s young assistant.

He was handsome, almost offensively so. The man looked like a stock photo of some kind of hometown hero football player. Blonde hair and blue eyes set into a pretty face that contrasted pleasingly with broad shoulders and muscled arms. He introduced himself as Gerald before saying, “Well, that’s what my dad calls me anyway. My friends can call me Jerry.” I saw an offer of pleasantries, if not real friendship, in his tone, and I hated him for it. I responded to his kind gesture with a cold remark of my own.

“It’s nice to meet you, Gerald,” I said without a hint of charm. I immediately saw that the remark worked exactly as I had intended. “Jerry” dropped the performative friendliness and handed over the paperwork without another word. The Doctor was clearly amused by this, and she shot me a grin as we went to fill out the forms.

After what felt like an eternity, but in all likelihood, was only about ten minutes, we finished the paperwork. My Mother went to hand it back, and just like that, The Doctor dropped the easy conversation she’d been having with Gerald. She ushered my Mother through a smaller door behind the front desk.

I knew this wait well, the long tedium while a parent speaks to an authority figure just beyond earshot. I settled in for a long, nervous vigil in the waiting room, but to my surprise, I didn’t feel nervous that time. I was actually beginning to feel a little bit excited. I decided that I liked this Doctor, and what’s more, I liked this place too. It felt warm and full of opportunities for fun. For a moment, I forgot the terrible stillness outside and began to feel like I was once again a kid at summer camp, carefree and innocent.

I smiled and decided that I preferred waiting in anticipation to counting the minutes in fear. Despite this newfound appreciation, I did not have to wait that long. Suddenly, I heard a door open. It seemed as if no time at all had passed since my mother had first gone through that door, but here she was, coming out again, and I was being waved in by an enthusiastic Doctor Roberts.

As I approached the door, a feeling caught hold of me. It had been a creeping thing that had been sneaking up on me ever since we’d first arrived. It was a feeling of age, a sense of just how ancient this place was. The building was old. I could smell it in the stale air and hear it in the creaking foundations. This ancient feeling came at me in full force when I saw the little door. I heard its wailing plea as it bent back on black iron hinges, and before the door could close, though, I noticed two more things that cemented the feeling. The first was the polished brass doorknob, which was engraved with the image of a dancer. The figure on the doorknob was enticing, terribly realistic, and entrancingly beautiful. It was a man who was stretched out in arabesque, his long legs stretched to their full extent, revealing lean muscle beneath his leotard. It seemed to me that the dancer almost moved as his metal form shimmered in the afternoon sun.

I was only broken from the dancer’s trance by a small cough from Doctor Roberts. At the sound, I tore my eyes away from the doorknob, and my gaze met hers. I saw her waiting, expectant, and poised. I knew that I had lingered too long. With that, I followed her into the empty office. I was careful from then on not to appear so lost. I did not want to make a bad first impression with a person who had the power to have me involuntarily committed after all.

As I left the brass dancer behind, I felt a strange sense of unease fall over my shoulders. The doorknob had indeed been a work of art, but something about its unearthly beauty left me on edge and more afraid than I would have admitted at the time.

The abruptness of that new sensation, paired with the other oddities, put an end to the good humor I had managed to scrape together from the friendly atmosphere and cozy waiting room. Suddenly, I was not a carefree child at summer camp. Instead, I was, once again, the greasy suicidal fuck up who couldn’t graduate from high school. Once I remembered myself, I also recalled my healthy mistrust of doctors.

Doctor Roberts let the door close shut of its own accord and sat down down. She cocked her head and said, “First, I want to express my sincere satisfaction at your decision to change your life for the better this summer.” Her words felt sterile, and I grew cold. For the second time that afternoon, I decided to be mean. I waited to respond as I sat down in one of the chairs and looked across the desk at the Doctor with complete disinterest. I ignored her comment. Instead, I asked a question of my own, one that I thought to be a lot more interesting. “So how old is this founding fathers ass place anyway?”. The question was genuine, but the sentiment was insidious.

I was showing complete disinterest in the conversation and straying off-topic. I knew very well that this was a tried and tested way to piss off mental health professionals of any stripe. But to my surprise, my technique failed. Instead of annoyance on her face, I saw the Doctor light up. She gave me a smile that was full of nice surprises. In that smile, I saw the joy she took in someone else showing interest in a long-held hyperfixation. “It certainly is,” she said. “The building we’re in now was built by James Van Jansen. He was an heir to an old family. Maybe you’ve even heard of them.” She paused there and only continued when my confusion became apparent. “The Van Jansens were an old family, Old New York aristocrats, who went back to the very first Dutch settlers.”

I could see the Doctor’s eyes glow with pure expressed academic passion, a quality which began to show in the excited pitch of her voice. She continued, “Anyway, back in the early twentieth century, James built this building here as a summer house, along with some farmland a few miles away to provide an income for his children to inherit after his death.” She looked like she might have gone on, but the Doctor stopped herself and caught her breath. Despite her clear desire to continue her lecture, Doctor. Roberts took one deep breath and returned to business.

“I can tell you the rest I know later, but for now, we’ve got a few things to finish up.” She followed that up with another smile, and once against, I felt at ease. The Doctor and her genuine pleasure in the history of this place were encouraging, and I chose to ignore the feeling I had on the way in. Suddenly, the ancient stale feeling was washed away, and in its place, once again, was warmth. I was at a summer camp again.

What followed was a conversation I still hold dear. It was simple and utterly unremarkable. We talked about my history, why I had come to this place, and my hopes for the future. It was utterly unremarkable and completely sweet.

That afternoon was the last time I can remember feeling comfortable.

It was around four o’clock by the time our interview wrapped up. “There’s just one more thing we have to get straight,” Doctor Roberts said as she produced yet another form and slid it across the table toward me. I picked it up and saw that it was a list of rules. Most of the rules were typical of a place like this. The paper prohibited drinking, the use of phones or other electronic devices, and a host of other inconsequential things. What caught my eye was one item: In plain type, it read, “Do not enter the woods at night under any circumstances.”

Something was immediately ominous about this, but it was just normal enough that I didn’t feel the need to spoil the good rapport I had built with Doctor Roberts by asking what I felt were likely to be nonsense questions about a perfectly innocuous rule. So I said nothing, but something didn’t sit right. The odd feeling was back. But Doctor. Roberts continued as if nothing was wrong. She read the rules aloud and, when finished, said, “That’s all, though- I don’t want to waste my time micro-managing you any more than you do. So if we can agree to all that, then we’re done here, and we can go on with orientation.” I nodded in agreement with the rules but stayed silent. The Doctor smiled at me again and said, “Alright then. Let’s say goodbye to your mom. Then we can meet the others.”

My goodbye to my Mother was rehearsed. It was something we’d done a thousand times and something we both suspected we’d end up having to do again. There was a stiff hug and a vacant “I love you,” and then, without emotion, I found myself waving goodbye as she drove off in her car. As I watched my family car round the last bend in the gravel path ahead and disappeared, I felt for a moment like I might cry. Not because I’d miss her but out of a strange despair. It was like I’d been abandoned to something awful I could not see or understand. It didn’t make logical sense at the time, so I chalked it up to a passing feeling, something I was an expert at ignoring. I pushed down my misgivings as the car was swallowed by the trees. Despite the fact that It was the middle of a summer day, I could barely see through the tree line. It was dark in the woods, and the more I looked into it, the stronger that feeling of despair grew.

I turned away and discovered that I did not just “feel” like crying. My cheeks were wet with warm tears. I turned away to try and compose myself without the Doctor noticing my distress. With my Mother gone and the papers signed, it was time to join the others, and I did not want to do so in tears.

After another moment, I was led away from the parking lot and towards one of the three external cabins. The building that I was taken to was much less elaborate than the main structure. It was constructed of plain brown wood slats, and the door had a simple handle. There was no dancing brass ornament in sight.

Inside the building, three teenagers sat on benches around a long worktable. Beads and string were strung all around the place. At the head of the table was an old man in a polo shirt who introduced himself as M.R. Acker. The old man was quick to inform me that the others, a boy and two girls, were called Nick, Cassandra, and Shirley. I noticed Cassandra first. She was pretty in a simple way, with brushed strawberry blond hair and an easy smile. Looking at the girl, I couldn’t imagine how someone like her could end up in a place like this.
Shirley was the opposite of her companion in every respect. Unkempt dark brown curls burst from her head and covered most of her face. From what I could see, she wore a sour expression and was exactly the kind of person I had expected to encounter here. I moved to sit next to Cassandra, but Shirley shot me a withering look, so I settled down next to Nick. The boy was very tall and lanky. He was bone-thin and towered well over six feet tall at only sixteen years old. There was an intensity in his penetrating dark eyes that seemed to cut to the heart of whoever he directed his gaze at. His thick, curly black hair was cropped short, contrasting with strikingly pale skin, and Acker told me that we were going to be bunking together. But that would come later, for the moment, he told me, very sternly, that we would be making dream catchers.

It turned out to be another hour of very dull arts and crafts, punctuated often by hacky life lessons and dull nuggets of wisdom from our pink polo-clad taskmaster. Nick was silent, and the girls were wrapped up in a whispered conversation that they made clear was not for my ears. Both of them seemed totally uninterested in me beyond the occasional sidelong glance. Eventually, we ran out of supplies. M.R. Acker sent Nick and me to the back of the cabin for some more beads and string. On our way to the supply closet, Nick finally spoke.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” the question took me aback, but when I looked back at him, I saw something new in his intense gaze. It was playfulness, genuine, and bright. This was almost more shocking than the question, but not wanting to disappoint the best shot I had at a friend here, I responded. “I mean, given where we are…probably”. Nick was quiet for a moment, and I felt the silence reflect every fault in my attempt at humor. I was beginning to become afraid as the ever-present question of “Why is he here?” Arose in my mind. Raced through my head. I had begun to imagine some particularly graphic scenes when the boy surprised me again. A grin spread across his pale face. “That’s fair.” He chuckled. I laughed nervously, and he smiled back. After that, the ice was broken, and we became fast friends.

The day went on, and Nick and I spent it emersed in pleasant conversation. The chores and forced excursions flew by. Group therapy, lunch, and supervised leisure time all passed in the warm glow of good company. Finally- after what felt like no time at all, we found ourselves in our bunks, well after lights out, still talking incessantly. We were arguing about who would win a cage match between a gorilla and a grizzly bear. A conversation that I found no red-blooded man or boy could resist. Nick pointed out the merits of the bear’s teeth and claws, but there was a lull in the conversation. I was starting to feel how tired I had become.

Heavy eyelids begin to droop and close, and Nick goes from quiet to silent. Finally, he said it. Quietly, he asked me, “You can hear it too, right?”. “hear what?” I muttered back, “The barking.” he responded. “Sure, “I said as I continued to drift off. “That’s my dog,” Nick said, as much to himself as to me. He was murmuring now, “I didn’t do what they said I did.” I was tired and only half paying attention, but I responded, “That’s right, man.” to placate him. My reassurance had not worked, and Nick continued his muttering. “He’s still out there, in the woods.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I felt like I had to keep agreeing so he’d let me sleep. “You can hear the barking too, right?” He asked again. “You know I’m not crazy, right? “That’s right, man,” I said again and drifted off to sleep.

That night, I dreamt of the Brass Dancer. I remember it vividly. I was sitting high up in one of those gilded boxes you might find at an opera house meant to keep distinguished gentlemen away from the hoi polloi. The uncountable rows of seats were empty, and the other boxes were dark. As far as I could see, there was no audience at all except for myself. The dancer was on the stage, performing an inhuman ballet. His arms bent back against his joints, and his legs lifted him in great leaps and bounds that no human should have been able to accomplish.

I could feel myself drawn towards the dancer, at first leaning forward in my seat, then practically hanging off the guardrails ready to plummet towards the stage. It was then that the dancer finished his performance and bowed low, but as he rose up again something changed.

Suddenly, I was no longer in a theater. I was standing on a hill at night, a rotted barn behind me and a willow tree in front of me. The Dancer was there too, but he was different. He was thin, almost skeletal. Where once his olive skin had stretched taut over flowing muscles, it now clung to his ruined limbs like a loose garment. This desiccated husk of a man looked at me through sunken pale eyes. He gave another bow and began his encore.

This new dance was a grim mirror of his first performance. In this ruined state, I could see his grace laid bare. What had once been elegance incarnate was now a macabre spectacle of bones snapping and joints unlocking. He seemed to lurch and surge across the landscape and began to dance a circle around the hill. When he had returned to the willow tree, the dancer gave one final bow before swaying on his heels and falling into an open grave.
I awoke in a puddle of sweat, tangled in my sheets and clutching at the bedframe. I was panting, and it took me a long time to stop my racing heart. When I had at last returned to my senses, I sat up in bed, only to find Nick staring up at me from the floor. I jumped when I saw him, but he only laughed and said, “Sleep well?” he asked, and when I had recovered enough from his surprise to respond, the only answer I could come up with was an honest one. “No,” I said flatly. Nick smiled at that and said, “No one here does.”

His response relaxed me, and I began to laugh. This is my friend, I reminded myself. I slid back down into my tangled sheets and grunted. “You scared the shit out of me,” I said after a moment. Nick laughed again before responding, “That was the point.” Then we were both laughing and the more we laughed, the more distant the hill from my dream seemed to be.
It was not long until a knock sounded at our cabin door. It was Gerald, arriving with our medication. We took our pills and dressed quickly before following the man to breakfast. I remember how fast the walk to the mess hall seemed with Nick by my side. The rest of the day seemed to go by quickly and breezy in such good company. Our morning walk blurred into Group Therapy and then lunch. The day sped quickly along without a care.

It felt like no time had passed at all when we found ourselves standing in the last blaze of a summer evening. We were standing outside. Gerald and Mr. Acker had brought out easels, canvas, and paint. We were watching the sunset over the river and had been instructed to paint what we saw. Doctor. Roberts called this “Natural Art Therapy” I called it bullshit, but I suppose it was better than the psych ward.

Shirley and Cassandra were off on the far side of the lawn, working and chatting together as always, while Nick and I stood closer to the buildings. I was less than enthusiastic about this exercise, but my friend was completely focused. Over the hour we spent painting, Nick revealed himself to be quite an artist. He was working on a genuinely wonderful impressionistic interpretation of the landscape. It had been a genuine pleasure to watch him work, but it had been an hour since we’d started working, and he hadn’t spoken to me once since then. I was beginning to grow bored, and in my restlessness, I did the unthinkable. I decided to talk to Gerald.

As I approached the square-shouldered blonde assistant, I was still making up my mind on whether I was going to really be friendly or if I just wanted to fuck with the poor guy. However, as I got closer and saw him leaning against an oak tree, I was reminded of the forest and decided I did have a genuine question for him after all.

“Hey, Jerry!” My use of the friendly diminutive had clearly caught the big man off guard, and he raised an eyebrow in suspicion. I could see that he was remembering my icy disposition from the day before. He hesitated but seemed to take my newfound friendliness for what it was worth. “Hey,” he responded warily. I clasped my hands behind my back, leaned forward on my toes in an ironic display of childishness, and then spoke. “You know I’m having a great time doing arts and crafts and talking about my feelings and all that great stuff.” I could feel my voice begin to drip with irony almost as soon as I’d started taking, but Geralds’s simple face betrayed no knowledge of my mockery. The earnest display by a compassionate adult was like blood in the water for a shark, and the temptation towards cruelty was beginning to overtake my genuine curiosity. Still, I pressed on and continued my question. “Well, I’m wondering why we don’t spend any time in the woods. They’re right there, and I bet a hike would do wonders for our ‘mental health’”

When I finished speaking, I was unable to keep the edge of vitriol out of my voice. At first, I thought I’d finally gotten to Gerald. He had a serious look on his face and seemed to be seriously considering how to respond, but when he did, it was in the form of a question of his own.

“You know that old barn you can see from the road on the way in.” My blood ran cold at the mention of the ruin, and I was sure the fear was on my face. I felt my throat constrict as memories from my dream began to flood back in. I forced myself to nod, and Gerald went on, headless or unaware of my growing terror. “Someone bought that land a few years back. I think they were planning on tearing the damn thing down, but they found something there.” Gerald paused then and looked around as if watching for any eavesdroppers. When he continued, it was in a lower voice, “I don’t know exactly what it was, but I know it was some kind of historical artifact from colonial times. I heard Tawney talking about it on the phone with someone.” He was talking faster now, caught up in the story, “Some people from Columbia University came down to look at it. They’ve been digging out there for a while now, and that’s why the woods have been off-limits. Doctor Roberts didn’t want to disturb their work with you guys tramping around the woods.” He paused at that, and I was ready to go back to Nick. I was satisfied with this answer, but Gerald stopped me.

“Well, actually” he said, “They stopped digging last week, “So we should be all clear to go hiking again soon if thats what you want, but i’m not sure if I would, Doctor Roberts said-” He cut himself off, clearly he’d spoken out of turn.

It was clear from his guilty expression that Gerald had revealed more than he’d meant to, and my interest was renewed. I pressed him, “What did she say, Jerry?” I asked breathlessly. He took a deep breath and prepared to finish his story, but he was already too caught up in the narrative to consider the consequences. “All I know,” he said grimly, “is that there was some kind of box excavated. It contained some precious metals, a few old books, and human remains.”

Geralds words hung heavy in the air and my mind began to spiral with the implications of what I had learned. “You should go back to your painting, its almost time for dinner.” His voice was stern now, chastened by his mistake. Friendly indulgence had been replaced by a familiar mask of authority. I shuffled off at his command, my thoughts still reeling.

As I walked back across the great lawn, I tried to convince myself out of the paranoid spiral I had found myself in. I could say confidently that I was not in my right mind, being where I was should have been evidence enough of that. Still I could not put down the disturbing notion that whatever I had seen in my dreams had some connection to whatever had been found on that hill.

As soon as I reached my unfinished painting, I heard Gerald call out to us, yelling that it was time for dinner and we’d better back up. I bent down to retrieve my brush and pallet, but the flash of something bright from the woods caught my eye. I saw blonde hair in the treeline and a pale face peeking out from behind the edge of the forest. I thought for a moment that it must have been Cassandra; perhaps she had decided to run away or play some kind of game, but when I looked at the others, I saw her plain as day talking to Shirley.

When I looked back at the forest, the face was gone, and there was no hint of blonde hair. I tried to convince myself that I was seeing things. It really is the best explanation, I reasoned. This didn’t work, and I could feel panic rising in my chest as I packed up my art supplies and headed to the mess hall for dinner.

The meal went by quickly and unpleasantly. The others were talking amongst themselves as normal, and It seemed that none of them shared my unease. I tried to use this as evidence for my own irrationality, but despite my best efforts, I remained unconvinced. By the time we were given our nighttime medicine and sent off to our cabins to sleep, I remained on the edge of debilitating terror.

When I got into bed that night, I noticed Nick staring out the window towards the trees. He had been standing there for nearly twenty minutes, and I was beginning to worry about him. “Are you alright, man?” I asked him. When he answered, his voice seemed distant. “Yeah.” was all he said to me. I didn’t want to push him. While we had become close in the last day and a half, I was quick to remember that this was still hardly more than a stranger. I decided not to press him. “Alright,” I said. Letting a little concern show in my voice. “Well, I’m turning off the lights now.” Nick didn’t bother to say anything in response. He only waved lazily to show agreement.

As I lay in the dark I felt myself beginning to drift off to sleep. I closed my eyes and heard Nick walking away from the window and towards our bunks. “You believe me right?” I heard him ask. I wanted to reassure him but I was exhausted from the day, all I could manage was a muffled “Hmm”. The last thing I heard nick say before I finally fell asleep was. “I know you believe me.”

I awoke in an embrace and knew that I was dreaming. I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t even human. The fingers of my old friend wrapped around my own. His roots cradled my head, and his leaves played about my wispy hair. I blinked the dirt from my eyes and began to shift beneath my blanket of earth. My sleep had been ancient and deep. There was motion at my feet, the first thing that disturbed this place for all my long ages. My pale eyes blinked away the last of the debris. From my bed of earth, I could see a familiar sight. A rotting barn, red paint long since peeled away, stands alone on a hill, barren of all life but for my dear bent and slender willow tree. Around us flowed the congested and churning waters of a polluted, slow-moving stream. The tree was my friend, and the river spoke to me in the language of gurgling moans that I knew well, but the creature at my feet was new. I smiled at the sight of the thing. It was a wide smile, unnaturally so, and in its wake, the disturbed soil tumbled into my open mouth.

I tasted the familiar bouquet of damp earth. Carefully and with a dancer’s grace, I weaved my fingers from the tree’s embrace. My friend responded to me, and his grasping roots slowly let go of my hands. But I was quicker than the old tree, much quicker. Carefully but with great speed, I weaved my fingers out from the tree’s loosening grip and shot my arms up through the earth. I broke free and felt the cool air on my long arms before pushing down against the soft ground and pulling myself from my grave. As I rose, more dirt rushed down around my sides and through the abscess in my desiccated chest to fill the shallow hole I had been sleeping in.

With a sudden extension of powerful legs, I was standing again. Free upon the earth, at last, I hopped from foot to foot. It is a dance. A dance I know well- a dance for waking and a dance for the night. It is a dance for hunting, the dance of something no longer human. Three times, I circled the old barn in a leaping, jerking stride. My legs moved with grace and harshness at once. Half remembered pirouettes end, then snapping backward, and then a rigid, powerful jerk forwards. It is the half-remembered dream of nights long ago spent in song and dance by the light of a fire. Now, there was no fire and no singing, only cold, unfeeling movement.

On my third cycle around the hill, I heard the noise again. My head swiveled in place to look at its source. There, at the foot of my hill, was a small yellow creature. I saw Drooping ears matted dark with blood, and black eyes stared back at me. The thing was silent. Unnaturally quiet for a dog. I bent down slowly, extending one spidery hand to touch its soft coat. When the first blackened, dirt-caked fingernail brushed the animal’s glossy coat, it let out a whimper. I felt the last vestiges of primal will strain against my hand as I wrapped it around the dog’s midsection. For the first time since I’d laid down to rest here, I breathed air. It rattled on intake, and the dirt in my lungs made a gravelly sound when disturbed. I responded in cruel mimicry of the dog’s whimper. A high-pitched gibbering sound, only occasionally stopped by earthy congestion, rattled out from parched lips. The dog flinched in my grasp. The first stirrings of a repressed panic response. I didn’t like this, so I began to squeeze, and as I squeezed, I continued the imitation. The Gibbering continued growing first higher than lower until it was almost a whimper- and the dog was dead.

I woke up screaming and gulping for air. When I knew that it was air and not dirt that rushed into my lungs, I was able to stop, and the screaming turned to crying as I remembered the dog. I had felt such malice and known such joy at the suffering I saw. That was all gone now, though, and in its place are only hot tears and racking sobs as I thought of the look in the little creature’s eyes as it died scared and far away from home.

I could not stop crying until Nick woke up and lept from the top bunk to my side. He landed with a thud, and in his wide eyes, I saw the concern in place of the usual burning intensity. He looked worried, but I could tell from his response it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. “You good man?” he said in a disciplined, calm tone. It was less of a question and more of a recommendation. We both knew I’d better be good, or I could end up locked up somewhere a lot worse than this retreat. Finally, I managed to speak, “Just a nightmare, dude. I’m ok.” The words came out quickly, and I panicked, but I began to breathe slowly. Then I repeated this phrase again, and I did the words felt less like lies. That awful hill felt farther away, and the sunlight pouring through the windows washed away the fear. I looked up at my friend, and my sobs faded. I managed to breathe a few more words, “Don’t tell Tawney.”

At this, Nick seemed a little more at ease. With this suggestion of deception, he was back in familiar territory. “I gotcha, bro.” I smiled weakly and thought to myself, “I knew you would.” Neither of us wanted the questions this incident could provoke. It’s a lesson learned from experience that there was nothing to be gained from trusting a therapist. Still, as I caught my breath, something inside of me knew that I should tell Doctor Roberts that there was something really wrong in her retreat. I knew she needed to know about this soon, but I said nothing. I didn’t tell her anything, not until it was much too late.

We dressed in silence and left the cabin in a hurry. The morning was beautiful. The morning sun sparkled off the river, and a breeze was in the air, but it didn’t matter. It was still night to me. All I could think of was the forest. There were still eyes on me. Nick was still staring at me, clearly still worried.

I turned to look back at him, and what I saw stopped me cold. In his eyes, by now almost familiar, I could see a flash of the malice from my dream. I was afraid, but I could not show it. Just then, I saw my friend’s brow furrowed with concern, and with that, it was gone. There was nothing but Nick in those eyes again, but I was left with the memories. He opened his mouth to speak, but I turned around sharply and ignored him. I wondered if I was going crazy. It wasn’t impossible. I thought to myself, “It might be better if I’m crazy than for any of this to be real.” I felt like panicking again. I wanted to scream and run for cover, but I settled for hurrying up the path to the mess hall. I pulled open the door to breakfast and held it open for Nick, not out of politeness but just to see those eyes again and make sure they were his.

When I looked at him, I saw amusement. He laughed, “Such a gentleman,” he said in mock appreciation before walking past me. I stopped to collect myself. I’m fine, I told myself. It was just a nightmare, and I was probably imagining things, but I knew that wasn’t true, and I let the doors slam shut behind me and turned around to face the others.

The Doctor sat at the head of the table, Gerald and the girls to her left and Nick to her right. “Looks like we’re all here,” she said while picking up a fork. she pointed to me and said, “You’d better eat quickly. We’ve got a full day ahead of us.” It didn’t matter to me. We could have started the day right then, as far as I cared. I wasn’t hungry, but I made an effort to seem normal. The conversation carried on around me as I halfheartedly picked at the by-now cold eggs. The Doctor jumped back into whatever conversation she’d been having with Gerald, and Nick happily joined in. I stayed quiet, but as I looked around the table, I noticed I was not the only one who was looking worse for wear. Cassandra was completely different from the day before. Gone was her sunny disposition and easy smile. In its place were dark circles beneath her eyes and a panicked expression on her oval face. Even Shirley looked rattled, less so than her friend, but her usual grimace seemed a little more genuine that morning.

After a while, Doctor. Roberts rose from her seat and told us that it was about time we started the day. She went on to say that we were starting with more arts and crafts, going into group therapy, and finishing the day with a late afternoon walk in the woods. At that, I went cold. I wanted to scream and tell her just how bad of an idea it was, but I didn’t. I simply stayed silent and tried to accept this.

By the time we reached the trailhead, the sunny morning had turned into an uncharacteristically misty afternoon. The already impenetrably forest was all the more obscured. Doctor. Roberts led the way into the woods. She looks prepared from head to toe. Her dark hair was tied up in a bun beneath a sunhat, and she had come equipped with trail running shoes. Nick followed closely behind her. I didn’t want to do this. None of them knew where they were really going, and if they did, I should have run away right then. My brain was screaming at me to turn around, walk away, and not stop until I was back in the city, but I followed along all the same. I knew the consequences of telling the truth. It would only lead to more questions and then probably back to the psych ward. I could not let that happen. I knew that horror and refused to go back to it, so I reluctantly went into the woods and into the mist.

The walk was tense. Long stretches of time went by in silence. When there was conversation, the only people talking were the grownups. It was about two miles into the hike when things finally began to break down. The Doctor had gone silent at that point. Gerald and Acker had been trying and failing to engage with us for almost an hour, and just as their efforts seemed to be most pitiful, Cassandra finally broke. After hours of panicked eye darting and near hyperventilation, she had finally descended into a full-blown panic attack. “I want to go home!” she screamed. “I want to go home! I want to go home!” she would not stop screaming. She started stamping her foot and looked every bit like a petulant child. It would have been pathetic if the fear in her eyes wasn’t so real. The Doctor turned and signaled Gerald with a sharp glance. He stepped forward, but as he did, Cassandra whirled to face him. “You stay away from me!” she screamed. He tries to reassure her, to tell her that he was there to help and that “everything was gonna be alright.

Gerald went on, and miraculously, Cassandra looked like she might actually be calming down, calm enough to get out of the woods at least. At that moment, he was interrupted. Shirley crashed into him, her facade of grim stoicism completely shattered. “Don’t touch her!” she screamed. Her eyes were wild, and it looked like she was ready to do a whole lot more than scream. However, at that moment, M.R. Acker intervened. The old man pulled Shirley off his younger colleague. Suddenly, Gerald was on the ground, and Shirley was in the air kicking and screaming, held aloft by a red-faced Acker. Casandra was gone, running off down the path. It seemed to be total pandamonium, and in a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation, Doctor. Roberts sprang into action. She turned to Acker, who was by now a little less red in the face. Shirley had stopped kicking and gone limp, totally unresponsive in his arms. “I need to go after her. You stay with them until I can get help back up here”. The Doctor ordered, and the old man nodded. Then Doctor sprinted was gone, sprinting away in the confident strides of a practiced runner.

As soon as she left, Acker began barking orders, but I wasn’t listening. I saw something through the branches. Blonde hair and a flash of blue cloth. Something inside me told me it was Cassandra, and despite my fear, I moved toward her. I knew that I shouldn’t go off the path, but my feet were moving forward. In spite of all reason, I found myself walking into the woods and towards the dancing flashes of blue and yellow in the distance. M.R. Acker yelled something, but I couldn’t make it out. There was a buzzing in my head, and it drowned out the screaming. I was vaguely aware of a noise behind me, but I paid no mind to it. All I could think of was Cassandra. She was just ahead of me, always ahead of me, but I could not seem to reach her.

I was not on the trail anymore, and I noticed that I was running. I saw more blonde hair disappear behind another tree, and I pursued, feeling my pace increase. I wanted to call out, but my lungs were burning, so instead, I kept running. I could see her form from behind a tree, and I followed, then I found myself at the banks of a slow-moving stream. She was on the other side. Something inside of me asked how she got there, but my feet didn’t wait for an answer and moved forward of their own volition. I was about to walk into the dark water when I heard the noise of snapping branches. Something crashed into me, and I hit the ground. I looked up to see my pursuer. It was Nick. As I hit the ground, the force snapped me out of it and knocked the wind from my lungs. By the time I could feel myself breathing, I noticed the buzzing sound had stopped. I could think clearly again. I wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing, but he stopped me and pressed his face an inch from mine. “It’s a liar,” He hissed, “I told you it’s a liar.” His voice was shaking with fear, and I began to understand. From across the stream, there was a cracking, snapping, breaking sound. I looked up and saw the girl I’d been chasing. It was not Cassandra. In fact, it was hardly a girl at all, hardly even a person.

Two pale-slitted eyes peeked out from a desiccated face. They stare out beneath her eye sockets as if this poor girl’s skull was a mask for someone else. With each movement, her face shifted around the plaid eyes as if in orbit. The thing was that once, a girl wore a tattered blue nightgown, and her feet were bare and black with pooling blood. Then I heard it again. From her slacked jaw, that voice echoed out in imitation of a whimper. Her face began to tighten, and I heard bones snapping. It was like whatever was inside was too much for the constraints of a human body, and the shell began to stretch and break. The whimpering grew in intensity and took on a manic, warbling, hyena-like quality. This unnatural chorus broke our reverie. “we need to go now!” Nick screamed, and we scrambled to our feet and turned to run. We were off in an instant. Running, running faster than I’d ever run before. All the while, the sounds of snapping, tearing, and gibbering filled the darkening forests behind us.

We ran- in no particular direction, just away from the creature by the steam. Eventually, I realized that I couldn’t hear the noises anymore, but even so, we kept running. The evening turned into the night, but we didn’t stop running. In the darkness, stray branches tore at our clothes and faces. I would have run all the way back to Brooklyn, but eventually, we did get out of the forest. I saw the light, and a moment later, we were crashing through the brush and into the familiar lawn of the retreat.

The sun had fully set, but I could still make out the source of the light. Flashing red and blue lit up the parking lot, and I saw two police cruisers parked on the gravel path. I looked at Nick, and he looked at me. It was time to come clean, but we didn’t have to wait long for that. I saw M.R. Acker emerge from the main office accompanied by two cops. When he saw us, he said something I could not hear to the officer and pointed frantically. The uniformed men began waving towards us and advancing. I wanted to keep running, but Nick put a hand on my shoulder as if he could hear my thoughts. “There’s no point,” he said, defeated, “It’s over.”

Soon enough, we were being questioned, first by the police and then by Acker. I was too worked up to say anything coherent. I judged by the looks on the cop’s face, but he didn’t think any of it would be of any use. He fed me a line of bullshit. Apparently, Gerald was ok, not even concussed. They were still looking for Cassandra, but he said they had a good start and were optimistic. I knew it all to be half-truths and lies meant to calm me down, but there was one real bit of good news revealed right at the end. Shirley was ok, and she, along with a hot meal, was waiting for us in the mess hall.

The doors slammed shut behind me. Shirley and Nick were sitting on one of the benches, close together for the first time since I’d met them. Besides these two, the room was empty. Shirley looked up from her uneaten bowl of cold instant oatmeal. “What the fuck is going on?” she demanded of us. “I told you, there’s something in the woods,” Nick responded coldly, for once in dead sincerity. Shirley opened her mouth, ready with a retort by instinct, but the words died in her throat before she could speak them. She knew he was serious now, that he’d always been serious in his way.

Shirley said nothing for a minute until, finally resigned, she asked simply: “What do we do?”
Now, it was Nick’s turn to be at a loss. After spending so long trying to get someone to believe him, he didn’t seem to have the slightest idea about what came next. I interrupted the silence. “We do nothing. Those people out there aren’t gonna save her, and they’re trained professionals.” Shirley looked immediately offended at my despair, but I continued, “Best case scenario for us, this place gets shut down, and we’re out of here tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t say anything about what would happen if Cassandra found us. Things were grim enough without speculating on the worst-case scenario. Shirley began to object, “You’d just leave her out there. You saw that shit, too, right? You’d leave her alone with that?” Her voice rose in intensity as she dressed me down, almost yelling. She added, “You piece of shit.” She was right, and it hurt to hear it, but it didn’t matter. I knew if we went back out there, we’d never come back, at least not as ourselves.

I looked at Nick for support. I thought that he would understand, and I needed him to back me up, but his wide eyes stared past me, their intensity focused on something far beyond. Something about that look disturbed me, so ignoring Shirley’s continued berating, I followed them and turned to look at what had captured his attention.

Nick was looking out the windows towards the forest. There illuminated in the last dying rays of the summer sun, something small and yellow moved against the black and green of the forest fence. I knew what it was, and my blood went cold.

Shirley was still yelling at me, but all I could hear was what Nick was now saying. Somehow, against the din at barely a whisper, I could hear him mutter, “I knew you were alive, I knew he was lying, I knew you were still out there,” and then he began to move towards the door. This stopped me cold, and it gave Shirley pause as well, but she recovered herself quickly. “Alright.” She said, clearly pleased, “Someone knows the right thing to do here.” With that, she had thought to win the argument, assuming Nick was going out to help her search. I could hear in her voice that she didn’t really know what was going on there. Nick got to the door, and as he opened it, the panic went from paralyzing to blood pounding, and I rushed to intercept my friend. “Stop, man, you’ve gotta-” but before I could say stop again, Nick shoved past me with what felt like no effort at all. I almost lost my balance and toppled to the cabin floor, but I righted myself just in time and saw that he had gone through the doorway and was now walking across the great lawn.

I ran after him, ready to save him like he’d saved me in the woods, leaving Shirley at the doorstep. But as I got closer to the forest, the moving shape got clearer and clearer, and then I saw what I’d been dreading.

It was the dog from my dream or, at least, what was left of it. As it pranced from side to side, I saw its loose skin sway against the thing inside that moved so gracefully and yet so unnaturally. I remembered how the girl’s dead eyes had stared out at me from what should have been empty sockets. I froze again at the sight of pale eyes. and I knew whatever it was that killed that dog was now wearing its skin and moving in a grotesque mockery of what the creature had been in life. My friend, however, continued to close the distance, and seeing this, I knew I had to move. I ran, and Instead of begging him to stop, I leapt to tackle him to the ground, hoping against hope to repay him for my life, but he was too fast.

I couldn’t reach him in time. Instead, I hit the ground rough, getting a face full of dirt. It was too late. The sun had long past set, and there were no stars. The forest was bathed in thick darkness, and staring up from the ground, I saw my friend staring into the hungry eyes of his own death. The thing let out another distorted whimper and leaped over both of us in one sickening bond.

The creature landed behind us and rose up on its hind legs. Now, the thing in the dog’s skin began its dance again. Moving in the same elegant and twitching dance, it had done for us earlier. It circled three times and three again. Nick showed no sign of realizing what was happening and inched ever closer to the beast. On its third turn, the thing stopped its dance and spread its front legs out before it, mimicking an opening to embrace. The dog’s hind legs snapped out of place to accommodate a gesture that should not have been possible for it, and Nick did the same. For a second, it looked like he was going to hug the thing, but then I heard the sound of cold reality.

Nick stopped and began to scream, finally aware of what was happening, but it was too late. I couldn’t do anything else to help him. So I turned to run as fast as I could in the only direction that was open to me, straight into the woods.

For the second time that day, I was running for my life, now desperately alone. I was going faster than I thought possible for my frail frame and cigarette-scarred lungs. Physical obstacles were nothing in the face of certain death. As I ran, I heard the screaming of my friend turn to muffled sobs, and finally, all I could hear over my labored breathing and thudding heart was a fading gurgling sound and the creaking of trees.

Soon enough, I heard something else. Something was running through the trees behind me. The wind and the branches tore at my face, and I could feel that I was bleeding. The thud of heavy footfalls was getting closer, but just as I felt its long arm reaching out for me, I somehow put more distance between us. It was playing with me, I realized as I reached a turn in the path. I felt the rush of air behind me, and then something landed with a crash in the bend of the path.

I had a split second to react before I ran into my pursuer, but I acted, and I swerved, tearing off the path into the brush. I was running through the brush now, hedges rising to my chest, and I could barely see anything in front of me. The creature has forced me off the road, into the woods, and into its country. I crashed into another bush; this set me off balance, and I almost fell to the ground. Barely staying up, I pushed on, still hearing something moving behind me in the undergrowth.

I didn’t realize what I’d done until I was already running uphill. I had run through water, through the very same slow-moving stream I’d been at before. The current was inaudible above the noise I was making, so I only noticed when the warm water soaked through my sneakers. As the chill water froze my feet, I knew things had gotten so much worse for me. Somehow, I managed to make it back out of the stream and onto the land, and as I crested the hill, I saw a familiar sight come into view. Atop the hill, I could see A leaning willow dipped low into the black waters of the stream and a rotted-out barn standing stark in the now visible moonlight.

I skidded to a halt in front of the ruin. I’m in its home! I thought and felt myself go numb. I realized it wanted me to know. It had seen through my eyes as I had seen through its. I heard it circling the woods beyond the little hill. My eyes were flitting back and forth like a desperate rabbit pursued by a predator. I was hoping for a deliverance that would not come. I would have to settle for the next best thing.

I saw Light through the trees to my right, and for a fleeting second, I thought of my Mother, the drive up here, the sun on her face, and the winding road. At this point, I knew what to do even though I felt it came up behind me. The thing put its hand, its real hand, on my back. I saw its long, pale fingers on my shoulders and its blackened fingernails pressed into my skin. With all the strength I had left, I shoved the creature.

I don’t know if I actually broke free or if the thing was just stunned that I was still fighting, but somehow, I got free of its grasp. I ran again, now faster, down the other side of the hill. I heard a shriek echo in the hills behind me, and then I heard dirt tear from the earth, and the creature gave chase.

If it had been playing with me before, it would not have been anymore. I could hear it running, and it was gaining on me. I pushed through the forest, but I could still feel it at my heels. Then, I heard the sound of screeching tires. There was rushing air and light in the dark. I felt its fingers on my back as I jumped.

I lept the forest fence, and then I fell. It was a short distance, but I landed hard on concrete and felt my arm shatter. The thing followed me, and I heard it land next to me, but it didn’t matter. I looked up and saw headlights, and in the sound of a car horn, I smiled as lost myself to the dark and the pain. I won was the last thought that echoed in my empty head before I was lost to the oncoming metal.

I woke up in a hospital room. It was dark, and I was alone. I couldn’t feel anything, but I was alive. The events of the last day swirled in my mind as I tried to remember what had happened to me. I remembered the creature, the chase through the woods, and instinctually, I tried to run. I couldn’t run, much less even move. I panicked and looked around. I was covered in bandages, my legs in a sling, and I was hooked up to several IV drips. Then I remembered.

I remembered the road and the car, and I knew that my plan worked. I escaped the hunter, and more than that, I managed to survive. I felt a rush of satisfaction. I had no thoughts other than how happy I was to be alive. The rush of joy turned to relief, and as it spread, aided by the morphine drip, I was lulled to sleep.

When I woke up again, it was in the light of day. A Doctor was staring into my eyes. I couldn’t speak at first, but when I finally got a few words out, I could only ask for Tawney. The Doctor seemed confused, and he told me my Mother was in the waiting room but that there was a policeman waiting, too, and he really needed to talk to me. For a brief moment, I didn’t understand. I’d been so caught up in running for my life that I’d forgotten about more mundane threats like the police. I must have looked confused, too, because the Doctor repeated himself. Again, words were difficult, but I managed to nod my head, and the Doctor took that as the signal to leave and let the officer in.

Two policemen entered and closed the door behind them. They asked me a lot of questions about Nick and about Cassandra, and I answered as best I could. I told them everything about Nick, about the girl that wasn’t Cassy, the dog, and whatever demon it is that lives on that hill. I didn’t care about being locked away, not anymore. No mental hospital was worse than those woods. The painkillers slurred my words, and I knew I was a little incoherent, but nonetheless, I gave a full account. I told them all of it, but I could see immediately that they didn’t believe me. I saw in their eyes that they thought I was crazy and that it was a waste of time even talking to me. They said they were still looking for both of my friends, but they were not hopeful. They told me that Nick left a note. They didn’t need to explain more. We all knew I understood.

They had presumed him dead, and they were right to do so, but it wasn’t a suicide. I know he didn’t write that note. I heard him die that, and I hear him still. I can still hear his voice whispering things that aren’t words from outside my window at night.

It’s been six months since Nick died. I’ve healed enough to be able to type this all up, but as I said at the start, it will be months before I can leave this bed. I will leave this bed, though. I hear Nick at night, and he’s been getting clearer, but I know this isn’t my friend. His murderer is out there, and I see him every time I close my eyes. He’s dancing in the dark, playing at being Nick. I know it won’t be long now, but after what I did to him, he won’t be kind to me. All I can hope for now is that he’ll put on a good show.

Credit: B Boethius

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