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I first met her on Halloween. That's when she hunts.
There’s a dark, secluded road on the south edge of the city. Black River Parkway, according to the maps, but there are no street signs. It winds for several miles through the middle of Black River Park. It’s ostensibly a city park, but you won’t find any gazebos or soccer fields or walking paths. Just miles upon miles of untamed nature, tucked away between the city limits and the suburbs beyond. Black River feels more like it belongs in the deep country. The road is lined on one side by a limestone cliff face and the other by dense forest, a winding river tucked a ways back in the trees. Branches arc over the roadway and form a tunnel. You’d expect the drive to be pretty on bright Fall days - the sun filtering through a canopy of orange, red, and yellow - but light has a hard time penetrating that gnarled tangle of limbs and leaves. Night is worse; regular headlights only penetrate a few feet into that darkness, and turning on the brights only illuminates the next curve, no way of knowing what lurks in the pitch black around the bend. I always hated that goddamned road.
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Content warning (highlight to reveal): Body horror/self harm
While I absolutely respect the necessity of social distancing, last weekend I got really fed up with being cooped up on my own. I decided to check out an outdoor flea market to get out of the house. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular; I just needed some fresh air and a bit of face-to-face interaction, even if it was from 6 feet away through a mask. I perused the various booths and vendors, but not much caught my eye. I found myself quickly wishing for the air-conditioned comfort of my condo. I had forgotten to wear sunscreen, and I could feel the skin on the back of my neck baking in the late-morning sun. My breath was growing humid in the confines of my mask, and the cotton was starting to stick to my face with every breath. This wasn't the invigorating outing I had hoped for. I’ve always loved shopping at antique stores and thrift shops, but it’s not the same when you can’t run your fingertips over the intricate weaving of an old tapestry, or lean close to inhale the crisp, woodsy scent of an old cedar wardrobe. My mind continued to wander in this melancholy direction as I aimlessly made my way to the end of the row. I was just about to trudge back to the car, morose and empty-handed, when a bright flash of light blinded me. My hand shot up instinctively to shield my eyes, and I looked around for the source. On the ground, leaning against the support pole of a tent, stood a massive, ornate mirror. Its rectangular frame was painted in a gold metallic that was now dull with age, inset with an intricate design. I watched in the reflection as my sandaled feet approached. |
AuthorSarah Fettke is an aspiring horror author from Kansas City, Missouri. Stories cross-posted here and on Reddit at reddit.com/user/how-queer. Archives
June 2022
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