Last spring, my sister and I drove to a proper dog park. This park is best pictured as a pasture for horses: a white wooden fence framing rolling grass. The dogs did their dog-thing, and we headed to leave.
Before piling into the car, though, I begged my sister to let me take a photo.
Across the road from the parking lot, an old red bridge led into the woods. It led onto a walking path, one that dipped and turned before disappearing into the trees.
We didn’t think much about it while walking over. But as I took the photo, we heard… something.
An almost-scream? High-pitched and brief, but definitely organic. From the fleshy throat of something living. We glanced at each other. It had come from two trees to our left, where between them a tunnel of winding branches dipped into the shadows.
The silence settled. Pronounced. And we realized we were just two girls alone, with two dogs fully anticipating that we would die for them before the vice versa, standing in a field facing a patch of dark woods.
We booked it to the car.
Now, what we heard could’ve been an outburst from an animal in the woods, shrill enough to carry to us. A bird in the jaws of a cat. Hell, it could’ve been a horse in the distance—we’re in Kentucky, after all.
But it had been so shrill, so panicked. As we drove back laughing at ourselves, I had to think what folks in another age might’ve thought. People disconnected from the city by far more than a 15-minute drive, little units of family, isolated—what would they have made of that strange scream? That disembodied cry followed by silence?
What would their eyes have seen in the shadows of the leaves?
Reblogged this on limakat and commented:
Here’s a story, novel, or series to stay on the lookout for! J. Federle will take you far beyond Hansel and Gretel, past Red Riding Hood and her big bad wolf, and will leave Beauty in the safely happy-ever-after realm while she introduces you to new adventures with the unknown.