Beyond the old arch
is an eerie night forest
with designs on you
The townspeople called me Daddy’s Boy and “that little dandy” behind my back. If I hadn’t been born in this area, they would have called me much worse. My name is Clayton Smith. If I had any friends, they’d call me Clay.
My parents raised me on a dry land farm three miles out of town. By the time my butt outgrew the chairs in our little one-room school, I knew the dirt and sweat of a farm was not what I wanted for the rest of my life. That was the only hope most youngsters had in Eighteen-eighties Kansas. So I packed up and headed for Chicago to make something of myself.
Five years later I returned to town a fully certified teacher– the only male in my graduating class. Men were seldom accepted as teachers. Lucky for me, our little town’s only school teacher grew tired of horse sweat and tornadoes and went back home to Philadelphia. The town’s citizens were desperate so they put me to work.
They couldn’t pay me much. To save money, I moved back home and into my old room. Papa gave me the use of Ruby, his old plow-horse, to get into town. She was slow but dependable, and better than walking.
One day riding home after school, my attention was drawn to a rose-covered arch, standing in the yard of an abandoned homestead. I hadn’t noticed it before, though Ruby and I plodded by every day. Everything was dry, overgrown, run down, and dead. But the roses were in full bloom. I could smell them from the road. Surely I should have noticed them. How long had the arch stood there? No one had lived in this house as far back as I could remember. Yet, the beautiful, bright red roses– how odd. It needed a closer examination.
The morning had started out hot. By the end of classes in the late afternoon, the heat was stifling. It was the kind of late-August day so common for the Kansas prairies. Chasing after squirming children in the sweltering school yard was like chasing chickens around the oven. Exhausting! My shirt and broad-brimmed sun hat were soaked with perspiration. The Kansas dust became mud under my collar and around my neck.
With plenty of time before dark, I decided to give the horse a rest and stop to smell the roses. Might even take some to Myrtle, my fiancée. A section of rickety picket fence beneath an oak tree provided a convenient hitching post and shade for Ruby.
From across the yard I noticed an unusual darkness within the rose-covered arch. Shade, I thought. Must be some sort of arbor. A cool place to spend some time reading would be a welcome respite from the unrelenting August heat. I pulled my book satchel off the saddle horn.
It was cool in the shade of the arch. Once through, I noticed the arbor appeared much longer on the inside than out. Curious, I thought. And something drew me on deeper into the coolness of the tunnel. The further I walked, the more the temperature dropped. The shade grew darker as the end of the tunnel drew nearer.
The arbor should have opened onto bright sunshine and golden prairie grasses. But that’s not what I saw. Through the opening was a forest, thick and dark. The realization struck me like a slap in the face.
There are no forests like this in Kansas.
Quickly, I turned around to go back the way I came. Darkness. Groping into the air, nothing but leaves and rose thorns. The burning scratches from the thorns told me there was no longer escape in that direction. Panic strangled me. My knees buckled.
Where is the arch? -My horse? -Kansas?
Rose vines with inch-long thorns—fangs on squirming snakes—came after me. They were filling in the arbor. Backpedaling frantically to avoid them, I spun back toward the tunnel end. The forest was still there, beckoning to me. As I dove through the arch, a full moon silhouetted trees taller than any I’d ever seen. Pointed spires with sloping shoulders. These were not prairie oaks. These had needles instead of leaves. They scratched as they brushed my face. Pines.
The end of the tunnel was another arch, identical to the one I’d entered –except the color of the roses. These were brown-black, the color of dried blood. I lurched out into the forest and turned toward the arch. Rose vines were quickly weaving across to fill the opening. Thorns would make the return impractical for all but the desperate. Or the insane. Am I dreaming? My heart beat like a blacksmith’s hammer and pounded in my ears.
Relax and breathe, I told myself. There must be another way.
I laid my book satchel down on the grass in front of the arch to mark my place. Don’t want to get lost. Then I took a deep breath and began a search for another exit.
The first thing I noticed was the sound. The forest was noisy. The myriad sounds of wild creatures seemed to come from every direction. The hoots of owls were accompanied by grunts, growls, snarls, and occasional death screams of nocturnal animals. The howl of a wolf close by made the hair stand on the back of my neck. And all around me, sounds of constant rustling and movement in the brush. The sighing and moaning of tree branches swaying. My body began to tremble uncontrollably.
There was no wind.
Everywhere I looked, I imagined faces, staring, reflecting my terror back at me. Animal eyes, green, shining eyes, terrified me the most. They shone as if caught in the light of a lantern.
The only light was the full moon.
Then the trees—were they actually moving?—began to close in on me. Even the air became close and oppressive. I couldn’t breathe, though I sucked in air until my lungs burned.
Frantic, I spun around in all directions searching for –what? I didn’t know. But the trees had completely surrounded me. I could no longer see the arch, though I had been standing in front of it. Sweat ran down my chest and back. And all around me, eyes.
Green, glowing eyes.
Something warm and wet was rubbing my cheek. A tongue? I felt the drool run down my neck. My heart tried to explode my rib cage and escape from my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of Myrtle. We didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.
The warm, wet something snorted hot breath in my face. In despair, I collapsed to the ground. In complete exhaustion, I gave up. Life no longer mattered. I was resigned to my fate. Would it hurt to be eaten alive?
Sloppy horse kisses on my forehead woke me. Ruby wanted to go home. It was early evening in back Kansas. Laying in tall grass beneath the oak tree, I could see the abandoned house. It was in the same place, behind the oak.
The arch remained, broken down and decrepit, held together by long-dead rose vines and half hidden by weeds and tall grass. Had I only been dreaming?
But where did I leave my satchel?
This story was inspired by the leading poem, “The Arch,” by the artist, PrecariouslyPeculiar, on the Deviant Art web site. You can find more of her wonderful work at: DeviantArt.com/PrecariouslyPeculiar