In the Woods

As we crossed the field and entered the woods the sky was silent. The day had been full of rain and the trees pulled the dampness close.

There wasn't much to say.  I mean, no one wanted to talk about Frances Howard's murder, so we walked in silence.  Up ahead just past the curve someone smashed a pumpkin against a tree.

They said there was nothing Frances could do when the murderer came to her house.  She was old and could hardly get out of bed. But no one thought she would die like that.  Her eyes carved into a permanent expression of fear.  And we didn't know why.

But we had the fear. Everyone did.

We were to the other side of the woods now and could see the road ahead when a slender man with a razor smile stepped out onto our path.

We trembled.

"Even the young can never escape," he said, his black eyes biting our cheeks.  Then he handed us a picture.

It was of Frances Howard. Dead.

We shoved our way past him and ran out to the road. We didn't stop until we got to town. It was hard for us to catch our breath.

Then we looked at the picture again.

And it was a picture of us.  In the woods.

In the Woods was first published by Black Poppy Review

(c) Jan Darrow  - from The Blue Hour: flash fiction - available on Amazon

photo: pixabay