The Same Path as Before

I walk along the same path, the path I’ve trod down into the earth day after day after day. Through seasons and changes I’ve walked the path, pressing down blossoms, fruit, leaves, and snow, always deep into the sucking receptive mud. The fresh odor of clean dirt and earthy air fill my nostrils as I walk along the same path. I’ve walked here before many times, I know every nook and cranny, because I’ve walked here, on this path, this self same path of earth and stone, this path I’ve walked along before.

The path winds along a country road, in the spring there grows hyacinth and anemone in the corner under the oak tree, and then it cuts across a large field. The field is bare and the stubble of straw not quite shaven off is all that remains. Three months before these were wavy fields of barley and three before that a luscious green carpet of bright viridian sprouts heralding the spring, and three months before that it was a flat imageless white, a blank page awaiting snow angels. But right now, this path I walk upon, the one I’ve been on before, the one cutting across the field is covered in the remnants of fall. I know this to be true.

The path I walk upon, this path I know very well, then goes into a wood, with large evergreen canopies decking the silent forest within. There is no bird call. I never noticed this before. But it is no matter. I know this path and I have been here before. So I continue walking, along the sucking mud path that is now bouncy and light with pine needles, resin saturated through and through.

I have walked this path before, I know that. I know each and every bend. I know when it rises slightly and drops suddenly. I know where the best spot is to rest and the best spot to take shelter if it rains and the best place to go if I want some wild strawberries. But there are no strawberries now. No, this is the fall and strawberries will not be waiting for me until spring. That’s six months from now.

No, for now I simply walk this path. The forest grows darker but it matters not. I know this path, every rock, every root, every acorn and ditch. I will keep walking into the forest, the deep and dark place that I know so well. Haven’t I told you that I have been in here before? Many times before. I walk here daily and I have been here before. So I fear not the dark or the stones or the beast because I know that I’ve walked out the other side before, and I will today too.

As I keep walking I hear a metallic echo and then a strange bang, like a sheet of heavy metal falling against a brick wall. I look around, suddenly frightened by the light in the forest, the light that came out of nowhere. I am scared. I have never been here before. What is this place? Where did these walls of cold grey stone come from? The harsh white light? Who is this white figure walking towards me?

I realize it must be someone who wants to change my path. They want me to go somewhere I haven’t gone before. They want me to go… out there. But I won’t let him. No, I feel the heat in my veins, the pulsating anger in my mind. Then I feel the soft flesh in my hands. And I am back in the forest, the sweet birdsong fills my ears. I look down and see I have strawberry juice on my hands. That’s funny because its still six months until the strawberries will be ready. Trust me I know. I’ve been here before. I know how it all works.

I keep walking towards the end of the forest, where I come to the pool. It’s soft, velvet water like hands begin to draw me deeper. I let the water draw me in. I fell it on my legs, my chest, my neck. The water pulls me down deeper and deeper where its cooler and darker and softer. I begin to dissolve in the waters, bit by tiny bit. Soon I will be water and the water will be me. And then I will walk the path again.

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“Hey Brad, you okay?”

“Yeah, he got me really good that time.”

“Let me take a look.”

“Its just a small cut. Here, on my neck.”

“Are his nails really that sharp? I thought they cut them more regularly.”

“Come on, you know they don’t stay on top of that stuff. There’s too many here. That’s why they don’t even have a straight jacket for him.”

“We don’t have to worry. Look at the machine. He’s gone again.”

“That’s a relief. I like it better when the lights are on but no ones home.”

“No kidding. Hey you still up to go hiking this weekend?”

“Sure, where were you thinking?”

“I know a place. Its really gorgeous, and I’ve been there before.”

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End Story


Okay so this is one of those things I found years later and touched up a bit. Probably two and a half years ago I went through an experimental short story phase, witting some horror, some psychological thriller, some romance, some detective, some gothic, etc. Well this is one of those short stories... or at least the idea for one I found and then actually wrote real quick (est. 28 min.) So it's really rough and could use a lot of work. But tell me what you think, just please don't be brutal. I know it sucks. :(