He is the author of the Lythinall series: The Darkness Returns book 1, The Darkness Within book 2 (June 2020), The Darkness Falls (coming soon), and Tales from Lythinall — an anthology (coming soon). He also has several stories in Kyanite Press’s Journal of speculative fiction and Eerie River Publishing anthologies, as well as writing for Gestalt Media’s monthly contest regularly.My Amazon author page : https://www.amazon.com/Michael-D. Nadeau/e/B07L3ZJXCL/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
My website: https://karsisthebard.wordpress.com/
My Twitter: https://twitter.com/Salen_Valari
My Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/LythinallSeries/
A Matter Of Recycling
Tim Mendees
Stuart dropped to his knees as the rain poured through the branches. His load had been heavy, and exhaustion racked his body. The storm that ripped through the woods outside of High Bend was gathering in ferocity, and patches of decaying, autumnal leaves spun and whipped against his rain-lashed face. Thunder crashed overhead as he raised his hands to the sky in supplication. Tears streamed down his face as he lamented, “No more! You have had your fill!”
The groaning branches seemed to cackle at his defiance. He knew it wouldn’t be as easy as that, and he could only watch as the process started to take hold of his unclean cargo. At that moment all he could think of was an escape, some kind of release from the terrible compact he had unconsciously made with the woods. No solution was forthcoming.
* * *
As a child Stuart Fowler had spent many a happy day amongst the ancient trees and dense foliage. His grandmother had warned him of the things that lurked in the dark places of the woods, but he had paid no heed to her fanciful tales of the furtive things that stalked the undergrowth. It was just another of his granny’s various quirks. She was known as something of an odd duck amongst the small village. Forever chattering about curses and unhallowed ground, a fact that did little to endear him to the other children.
Left with his eccentric grandparent at an early age, Stuart was always a shy and introspective youth. He had few friends growing up, since the local children were terrified of his witch grandmother. Instead of conventional friendship Stuart had chosen the woods as his companion, and he felt at ease amongst the creatures that called the trees their home. He was out there every day, rain or shine, living in his own little world.
When one spends as much time as he did amongst the changing seasons, and the life or death struggles of nature, you become accustomed to all manner of unnerving sights and smells. The lifeless bodies of birds and small, furry animals were common, and Stuart quickly built up immunity towards these squeamish moments which bordered on morbid fascination.
One afternoon, when he was ten, Stuart had decided that the time had come for him to venture deeper into the trees. He had always stayed near the house, as the dire warnings of his granny against the darker regions of the woods had scared him into obedience. Yet, for whatever reason, defiance drove him onwards that day. He put all of his fears to one side and strode confidently into the densest part of the wood.
Bracken tore at his legs as he pushed further onwards. The trees here seemed older, more sinister and twisted, than the ones closer to the village. Rural Cornwall was a place of dark myth and superstition, and he told himself this fact over and over to quiet the nagging voice in his head that told him to run. A strange groan stopped him in his tracks. Branches twanged, and the leaves rustled. Stuart stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide and ears pricked. He crouched down and parted the patch of overgrown weeds in front of him.
Before him lay a clearing. It wasn’t large, but it seemed to be a rough circle of ground where nothing seemed to grow. The branches of the encircling trees seemed to knit together, creating a fence around the patch that reminded Stuart of a police cordon. Though it was only mid-afternoon it was already a dark and gloomy place, as though the canopy above worked to repel all light.
With a tremendous scuffle a large badger burst through the undergrowth and into the clearing. The injured mustela wheezed and groaned as it scraped its limp hind legs behind him. His black and white flanks were streaked crimson, and it had clearly been engaged in a fierce territorial dispute. Stuart watched in grim fascination as it dragged itself into the clearing and collapsed. After a moment of labored breathing it expired.
He stood, still gazing at the broken creature. He had never seen a badger before, except on the TV. Cautiously he picked his way towards the carcass. Suddenly the corpse started to ripple and undulate, and Stuart watched in horror as the badger was consumed from the inside-out within seconds. A swarm of ferocious insects from under the soil had burrowed into the animal, making swift work of the muscle and organs. The skin was next to be devoured, followed by the bones. They blackened and cracked, then melted away like stop-motion footage of decomposition. It was a horrible sight. Horrible, yet fascinating.
After this display Stuart found a new fascination. He would gather roadkill, or other carcasses, and deposit them in the clearing. The strange insects would, without fail, devour his offerings. It felt good, like he was contributing to the nurturing of the woods. Instead of letting the dead rot away in the elements he would recycle them to feed the woods. He had never heard of, or seen, creatures like the ones that dwelt under the soil. They
