Justin came up behind me and slipped the cool steel of the nine-iron into my hand, and whispered, “I’ll distract your mom.”
D.R. Smith
About the Author
D. R. Smith lives in Livonia, NY with his wife and two children. He is a special education teacher in the Canandaigua City School District in Upstate New York. Ever since he was a boy, his haunted dreams have spurred him to write about the macabre. He loves a good horror story, especially ones that leave you wondering what horrors even the author was afraid to write. His favorite authors include Stephen King, Clive Barker, Ray Bradbury, and Neil Gaiman. He’s published numerous short stories in Ezines and local magazines. He is the author of over a dozen books for teens and young readers, both horror and fantasy, and three writing guides for people of all ages. His latest horror novel, Curse of the Witch, is available on Amazon.
Check out his work at his website http://www.davidrsmithbooks.com or visit him on twitter @DavidRSmith20.
The Hike
E.E.W. Christman
The morning’s gray. The air is cold and dry, and I wriggle deeper into the nest of blankets I’ve made. I’m briefly alarmed when I see Becca’s gone, but then a sleep-muddled memory reminds me: it was dark. Early in the morning. Becca was shaking me, saying my name: “Steph. Steph, wake up.”
“Mmhmm. What?”
“I’m going for a hike. I’ll be back later, okay?”
“Mhm.”
“I love you.”
“Loveyoutoobye.”
She’d looked so sad. She was probably still upset about the fight…
The fight. I had almost forgotten about it in the brain-fog of early morning. I groan as it comes rushing back, pulling the blankets over my face as if I could hide from the memories. I couldn’t, so I try running from them. I jump out of bed, dragging the blankets with me through our cold cabin. The stove, which was the only source of heat, had gone out in the night. I ignite it again, then make a cup of breakfast tea, wishing I could go out for coffee. We were miles from anything, and hours from anything good. Out here, in the Oregon woods during the chill of January, it was just Becca and me. Or just me, it seemed. Becca hadn’t come back from her hike yet. I check the clock. Nine in the morning. When had she gone out? It had still been dark. When did the sun rise in January? Becca would’ve known.
I don’t know how Becca can even think about physical activity. After yesterday’s excursion, I never want to move again. Every muscle aches, and my bones creak from the cold. She was like a mountain lion, I guess. Powerful, wild, strong. I was more like a housecat that had accidentally wandered outside, coming home damp and grumpy, desperately wanting to curl up in a warm, comfy spot by the window.
Ten minutes pass. I finish my tea, and feel warmer. I pace the cabin, glance out the window up the winding trail, see no one, then continue pacing. She’s punishing me, sulking outside because she knows I’ll sulk in here. That’s the angry part of my brain as it fizzes with emotional conspiracies. The anxious part of my brain is whirling with body-horror fantasies of Becca’s beautiful face mangled at the bottom of some trail, or her strong calves broken and bloody, trapped under a rock or a tree.
I groan. The housecat was going to have to check on the mountain lion.
Outside the wind rips at my coat. There are only a few paths leading away from our cabin: the road we drove to get here and two trails, one of which we hiked yesterday. I take the other one. “Sunrise Trail,” the sign reads. This path is rougher than the other. It leads up the foothill, narrow and overgrown, barely keeping the forest at bay. I’m panting by the time I reach the top, leaning on my thighs, sweat dripping onto the forest floor. In front of me is a sheer rock face, and at first it seems the trail ends here. However, as I look more closely, I see steps carved into the stone, leading upwards to a plateau. The perfect spot to watch the sunrise.
There’s an alarming yellow sign nearby: DANGER–ROCKSLIDES. Next to it is a smaller, wooden sign: “Sunrise Trail: Warning! Falls have resulted in death. Stay on the trail. Be alert.” The anxiety rises in my throat again, like thick bile. I imagine Becca. Beautiful, superwoman Becca, who ran marathons and chased goats up mountains. Climbing to the top, watching the sun rise over the naked trees, briefly transforming the gray landscape into a forest of warm honey. I imagine her foot slipping. She falls down the other side, her body a mangled mess on the ground somewhere I couldn’t see.
The steps are difficult to navigate. They’re littered with pebbles, still slick with morning dew. Some instinctive, panicked part of my reptilian brain tells me to run up them as quickly as possible, but I take each step carefully, my hands clinging to the rockface. My progress is slow, and as I near the top I’m practically crawling. But I reach the top. Up ahead there’s a clear, wide horizon. The sun is obscured by slate-colored clouds now, but it must be quite a sight on a clear, summer day. Becca would definitely want to watch the sunrise here, regardless of the weather. After a moment of looking around, I find proof.
At the edge of the cliff I find Becca’s clothes. They’re not strewn across the stone, but carefully folded into a neat pile. Her pants, jacket, sweater, t-shirt, bra and underwear, all meticulously left with care. Her socks are even gently tucked into her boots. I look over the edge, but the only thing below me is more rocks. I spin around, but the only obvious way down is the way I’d come.
“BECCA!!!”
My voice echoes across the treetops.
