Regardless, the forestry serves as a deterrent to the residents who have contemplated escape. To somehow make it out of the building is to seal one’s fate to perish in a cold, dark wood that is eviler than it is a refuge. One only has to look around to notice that even during the daylight hours, the forest is devoid of life. Few chipmunks or squirrels chitter in the branches, and even fewer birds sing their songs from the trees. It is as if at the basest level of instinct, the living know Redwood is not a place you squander your time.
Nonetheless, for many who call Redwood home, escaping the forest moat is not a viable option. They are harbored within the stone walls, protected from the forest’s horrors. Or perhaps it is simply that those who run Redwood do not want them to uncover the cold, harsh truth of the wickedness lurking all about thanks to the inner workings of the cold place.
Either way, there is no Stay Out sign at the edge of the property because the wisest humans know in their bones to avoid the grounds at all costs.
At all costs.
Chapter Nine
Iignored my gurgling stomach as I hunched over the desk in my living room. Ten drawings in my hand, all in red. I flipped through them, one by dreadful one. Each one featured the girl in red, but blatant variances existed between them. The first was a full-page drawing of her. The high ponytail, the single eye. The head floated above the body. Oozing scribbles where her neck should be, puddles at her feet with her shoes. Bows on the bottom of her dress. My fingers traced the childlike lines. He was not an artist in any sense of the term. In fact, if I hung up the drawing on my fridge, one would assume it was a child’s artwork haphazardly completed during afternoon recess. Still, the lack of adeptness didn’t detract from my interest in the work. Like an art snob at a gallery, I was mesmerized by the crude details he’d added. I analyzed every line, every stroke of demented genius on the page.
I flipped the drawing into a stack on my desk. The next one featured the same red figure again, smaller in size, but this time she was in some sort of room. It looked like 5B’s room, if I were correct, judging by the placement of a bed and a desk. In this one, the girl’s tubelike fingers were attached to a knife, and a black scribble was on the bed.
I kept leafing through the drawings. Some were in nature, a river in red with a tree and squirrels. But the girl was scribbled into every picture. The line across her neck, the puddles. Always one eye. A character in his twisted world of fantasy. Still, touching the pages where his crayon had scribbled the nonsensical images, I couldn’t help but wonder if the fantasy was, like most, grounded in some sort of reality.
Who was she to him?
My eyes danced over the drawings, over her neck, over her ponytail, as I willed the answer forward. This was no Ouija board, though. No answer could be summoned.
Stupid, I chided myself. She didn’t exist at all, of course. She was a figment of a broken mind, a schizophrenic or hallucinogenic being. It was like the imaginary friend you had as a child but more sinister. I tucked the loose pages in the top desk drawer, sighing at myself. Squeezing my eyes shut, I couldn’t understand why I was so obsessed with him and his childish crayon drawings. They didn’t mean anything. Still, I couldn’t help but be curious about the window to his world. To see things how he saw them. To try to decipher this message he entrusted to me. Because even if it wasn’t real, it was real to him. Didn’t that matter, in the scope of things? Why did we discount that?
I made myself some noodles for dinner and sprinkled on the parmesan, just like I had when I was a child. Television didn’t excite me, and I was too tired to read. Thus, I decided to tuck in for the night—or morning, depending on how you looked at it. The sun had already risen an hour ago, and I was exhausted from my shift. I threw the asylum-smelling clothes into the hamper, put on some sweats, and climbed between the sheets. My eyes closed quickly, and sleep crept over me like a warm blanket. It encased me in a cocoon. My body and mind slipped into that state of stillness that pulled me under, like a weight in the river. Just as I was at the tipping point of no return, however, I jumped.
A shattering noise from the living room ripped that blanket of peace right off, sending me into a cold sweat. Someone was in my apartment, and they didn’t sound happy. I reached for my phone, ready to dial the familiar numbers, but then the footsteps clattered toward my door. They were running as if they were a gazelle, light on their feet but heavy enough for me to hear the distinct steps. I froze, eyes wide and ready to face whoever it was. It was too late to thwart the attack, I realized as I clutched the blanket tightly in my fingers. Terror seized my face, my voice, and I thought about how crazy it would be if it all ended here.
My door creaked open in a painfully slow display of patience. I clutched the blanket so tightly that my fingers throbbed. It was too late to make a phone call. I would face this alone.
And when my eyes finally saw the child, a scream choked in my throat. Tears cascaded down as her head bobbled and wobbled on her neck, a huge gash almost severing her head from her
