Howling. When Thom Henry was little, his big brother would hold him down, and force him to listen to the wind screaming through the trees outside. He told him the noises were the Birdmen howling. It doesn't matter why, when you're seven years old. All you had to know was that they were out there. And just maybe, they wanted in. Just maybe, they wanted a little boy.
He lay on his back, clutching his sheets about him, held fast by the noises beyond the creaking windowpane. He drifted back and forth from unsteady dreams of child-like terrors to mundane worries. Rational thought fell asleep without him. And still the cries outside would pluck his attention from his drowsy world into the cold outside.
Out in the forest, the storm raged on, unconcerned for Thom's anxieties. The icy snow clung to the trees, which moaned in protest. Snow buried the forest, inch upon inch. Trees swayed and bent. Some fell, overwhelmed by their burden, but most would survive. The woods had survived for centuries upon centuries, and would survive this. But still there was pain. Still the woods cried out.
Karen lay beside him, turned away. From his weakness, his anxieties said. From his terror. He wanted shelter from the wailing screams, from the feverish glimpses of the Birdmen, their claws reaching from the wind-whipped trees to scratch upon the window glass. He yearned to take comfort from her warmth. But to show his need for her could mean driving her farther away.
So he lay still, staring with weary eyes at the dim shadows of the limbs outside. Sleep eventually began to overcome him. His eyes grew heavy as he tried to bury his fears in slumber. Not wishing to be ignored, the wind swelled up suddenly, and through the fog of oblivion, he heard a gut-wrenching crack and one final, hideous shriek.
It wasn't human. He kept telling himself that, hoping he would believe. He should get up, go to the window and see if he could see what it was. He should help. But his terrors had already worn him thin. Sleep was too close. It beckoned his attention away from the fading memory of that cry towards blissful sleep. He lay, frustrated and motionless, until he drifted off, dreaming of a crying infant, alone amidst flocks and flocks of ravens.
Sunlight glistened through the new-found icy skin of the forest. He tried to squeeze his eyes tighter, but couldn't fully blind himself to the morning. Karen was gone again, he knew. Her side of the bed was already cold. He rolled out of bed, pulling on some clothes with practiced disinterest. He wandered downstairs to check the message board.
The message board was a typical plastic tablet, with a frayed magic marker dangling from a Velcro strap. The picture above it was a colorful, perpetual dawn sky hanging above the crashing breakers. The beach was a rosy pink. It was strictly pessimism that inspired him to peer closer at the fine print. "Manufactured in Modesto, CA". He grinned bitterly. West coast - it was probably a sunset.
Karen's note was near the bottom and was, especially in comparison, harmless. "Thom, I've gone to Connie's for the rest of the week. Don't call. Even if you wanted to." He took a deep breath, and opened the drawer beneath the board. He pulled out his camera, caught up by habit, and recorded the latest of their communications. Then he scrubbed the board clean.
His coffee tasted sour, and his eggs were rubbery. He resolutely finished breakfast anyway. He spent several hours pacing about the house, abortively watching TV, reading or trying to clean up. His attention span abandoned him. He sat, uninspired and unmotivated as the time slipped by. Frustrated and angered by his own inaction, he determined to set himself a goal. He needed to get out.
Trudging down to the garage, he strapped on his boots, pulled on his gloves, coat and hat. He began to imagine himself as a commando, preparing for an assault, and the thought lightened his mood. He slung his axe over his shoulder, and began to wade into the deepening snow towards the woodpile.
It had been a while since he had chopped any wood for the pile, but it had been a long time since he had made a fire anyway. He and Karen were always busy with something lately, but not each other. He grabbed an armful of the smaller logs, and carried them back to the garage. He broke most up into kindling then looked at the resulting heap on the garage floor with distaste. Not nearly enough for a good fire. Back out into the snow.
The older logs at the bottom of the pile were stuck together with age. Several blows with the axe managed to knock some loose. Propping one huge, crumbling log unsteadily upon the chopping block, he brought the axe over him, and swung.
The log exploded into sodden bits of wood pulp and bugs. The spray covered his arms, and a fleck of something landed on his lip. A colony of ants tumbled from their nest - wings, larvae, workers all poured into a mound at his feet, joined by neighboring beetles and grubs. One or two twitched their legs in frozen protest. He spat in disgust, brushing himself off vigorously.
All the remaining logs were about as bad. He doubted he could salvage any useful firewood from them, especially nothing that he dared bring into the house. He couldn't stand things living in wood. He hated anything that crept, crawled and burrowed. Anything that could creep into the body of another living thing and set up house set his teeth on edge and made his stomach tremble.
Still, he was determined to have a fire today. Stubbornly, he trudged deeper into the woods, despite the continuing storm. Maybe he could salvage enough fallen branches to make it worth his while. He had to go a little deeper each time, spreading out to get enough wood. He worked hard through the morning, chopping and clearing fallen branches and trees. Those that he could see, at least. Or those that he tripped over.
The pile in the garage was beginning to reach a respectable size. He decided that one more load would just about tide him over. Then he could finally enjoy his labors. Lay beside the fire, catch up with some of the reading he'd been planning. Make some hot chocolate. Maybe watch a good movie. Alone.
He sighed, and began to kick his way into the woods.
The rhythm of his boots amongst the soft whisper of millions of snow crystals, coming to rest in waves of snow cast a spell over him as he wandered past the whitening trees. He had a waking dream of himself and Karen, having a picnic out here beneath the big old oak. He remembered her beside him, singing wordlessly. The notes snared him. It was rapture. And he drowned in her. It was the little times like that he treasured most, and missed the most.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and plodded on.
He almost missed it. Distracted by dreams and head lowered in avoidance of the drifting snow, he barely noticed his surroundings. But, off in the snowy haze, he caught sight of their picnic spot. The oak brooded over the spot, rent by the storm. One massive limb dangled pitifully from its socket. He looked at the scene bitterly. It seemed his life was coming unraveled, piece by piece. Sadly, he set off to claim the limb for his fireplace.
It proved quite a task. The limb clung more tenaciously than he had assumed, as a good half hour of yanking, twisting, and pleading proved. He tried climbing and hacking at it with the axe, but couldn't get the right leverage. Still, he was not the sort of person who was deterred by the mere difficulty, or even impossibility of a task. It was alternately an endearing and aggravating characteristic of his, as Karen had often pointed out.
Ultimately, he returned to the house to get his bow saw. By the time he returned, so had the wind. Driven snow played across his face as he crawled up the oak, saw in tow. Between the angle he was at, and the crystals biting his cheeks, he could barely even see where he was cutting. As he began to saw, the wind in the taller trees started crying out, and his perch began to sway. The noises above him reminded him of his childhood nightmares. Anxiously, he began to saw a little faster.
The branch finally began to give way with one final creak and snapped. It plummeted into the powder below. He tossed his saw down, readying to climb after it. Then his grip on the stump slipped. For one heart-stopping moment, he was airborne, staring into the tree-tops. Then he was buried beneath more than a foot of snow.
Spluttering and cursing, he arose from his ersatz grave. He checked to make sure he hadn't fallen on anything, then relaxed. He laughed to himself, nervously. He wiped a hand across his face, then stopped laughing when he saw the blood on the glove.
"Jesus. Damn bloody nose."
There was more blood on the snow when he got up to collect his things. Little spots of crimson littered the snow at the base of the tree. His nose must have been going before he fell. He retrieved the saw and grabbed an end of the branch, eager to finish and get inside. The branch was smeared with blood. No wonder he slipped.
He chopped up the remaining logs and headed inside. The smell of burning wood was always comforting. Tending a good, roaring fire was one of his quiet joys. One of the great olfactory memories of his childhood was the smell of autumn approaching. The smell of trees going to sleep, and families warming themselves about the fireplace. It had been a long time. The hearth was a place of refuge from the cold and solitude of the winter outside. Grabbing a new book, he put a blanket and pillow down before the hearth. He filled a humidifier and left it running all night.
He didn't have any more nosebleeds.
When he awakened in the pre-dawn hours, he looked about him groggily, trying to attach some rationale to his semi- consciousness. The embers of the fire cast a dull glow over him. The humidifier was droning loudly, trying to suck up more water from its empty basin. Dragging himself from his nest, he switched it off. Silence crept over the room. Almost. Still drowsy, he stood stock still, listening. Singing. He could hear singing.
"Karen?"
On instinct, he whirled about, and caught sight of something ducking beneath a window. He rushed to it, but there was nothing out there. What the hell was going on? He ran to the front door. Stepping out, he peered into the early morning gloom, but still saw nothing. He called again.
"Karen!"
The echoes died quickly on the snow. When everything was still again, the tantalizing singing returned. Ignoring his bare feet, he stepped out upon the cold steps. Peering around the edge of the house, he thought he saw a ghost-like form retreat into the woods. Caught in the spell of her voice, he followed, stopping only long enough to grab shoes and a jacket.
He plunged into the woods, with only the dull glow of the approaching dawn and the faint sound of singing to guide him. But every sound in the forest was muted by the snow. He was forced to stop often and listen for the notes to follow. Finally, the song deserted him. Birds began to chirp warily, in anticipation of the dawn. He crept on.
He thought he might be going deeper into the woods, but it was impossible to be sure. The trees didn't seem to be where he remembered them in the shifting darkness. He crossed over another set of his tracks, dulled by the previous night's snowfall. He followed them, taking his chances without much hope. Before long, he spied a pale figure ahead, moving into a clearing. Wearily, he quickened his step to catch up.
When close, he tried to call out Karen's name, but only managed to croak ineffectively. Then she turned around. Her face and skin were ashen, drained of color by the cold. She raised an ivory finger to her lips. Only a gossamer sheet, wrapped about her, kept her from the biting wind. There was pain and loneliness reflected in the depths of her eyes. Eyes that seemed like ice. He tried moving closer, but couldn't. He stood frozen, transfixed by her stare. The wind picked up a little, causing the white gossamer to billow and pull away from her on one side, exposing her right shoulder.
And only the shoulder. Below the shoulder was a ragged stump. The blood, dark in the early dawn light, contrasted dramatically with her otherwise pale skin. As she moved closer, he could see the splinters where the bone had snapped and where the flesh had been... sawn through.
She approached, while he stood motionless, as much through fear and confusion as anything else. This could not be Karen. Still, he could feel a need for her welling up in his chest. He shuddered as she moved closer, her mouth opening slightly. Their lips met, briefly. Her touch was cold, very cold. Paralyzed, he could only watch her as she peeled his jacket from him, then tore the sleeve of his shirt. She brought her hand up again, and he felt, numbly, a ragged nail biting into his arm, drawing blood. He watched in horrid fascination as she carved. Her face was an expressionless mask. She worked smoothly, in utter silence.
Once finished, her arm slipped behind, embracing him. Her frigid skin brushed against his. The remnants of her right arm pressed against where his skin was still bleeding. The touch was shocking. He needed that comfort so badly, but his terror left his arms dangling uselessly by his sides. He couldn't be sure of who or what she was.
She clung tightly for a while, as if waiting for reciprocation. His mind raged with mixed signals. Determination not to give in and show weakness. Frustration at not being able to open up to her - but it wasn't Karen. Renewed terror at that realization, and the resulting need for her. What was she asking? What did she want from him? Finally, when there was no response, she pulled away, slowly, reluctantly.
She turned and walked a short distance away. She did not look back. He strained to keep sight of her, but his vision began to fail. Across the clearing, he heard her voice begin again, singing wordless harmonies. Then the dawn broke. The sun's rays filtered through the distant, skeletal trees of the forest.
Her arm raised to the new day. Soon she was engulfed by the sun, and he couldn't distinguish her form in the light. It occurred to him that he should return to the house, but the sun across his face was enough for him here. It was all he could do to reach out and try to embrace the sun. All he needed now was here. He could breathe the air. The sun was warm and life-giving. Beneath him was water, he had but to reach down and drink.
He would sleep now, for a while. And he would dream.
When Karen Henry returned and failed to find any trace of her husband around the house, she called the police. The resulting investigation found some of his clothes, scattered in the woods, and charred fragments of a forearm in the fireplace. There was talk of the angry divorce they had been experiencing. The fragment was determined to be too small to belong to her husband, which raised even more questions. Ultimately, she was cleared, and the issue was filed away, unsolved.
He dreamt of Karen laying beside a long-forgotten man amidst the leaves of autumn. She sang to him, just notes, as he smiled at her. The trees looked on, knowing this was not their place, although some felt longing. But sap flows slowly through their veins; there are few opportunities for change.
Time passed, and his dreams grew less distinct. He had a dream much later, of a woman that came into the clearing. She looked between the two oaks, bewildered. Her puzzlement deepened when she caught sight of initials carved into one, about shoulder height. Reading them, she smiled softly through her confusion. Memories washed over her, of friendship, of rage and of loss. The time for bitterness had passed.
She bowed her head and began to sing, quietly but unmistakably. Her fingertips brushed the coarse bark, and for a moment he thought he could feel her touch. He trembled. The wind ran through the treetops, rattling the drying leaves. A few limbs nearby clacked in protest.
"Goodbye," she whispered.
She withdrew her hand, and the wind died down. Then she left him alone again. Was he alone? He could still hear singing.