GRIM Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

B R O O K E

FELLSMERE, VIRGINIA

AUGUST 5, 2013

10:03 P.M.

            My flashlight battery was running out.

            I turned it on and off at different points, trying to keep it alive for as long as I could. There was no way I’d be able to get back home that night, and by the looks of it, no one was coming. I was gonna have to sleep in the woods, and after what I’d seen that night, that was going to be much harder then than it would’ve been three hours beforehand.

            Everything seemed so much creepier then. The wind, the trees, the crickets. Just half an hour previously I passed a tall, spindly tree that had its arms spread out wide like tentacles on an octopus. I swear, one of them moved a little.

            The car wreck site hadn’t changed. Still just a bunch of car in a lot of places. I decided that the most comfortable and the safest place to sleep would be in the backseat of the vehicle, since it was still mostly intact. Using my low-light flashlight, I tried to make my way to the car. But as soon as I did, I found something that wasn’t there before: a round hole in the backseat window, large, about the size of my head. Shards of glass sat on the black leather seat, and so did a heavy-looking rock. It made my heart leap to think who could have thrown that kind of object through a car window, even more so that someone had actually come near my car.

Cautious, I opened the backseat door, and the rest of the window shattered, a few shards of glass cutting my hands and making me cuss under my breath.

            On the rock was a message, sending what felt like a scream into the back of my throat. But I was too intrigued to actually make any noise.

UNDER THE WHEEL

            Under the wheel? What the heck did that mean? The engraving in the stone looked old; very old. And it was perfectly carved. Confused and beginning to get scared, I slammed the door shut and stepped back. Using the last juice of the flashlight’s battery, I gazed around the crash site. Sure enough, just a few meters away, there was the fourth wheel, the tire popped with a sharp white rock sticking into the rubber. I rushed over to it and lifted it up. And beneath the wheel was my phone, perfectly intact.

            All my fear went away. I could call my parents.

            I grabbed the phone, turning it on. Its battery was just barely still running. A miracle. But I was about to call Mom when I saw that I had a new text from an unidentified number. It was a photo.

One of the forest path.

My heart jumped when I saw it, and that time, I screamed, my shrill voice echoing throughout the woods.

            It was a skull. A horrible, white, misty human skull, its mouth open as if laughing at me. A chill ran down my spine and I fell to the ground, dropping the flashlight and letting it sit on the ground, pointing up the path. All the trees seemed to be leaning over me, as if alive. As if watching me.

            The photo came with a message, too. I scrolled down just enough to read it.

Don’t let the darkness hinder you.

-S.G.

           

           

           

           

 c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.

           

           

        

GRIM Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

I S A A C

FELLSMERE, VIRGINIA

MAY 24, 1893

8:16 P.M.

            It always fascinated me just how fragile the forest is.

            Comprised of such wonders of creation, a system of never-ending life that all fits together in a multitude of pieces, each one playing a part in the continuation of the woods. The trees, the birds, the insects, the light, the dark. And how many mysteries they all hide.

            “So tell me what the wind told you today.”

            June settled beneath he bed sheets, pulling the thick wool covers up to her chin and peering out at me through the dim light. Her young, curious eyes were ones I wished I still had.

            “Well,” I began, my voice soft, just barely audible in the dark room. The only light came from a small candle, which had been burning for so long it was almost completely melted. “I heard very little from them today. But they told me one thing: that time has no meaning.”

            She looked intrigued. She was always fascinated with the stories of the winds and what they told me.

            “What do you mean?”

            “The winds told me that time is not in a regular order,” I told her, and she gazed on with wonder. “Instead time is a continuous course of events, all happening at the same time.”

            “I do not understand.”

            “I am afraid that I do not either,” I whispered. “But I shall sleep soundly tonight, and maybe it will come to me.”

            I leaned in and kiss her on the head, bidding her goodnight and excusing myself from the room.

            The truth is, the winds did not speak to me. But I do not know who did.

           

.     .     .

            As I lay in bed, my eyes on the wooden boards of the ceiling, I listened.

My window had no shutters, only a thin translucent curtain that waved slightly and reflected the moonlight onto the floor.

All was silent. Any sound would have disrupted my focus on listening.

            Every night, I hear voices. They come through my window, whispers as soft as the wind. I am not insane, for people would have discovered so by now. The only person I can tell of them to is little June, my sister, who believes anything I say. But the frightening part of things is that I have not a clue who whispers to me.

            I turned over, facing the direction away from the window and closing my eyes. It is always when I am not looking that the voices come. And sure enough, they did then.

            “Mr. Lawrence, do you remember?”

            A soft whisper, like the sound of wind moving through a hollow. Ever so eerie. Almost inhuman. I did not know of what it speaks. But I did not continue the conversation. I never do.

            “Mr. Lawrence, in not too long, you are going to meet a girl, one who thinks like you and acts like you but is not from your…area. When you do, remember her.”

            The voices do not usually tell me more than a few sentences. Unusual.

            “Some time tomorrow you must leave a note on the old forest road for someone, and you must write it on the stone. You are to engrave these following words: ‘Under the wheel.’ Make the stone visible. Good night, and do not let the darkness hinder you.”

            That is the voices’ usual closing. And with that, they were gone.

            The next day I was to leave a visible stone command on the old forest road. Why, I did not know. But it was new to receive directions from the voices. It was then that I knew I was not insane.

c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.