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kpopfanfictrash · 7 years

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Row AQ

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Yoongi (Suga)

Genre: Fluff / Humor

Prompt: “If I die, I’m going to haunt your ass.” + Library!AU

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2,955

Someone wrote in the book.

Slamming the cover shut, you glare at the deadened library before you. The place is empty, nothing but vacant tables and books as far as the eye can see.

Plopping down in your chair, you sullenly scroll through your laptop and sigh. The book is Kerouac – On the Road, which is an ostentatiously male read. This is the main reason you assume the defacer is male, although the handwriting alone might be enough to identify that fact. Bold scribbles in the margins, notes about the book and life in general. Which would be fine, if this were his book, but it is not.

Rather sadly, you brush the book’s spine. Without thinking, you flip the book open to page 114. This is where the writer apparently lost steam, for the notes end here. It’s the beginning of Part II, where Sal and Dean are discussing a dream Sal had. They converse briefly on the idea of longing for death. Written in the margin is:

It’s interesting... they say they want nothing to do with death, and yet their lifestyle is a contradiction of this. Bright and burning, ferocious and reckless. Is living like this an attempt to keep death at bay, or draw it closer? After all, what’s more alive than to look death in the face and know you’re not?

Lowering the book, you stare into space for a moment.

Perhaps the most annoying part of the whole situation is how intriguing the vandal’s comments are; how thoughtful and intelligent he seems to be. Second most annoying is that the notes are penned in a jarring shade of blue ink. The color lends further to the insult and, gritting your teeth, you push the book aside.

It’s the guy’s audacity which really irks you. The fact that he assumed everyone would want to read his thoughts.

What’s even more annoying is he didn’t even check the book out. When you looked up the last owner, you saw Rosie Garcell. She checked the book out four months ago, despite On the Road being found out of place yesterday.

It’s not only On the Road, either – you found similar notes in Hamlet and The Importance of Being Earnest; big, giant HA’s written across the pages of the latter. At least the guy finds Cecily as annoying as you do, although you suppose that’s kind of the point. The guy flat out screams in the margins in one spot, which made you laugh. Only briefly, before you caught yourself.

Rosie Garcell never checked out The Importance of Being Earnest though, which means the vandal isn’t her. It’s someone else removing the books from their shelves, marking them in bright blue ink and putting them back. You just need to find out who and make them stop.

At least, now you know what book the vandal is on. Staring at On the Road, you contemplate whether or not to act. On the one hand, you really want to let them know you’re onto them. On the other hand, if you do what you’re thinking, it’d make you complicit in their public destruction.

Exhaling deeply, you set the book down on the table. Flipping to page 114 and staring at the last note, you cast a quick glance around the room and lower your pen.

Honestly. What are you doing, defacing library books? Buy your own copy if you want to wax poetic.

You frown at the words, re-reading and wondering if they’re threatening enough. Or possibly they’re too threatening. This is your first conversation, after all. Shaking your head, you decide you’re over-thinking things again.

Before you can stop myself though, you add:

Thanks, and hope you have a nice day.

Placing your pen back in your pocket, you glance at the empty library. Walking quickly to row AQ, where On the Road was found, you shove the book back into place and wipe your now-sweaty palms on your pants. Hopefully, the vandal won’t take long to reply.

They don’t.

The very next night, you check Row AQ for an update before sitting down at your desk. On the Road is visible, its red jacket prominent and your heart starts to pound, walking down the aisle. You didn’t shelve it sticking out so far. Grabbing its spine, you gasp when you see an earmarked page.

Page 196, and beside the page marker is a note.

Hello, either A) righteous library worker or B) concerned citizen who’s wandered in from the streets. It’s good to see you’re taking an interest in the public library system. I, too, wish I could buy my own copy but unfortunately, I’m flat-out broke. Skint, penniless, no coin in my threadbare pockets.

That said, it was kind – if somewhat odd – of you to wish me a nice day, so I’ll do the same.

P.S. What did you think of Sal and Dean’s conversation? Do you see the lure of death? Personally, I think it’d be kind of fun to haunt someone.

You almost laugh, but catch yourself just in time. This punk – he has some nerve to try and be funny in this kind of situation. Despite this, you find myself smiling as you walk down the aisle.

Battling the guilt of removing a book from its row, you bring the book to your desk and sit to re-read the vandal’s words. The library is busier than usual tonight, so it’s a long while before you can lay your pen to paper.

Hello, sir.

You are a sir, aren’t you? If you’re female and I’ve assumed wrongly based on your handwriting – I do apologize. It’s fine that you’re broke, but why do you have to write in the margins? You can just read! Control your ink.

Interesting though, that you think it’d be fun to haunt someone because WRITE IN THE MARGIANS AGAIN and if I die, I’m going to haunt your ass.

P.S. I did agree with your general thoughts on the conversation.

Quickly shutting the book, you wonder what the hell you’re doing.

You’re an upstanding citizen. You volunteer, work part-time around your college courses and always, always pay your credit card bill on time. You’re not a chronic margin-writer and yet, here you are on your bathroom break, sliding the book into its new spot at the end of row AQ.

Returning to your desk, you wonder if this guy visits the library in the morning. It must be a time other than your shift, since you never seem to see him. Or, maybe he’s sitting here right now. Scanning the room, you narrow my eyes and try to identify the culprit.

A woman stands at the water fountain; you watch her pile three books on top of the ledge before taking a drink. You wince at the thought of them falling before moving on to the next person. Behind her sits a girl and boy. Neither one of them have pens with them though, and both seem immersed in their books, so you keep looking.

One by one, you cross off every person in the library. Sinking lower in your seat to swivel around, you know this is silly, yet your gaze continues to drift in the direction of the stacks. There’s nothing to do now but wait, and it is with this mindset the night passes.

The next day, you fairly run from your lecture hall. Catching the bus in record time, you sprint from the steps and nearly bowl over the lone guy who stands in line for the bus. Shoulder hitting his, you spin to jog backwards.

“Sorry!” you yell, wincing when the guy doesn’t look. “Really!”

Nodding once, the guy adjusts his black beanie and climbs onto the bus. Over his shoulder, he waves a hand to acknowledge he’s fine. Shrugging, you hike your bag higher and open the library doors.

First, you wander the room, glancing at every face before reaching row AQ. It’s disappointing when you find the book already there. You’d been half-hoping to catch whoever it is in the act.

Tugging the book from the shelf, it falls open in your hand.

Yes, I’m a guy and although I don’t object to being called sir, Yoongi will do. I’m offended you’d ask me to stop writing. Ask me not to breathe, ask me not to speak, but never deprive me of words.

You’ll haunt my ass? For uh, scientific reasons… are you a girl or a guy?

P.S. Also – just out of curiosity, which notes of mine stuck out?

Your heart pounds, probably from running so fast. As you firmly shut the book, you realize today’s page is 215. Either, Yoongi didn’t have as much time to read, or he’s reading slower than usual. The realization makes you wonder if he’s enjoying the exchange as much as you are, and attempting to stretch out our conversation.

Glancing at your watch, you notice the time. 4:05 PM – damn, you’re late. Dashing back to the front, you studiously avoid meeting your boss’ gaze. It’s not like you can explain where you’ve been, or what you’ve been doing. Your pen itches to write Yoongi back but again, the library is busy tonight.

You end up preoccupied nearly until close, helping students to find books, returning old ones to shelves: cataloguing, indexing and checking people in. Finally, around 10:00 PM, you explain to your boss you need to return one more book to its shelf.

Returning to row AQ, you squat behind the shelves. Scribbling furiously to Yoongi, you write on page 215.

I am a girl, my name is Y/N. I’ll be sure to respect your boundaries when I’m haunting you. I do want to apologize though, for telling you to stop writing. In all honesty – despite the delinquency of method – the notes you wrote were rather beautiful.

P.S. I have a lot of favorites

The next day, you manage to work for nearly a half-hour before allowing yourself to check the shelf. You half-jog to row AQ, yanking On the Road from it’s hiding place on the shelf.

Page 217 has been bookmarked and you laugh, realizing yes, Yoongi is reading slower on purpose.

Hi Y/N,

You work here, don’t you? You must, since you keep calling me all sorts of rude things for doodling in the margins. What’s your favorite book? I’ll read that one next. If… I can ever finish this book, that is. Page 216 was tough to get through. It took me an entire day.

P.S. Please tell me? I’ll tell you something in return.

Exhaling softly, you try and suppress your excitement. You don’t know Yoongi, you remind yourself. It makes absolutely no sense to be so interested in what he has to say.

The library is rather empty tonight, though, so you quickly pull out your ballpoint pen and settle down on the floor. You’ve been writing in black ink throughout the book, in contrast to Yoongi’s blue-colored notes.

I only call you names you deserve, Yoongi.

Defacer, graffitist, criminal, thug, ruffian, delinquent – I could go on, but this is only a 300 page novel. Defacing books is the highest form of crime, in my opinion. My favorite book is The Importance of Being Earnest – but I saw you wrote notes in the margins of that one already.

P.S. What secret would you tell me?

The next night, on page 218:

Y/N, I think you’re forgetting one, very important detail and that is – you’re ALSO writing in this book! You’re a defacer, a graffitist, a criminal, a ruffian, a delinquent – well, I can’t quite say thug. Although, if you want me to call you a thug, far be it from me to crush your dreams.

P.S. If you tell me what your favorite note is, I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone

The conversation has been going on for over a week.

Rereading Yoongi’s last note, you lean your head to the wall. You feel as if you know him, which sounds silly. You don’t know this Yoongi. You don’t know anything real about him, beyond his pen and his ink and his words but somehow, this feels like enough.

Yoongi.

I like your name – did I tell you that? It’d be nice to hear you say it aloud. Fine, I’ll tell you my favorite, but I expect a very incriminating secret in return.

P.S. “Breathing is easy, but living is hard. When people ask about your life, they never ask about your temperature, your last meal, or how well you slept. They ask about your sweat, your thoughts and your actions. I want my actions to count.”

Setting down your pen, you stare at his quote.

You didn’t even need to reference the words; you’d already memorized them. It’s an annotation Yoongi wrote in Part I of On the Road. It had struck you at the time, part of the reason you kept flipping pages. Most people write dutifully, a train of thought which rarely amounts anything. Not Yoongi.

Returning the book to its shelf, you wonder if this is what you wanted all along. To know more about the man who wrote such beautiful words.

The entire bus ride home, you stare out the window. It’d be nice if you were courageous enough to do something like leave Yoongi your number. The idea of it brings heat to your cheeks and again, you tell myself you don’t know him. Yoongi could be seventy years old, or not interested in women, or an ax murderer. Leaning your head to the glass, you continue to stare at the streets which pass by.

Realizing something, you straighten in your seat. There’s an easy solution to all this. You could simply go to the library early. You could camp by the shelf and wait for Yoongi to appear. Even if you decide not to speak to him, at least you’d know what he looks like. Mind made up, your eyelids flutter shut. Tomorrow, you’ll head into work early.

The next morning, you skip class. Heart racing, you duck in the side door of the library, scared someone will recognize you and call out your name. It’d be awkward for Yoongi to recognize you before you can recognize him. Wandering further in, you choose a table directly facing Row AQ. I wait. Pulling out your binders, you pretend to study when in actuality, you’re peering over your book at the shelves.

No one comes.

Minutes, hours pass and you sit there in silence, growing more and more impatient. Maybe Yoongi comes to the library later than you originally thought. Possibly he leaves before 4:00 pm (the start of my shift), but arrives after – you glance at your watch and feel your heart sink. 3:30. You must have missed him. Or, maybe Yoongi just isn’t coming by today.

Wearily, you stand and begin gathering your things. Halfheartedly, you decide to check the book but are halfway down the aisle when you notice it’s gone. Nearly tripping over yourself in your haste to be closer, your hands brush the shelves, but there’s nothing to find.

High and low, you search for a book that’s not there. Groaning out loud, you run a hand through your hair. The only thing you can think is someone on the library staff rearranged the shelves before your arrival.

That, or Yoongi moved the book.

Warily, you consider this option. Yoongi hasn’t come in yet today, he hasn’t left you a note. Maybe your last note was too much and you scared him off. Maybe, Yoongi could tell that you liked him – maybe he saw you’re enamored with a total stranger, completely freaking him out, so he ran.

Swallowing hard, you realize it’s almost time for your shift. Holding your things tightly to your chest, you berate myself for imagining this to be more. It’s not as though you and Yoongi are friends, it’s not like you were actually flirting.

Still, his notes have become the highlight of your week and the thought of their absence pains you more than you can articulate.

Rounding the corner, your feet come to a stop. You stare, confused by the sight of On the Road placed in the middle of your desk. The cover is unmistakable, bright red and completely out of place. Slowly, you lower your bag to the ground, taking a step forward and running a finger along its spine.

You notice the last page has been folded and when you open the book, your heart starts to race.

I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I’m falling for a girl I’ve never met.

Someone clears his throat from behind and you whirl, nearly dropping the book in the process.

A guy stands several feet away, staring at you with wide eyes. He’s handsome; medium height and build, with delicate features. His hair is silver – dyed, you think – and slightly reflective in the light. In his hands, the guy is holding a black knit beanie.

“You,” you blurt, realizing who he is. “I almost knocked you over when I ran off of the bus.”

Yoongi nods, somewhat incredulous. “I thought I recognized you.”

Placing the book down on your desk, you take a slow step forward. “You didn’t come to the library this morning,” you say, your eyes narrowing. “I waited for you.”

His upper lip quirks. “I came earlier,” Yoongi explains. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m... Yoongi, by the way.”

You watch him move closer. “I know. I’m Y/N.”

“Hm. What do you know.” Yoongi scans my face. “I like the way you say your name.”

“That’s my line,” you say, crossing your arms. A faint smile takes over your face. “I should have known you were a thief, in addition to vandal.”

Yoongi grins. “Slander,” he murmurs, his eyes large and dark. Silver hair falls into his gaze as he exhales. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to get over you being here. You’re just so…”

“Short?”

“Beautiful.”

You’re grateful then, that you’re in a library. It means the space between you is hushed, the people around you infinitely quiet. You hear every word Yoongi says and you feel when something careful settles into place between you.

“Did you mean it?” you ask, swallowing your hesitancy. “What you wrote?”

He’s falling for someone he’s never met.

Yoongi nods again. “Did you really like my writing?”

You nod back. “Yes. Very much so.”

You stand there for a while, looking at one another. At least, you do until Yoongi smiles and you realize what could possibly be more beautiful than his words.

“Then,” he teases, his eyes bright with humor. “I propose a deal. I’ll pay the library back for the book I destroyed if you’ll go on a date with me.”

You laugh, a touch nervous when he takes a step closer. “But what would you get?”

“That’s simple,” Yoongi says. “I’ll get you on a date. What do you say?”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “I’d say thank you for defacing public property.”

Author’s Note: Er. This is a one shot. LOL - I hope you enjoy!

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ahomeganeyatsu · 6 years

Text

Hollow’s Eve

At 3 o’clock on a Sunday morning, Norman Tassel disappeared. Roughly twenty minutes later, Henry Brown stumbled out of the tree line separating the road and an unmarked forest. The locals found him wandering pale and dazed, right sneaker nowhere in sight, cuts along with vaguely hand-shaped bruises decorating his skin, clothes torn and dry with blood.

No one ever found out what happened, but the place where Henry was found gave the locals enough of an idea. Lips were sealed and refused to budge. It seemed that it was that time of the year again.

…

Crash!

Norman flinches at the sharp sound of something hitting the wall and breaking. He curls into a ball on his bed, arms weaving tighter around his torso as he tried his best to hold himself. The voices downstairs begin to rise in volume and the little protection his thin walls afforded him proves itself useless. He is shaking beneath his sheets, face buried on his pillow. He wishes for the voices to stop. He wishes to be somewhere else.

A glass shatters.

A shriek erupts.

An echo of skin hitting skin.

Silence.

Norman counts under his breath and before he reaches three, a muffled sob cuts through. It’s small, barely audible, but it resounds like a gunshot to the inhabitants of the two-story house. The boy shakily rises from his bed, grabs his backpack and slides out of his window.

Before he was born, before his parents even conceived the idea of having him, before his mom said “yes” to his dad, Norman’s grandmother planted an oak tree just outside what was now his room. By the time Norman was ten, the oak tree had grown enough and become an unwitting accomplice to the boy’s night time escapes. One of its branches was in grabbing distance once you step out of the window. Every time Norman’s eyes catches on the branch, it never fails to give the impression of a hand coaxing him to reach out and hold on to it. Every night Norman jumps from the ledge of the roof, hands outstretched and swiftly grabbing onto it, he couldn’t stop thinking that the branch curves around his hand and pulls him in, cradling him carefully in its bark-covered leafy limb and bringing him away from the voices and the broken things.

The tree barely groans at his weight and the boy easily maneuvers out of its web of branches. He slides down its trunk, looking up the tall tree and patting it affectionately for a few seconds. He could hear the voices more clearly now and he doesn’t wish to stay any longer. Shouldering the strap of his pack, Norman quietly walks away.

He walks away from the house.

He walks away from the town.

He walks away from the light.

Until the only company he has is his beating heart, his shallow breaths, the solitary moon and the shadows that are always reaching out to him. His mind has quieted down, the only thought present being the reminder to put one foot forward after the other. He relishes the blissful silence and just as he stops to breathe and let himself exist in the moment, his phone cries and pierces the blanket of quiet he finally found himself in.

He is tempted to ignore the caller and turn the device off, but the thought of someone looking for him quells that desire. With a huff, he digs his phone out of his pocket and slides his thumb to accept the call.

“Norman, where are you?” he blinks, recognizing the voice as one that belonged to his friend, Henry.

“I took a walk,” he answers by way of greeting.

“Yes, I can perfectly see that from my position in your room and with you nowhere in sight,” his friend punctuates with an exasperated sigh.

Norman blinks once again, processing his friend’s words and finally letting it sink in. “You’re in my room?!”

“Yes, I thought we’ve established that two minutes ago?” He hears a whoosh on the other line, a grunt and the rustle of leaves. It’s a few more seconds before Henry is speaking again, a little out of breath, “Now, where the hell are you?”

Norman spins around in his spot as his eyes try to find any familiar landmark only to come up with none. “Uh… I’m not sure. Definitely outside town though,” he relays. “But wait a sec, what exactly were you doing in my room?”

Henry groans and he could see him rolling his eyes at him. Norman refuses to react to that mental image. “I was looking for you. You said we’d meet up at the bus stop but you never showed up.”

Norman’s about to ask why they were going to meet at the bus stop in the first place when the thought strikes him. “Oh shit, that was tonight? Fuck, dude. I’m really sorry, it totally slipped my mind.”

“No biggie man. I mean, it looked like things weren’t going swell for you.” Words of denial spring forth at the tip of his tongue when he remembers that Henry was just in his room no more than five minutes ago and would have heard everything. “I’ll meet you back in the bus stop. Nyx said he’ll give us a ride but won’t join us on the hunt coz he’s too chicken.”

This sparks a laugh out of Norman and for the first time that night, a smile is making its way to his lips. “You’re too hard on your brother.”

Henry scoffs. “Too hard?” the teen reiterates incredulously. “The guy is a head taller than me, has more muscles than I could possibly dream of having, and could beat the crap out of anyone. Plus, he’s three years older than us! And let me digress, who leaves their fourteen-year-old brother to go traipsing around a forest in the middle of the night with his best friend unsupervised?”

“Also breaking and entering, and walking around town past his curfew,” he points out and snorts at Henry’s indignant splutter.

“I’ll have you know that I am a perfectly upstanding citizen of this small community. I volunteer at the animal shelter and participate in bake sales dammit! I won’t have you tarnishing my reputation!”

The utterly dramatic pompous manner his friend had said those words was just so ludicrous it successfully reduces Norman into a puddle of giggles.

“I’m glad I served as your source of entertainment,” the teen drawls but it lacks the bite of his usual sarcasm and if this was a video call, Norman would have seen the smug smirk on Henry’s face for making him laugh. “I’ll see you then.”

“See you.” And with that the call ends.

Norman brings up his GPS app and starts to find his way to the bus stop.

The trip lasted for about forty minutes. Norman is roused from his half-sleep by Henry tapping him on the shoulder from his position on the passenger seat. There’s an excited grin on his lips and his green eyes were gleaming at the promise of adventure. Norman could practically feel the energy being transferred to him and it serves to wake him up more. He opens the door to his right and steps out not forgetting to grab his pack. Henry is quick to follow and stands beside him, arms akimbo, and breathing in the evening air.

The car is idling at the side of the road, a street lamp served as the only light source save for the moon. There were no buildings in sight, not even a bus stop, and the highway is devoid of any other cars. It’s just three teenagers in the middle of nowhere.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to pick you up?” Nyx’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

The gravel scrunches underneath Henry’s foot as he turns to his brother in a dramatic put upon manner. Like he would rather deal with anything else than talk to Nyx. “Dude, if you don’t want to join us or wait here, go home or to that party you were whining about.” Henry makes a shooing motion at his brother and the elder teen snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever. You got cash right? The bus stop is about a mile from here, and there’s always a trip every hour.”

“Will you stop worrying? This isn’t the first time we did this. We’re basically fifteen, we’ll be fine. Plus, this isn’t as bad as what you did when you were our age.”

“Shut up,” Nyx scowls but soon sighs. “I’m just making sure. Call me if you need anything. And be careful.” The brothers have a stare down that lasted for all of two minutes before Henry puffs his cheeks and shakes his head in defeat.

“Okay, okay. We will.”

“I still can’t believe you two are getting yourself hooked into this stupid tradition.” The teen grouses as he starts his car again.

“It’s a rite of passage, Nyxie. Everyone has done it. You’ve done it.” Henry points out with a challenging look.

Nyx frowns at the use of Henry’s juvenile nickname for him. “Yeah, I did. With five other people and at nine in the evening. Just be careful, I’ll see you guys in a few hours.” He pushes a button and the window shuts. Norman and Henry watch him pull out of the roadside and speed back to the direction of Blithehallow.

“So,” Henry starts and faces him with a bright smile, brandishing his torchlight as if it was a lightsaber. “You ready?”

Norman smirks, pulling his own out of his bag. “As much as I can be.”

Henry cheers and the two boys face the forest in front of them. They step through the tree line and begin their walk.

There’s a tradition in Blithehallow called the “Late Walk”. No one ever really knew when it started. There were no official records of it, but the tradition dates back to the great American Revolution and it carried over to the present. In the forest that separated Blithehallow and Terwetown, boys between the age thirteen and fourteen were tasked to have a late evening walk in the forest and tie a ribbon on a branch of a large tulip tree that’s found in the middle of it. It was a rite of passage to prove one’s bravery. In the recent years, with the cry for gender equality, girls began to participate as well. Everyone was free to try their hand for a Late Walk. There were stories, of course, stories that told about strange sights in the forest, but none truly harmful. At best, they gave someone a good scare.

Henry had been more curious about the sights than the tradition itself. And if Norman was asked, he wouldn’t deny it too. As the both of them walked through the dark dense forest, careful not to stray from the footpath that had been sculpted by thousands of trekkers through the years, Norman couldn’t help but notice the mythical feel the forest exuded. His skin tingled, the thin hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He knows Henry could feel it too.

The forest is quiet, not even the inhabitants stirred. Dried leaves covered the floor and crunched under their shoes. The trees were almost bare, branches shivering at the cold autumn breeze. The moon slips in and out of the clouds, adding more to the ethereal feel the forest bears. A certain awareness fills the place. An awareness that penetrates the two teens more and more as they get deeper and deeper into the forest.

“The forest is watching us,” Henry states barely above a whisper. Norman turns to him, eyes silently asking for more. “It doesn’t like us being here, but it doesn’t want us to stop either.”

It takes him a few beats to understand what Henry isn’t saying, but even if he’s reluctant to say the words, he still lets them escape his mouth. “We’ve started the journey, we have to finish it.” His friend doesn’t answer him but his eyes said enough. Maybe this was the reason why the tradition had kept up after all these years. Anyone who began the Late Walk was compelled to finish it. A sort of spell that the forest casts on its evening trekkers.

Norman tightens his grip on his torchlight and swallows through the sudden dryness in his throat. He knows Henry has a way with these things. He just always knows. He senses things others don’t and Norman could too, but he isn’t as attuned to it as Henry was. It is one reason why Nyx is confident to leave them, and at the same time why he worries more and doesn’t stop reminding them to be careful.

He and Henry had always sought adventures and were ready to investigate “strange sightings.” Most of the rumors they investigated were false, some had an inkling of truth. All of them were harmless. But their current hunt didn’t feel that way. He understands this now.

He realizes that the awareness he’s been feeling has been growing malevolent. It’s why he could tell a distinct penetrating presence from it. It’s trying to reach out to them, trying to grab hold of them. He’s doesn’t like how things are getting.

“How much farther?” he asks getting closer to Henry. He has learned that when things start going bad, it’s best to stick close to Henry.

“It should be arou—”

A twig snaps causing the two boys to pause. They both stand still, holding their breaths and trying their best not to make a sound. Norman becomes far too aware of the scrunch of leaves, the heavy footfalls, the suddenly too cold air, and the shadow that he could just tell that’s getting close, too close, for their own comfort.

He doesn’t know what changes. From the space of a beat, a breath, Henry grasps his wrists in his hand, grip vice-like, and pulls. They start running. His heart sounds too loud in his ears. His breaths too quick. The trees are closing in on them, the path narrowing and somewhere, the sound of a horse’s hooves thudding on the ground.

They don’t stop running.

“There!” Henry shouts and just a few yards Norman sees a bright light. The scent of burning wood is sharp in the air and he vaguely wonders why there was a bonfire in the middle of the forest. He doesn’t dwell on it. Fire means people. And with whatever it is that’s chasing them, the presence of more people could dissuade it.

The closer they got though, the stronger the feeling of wrongness pervades both their senses. The bonfire is in a clearing but the pair stop just at the edge of the tree line. Norman doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. He just can’t. There are people gathered around the fire, a crowd and it feels wrong. There’s something about them, something about this that makes his skin crawl, his heart stutter in fright and he needs to get away. They need to get away.

But they can’t move. They can’t move and hands are grabbing them and Henry is screaming. He is screaming. They thrash and scream, struggling to break the hold, to run, to hide, to escape. He watches with wide frightened eyes as Henry’s is held down and they’re tearing through his clothes. He hears Henry’s No! No! NO! NONONONONO—! A figure stands above his friend and something gleams in its hand.

Norman screams. A crackle, the world splits and lighting crashes down the clearing. His ears ring but he doesn’t let it stop him from breaking out of the lax hold, he runs to his friend. He tastes salt and iron on his lips. He lifts Henry—trembling, half-clothed, and grips Norman as if he’s afraid of slipping away from reality. Maybe they both are.

He dashes for the tree line, the darkness of the forest, the frigidness of shadows. Behind them the smell of burnt flesh, the shrieking of a figure inside the flames, the laughter, the chanting, the calling. They run. They don’t stop.

Not until they come upon a large tree. It towers above all the other trees, the limbs gnarled, large enough to look like the trunks, twisting down to the earth and rising up again. It is the same tree they were meaning to reach the whole night. Norman feels a hysterical laughter bubble from his throat but swallows it down. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop if he starts. Henry hasn’t spoken. He’s still shaking and seems to have no desire to let go of Norman in the next minutes, maybe even hours. He doesn’t mind. He’s holding on to Henry as much as he’s holding onto him. He glances at the tree once more and sees the hundreds of ribbons dancing in the wind, some faded in color and ragged, others clean and new.

He twists and unzips his pack. He digs for the ribbon in one of the pockets and pulls out a pastel blue that’s about a yard in length. He pulls out the Swiss army knife he always brings in his bag, cuts the ribbon in half and hands one to Henry. His friends wordlessly takes it and together they tie their ribbons on a low hanging branch. Their tasks done, the pair began their walk back to the safety of civilization.

The forest doesn’t feel as ominous, but it’s still far from welcoming. He doesn’t need to encourage Henry that they need to hurry. Two hundred yards from them, Norman spots a small brook. He sees a few rough logs laid beside each other to serve as a bridge. The boys cross it without difficulty but the moment they stepped off onto the other side, a splash echoes in the air. The boys freeze and the presence becomes all too familiar.

“Don’t look,” Henry softly commands him. Norman knows not to disobey his friend at these moments. “Run, don’t look back. Whatever happens, understand? Don’t look back.”

Norman nods and Henry shifts in his hold until he’s standing on his own, but they’re hands are clasped with each other. None of them wanting to lose the connection. Without signaling each other, only their breaths as one, their hearts pounding in sync, the boys run.

They run with the shadow giving chase. The whistle of cloth, the thudding of heavy hooves, the chuffing and neighing of a powerful large animal. They keep on, not looking back, just forward and hoping to find the borders that separate this unmarked forest from what was considered safe territory that closely leads to Terwetown.

The boys find themselves plunging downhill and coming into a sandy hollow of trees. Norman’s lungs burn, his legs ache, and he’s not sure if he could still keep up this pace. Despite the adrenaline rushing in his veins, Norman worries it wouldn’t sustain him much longer. Henry isn’t doing much better than him. He’s lost a shoe in that clearing, and he knows that the warmth that seeped into his shirt earlier wasn’t his friend’s sweat. Henry is pale, his breaths shallower but he’s pushing himself as much as Norman was doing to himself.

As he feels that they won’t be able to escape their pursuer, the trees open up and Henry cheers at the sight of a bridge. Hope fills his heart and a burst of second wind powers his legs. They reach the bridge and cross it, but at just as they were to cross the threshold Henry stumbles, foot caught on a loose board. His grip slackens and their hands break the connection. Norman turns back, gets a hold of Henry’s hand and helps him up.

In all of this, he can sense the shadow getting closer. He makes the mistake of lifting his head. He sees the shape of a man, mounted on a horse as black as the void itself. The man rises from his position on his saddle and his arm is thrown back, in his hand his dismembered head. The shadow hurls it towards him, Henry screams his name and Norman tries to dodge, but he’s frozen. It crashes against his cranium, Henry’s fingers slipping from his and he falls.

The last thing Norman hears is the neigh of a horse as if laughing at him before darkness claims him.

….

At 3 o’clock on a Sunday morning, Norman Tassel disappeared. Roughly twenty minutes later, Henry Brown stumbled through the tree line separating the road and an unmarked forest. The locals found him wandering pale and dazed, right sneaker nowhere in sight, cuts along with vaguely hand-shaped bruises decorating his skin, clothes torn and dry with blood.

No one ever found out what happened.

At the bridge that led to the unmarked forest, a lone pumpkin lay. Crushed at the middle, its innards spilling on the ground. Somewhere deep in the forest, a charred circle decorates a clearing, a half-burnt bloody sneaker just at the edges of it. On the large tulip tree’s low branch, two ribbons dance against the wind, before it carries them off into the sky.

It was that time of the year again.

Sleepy Hollow has claimed not one, but two souls that year.

This was written for a class. Hoping to refine it still, I just wanted to share it. Hope you guys enjoyed it.

#writings #short story #works

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