If you follow the eastern hiking path at Great Pines park, in Attenbridge, you’ll find a small plaque on an insignificant looking tree. This plaque will mention a fire a few decades back that nearly destroyed the forest, if not for the tenacious and immediate actions of the local fire department. It then goes on to describe the various ways a forest fire could occur, warning of the dangers of improperly extinguished campfires, and carelessly thrown cigarettes. The plaque says that the source was never discovered. Some of the locals claimed they first saw the smoke near the old lumberyard, while others said they heard a woman scream somewhere near the ranger’s station. The world doesn’t truly know how the forest fire at Attenbridge happened. Their ignorance is something I envy to this very day.
...
Park ranger wasn’t exactly the job I had imagined when I moved back to Attenbridge. I had hoped some past acquaintance would need a partner in their business, or that my father would consider giving me my job back at the construction company. However, my name brought more quizzical looks than nostalgic smiles, and it was clear my father wasn’t open to my return to the family business. So, I took to the local paper, and found an offer for a ranger position in Great Pines park. The previous ranger had left town unexpectedly, and left the position in desperate need of filling. I gladly applied, as I had always loved the forest, and the job seemed low in responsibility and decent in pay.
The first few months were simple enough, and most of the legwork was reminding people not to smoke on the trails, and pointing out the restrooms and garbage cans. The trails closed at sundown, so I usually spent the last hour of my shift checking the trails for lagging hikers.
One night, I had finished checking the west trail, and was starting my trip down the eastern path, when I heard a rustling. By now, I was used to making sure people stayed in the campgrounds. It was usually just some college kids trying to set camp in the middle of the woods, in some attempt to make their camping experience feel more “authentic”-- to distance themselves from the safety and structure of the park. But, more often than not, it just meant I had a group of poison oak victims knocking at my door, desperate for calamine lotion.
As I carefully maneuvered over root and rock, the rustling stopped. I paused, figuring that I had just heard the errant skittering of a raccoon. I began my return to the ranger station, when I heard it again, this time deeper off the trail. Deciding it was better to check, than risk my job, I continued to follow the sound. Eventually, I found myself in a small clearing, and the sound disappeared again.
I shone my flashlight into the clearing, calling out:
“Hello?”
All I received in turn was silence.
I considered that I might have intruded on something illicit.
“Listen! I don’t care what you’re doing, just get out of here!”
Looking into the woods beyond, I could see nothing but the ever thickening treeline.
Just as I was considering giving up, I heard the noise again, and saw leaves settling where something had trampled through.
As I continued deeper into the forest, I lost the sound of the steps a few hundred feet beyond the clearing. I swept my light through the forest, hoping to drive them out again, and it landed on a small structure.
It was a metal shed, with walls rusted to a dull, mottled orange. The supervisor of the park hadn’t mentioned any kind of storage area, so I was lost on its purpose.
As I slowly pushed open the creaking metal door, I cast my light into the dusty darkness. There was a rusted tool-box, a few molding signs with phrases like “trail closed” and “area under excavation,” and even a few musty tomes on wildlife and vegetation. As I scanned the room, I set my light on a figure in the center-- my blood ran cold. All of those things were benign compared to that still figure that stood there. A mannequin. Looking as though it was dumped there straight from a storefront window.
The bizarre presence of it put all thought of the trespasser to the side as I stared into its lifeless plastic face. It didn’t look like it was from the same era as all the other faded and forgotten relics, and definitely didn’t match them in wear and tear. It was pristine.
Approaching the figure, I noticed how lifelike the face was-- the eyes especially. They had that “follow-you-around-the-room” quality those older, more morose portraits have. The uncanniness of the figure’s smiling face and rosy cheeks didn’t help my unease. The faux hair was trimmed to a shoulder length bob, and was bright blonde, which brought memories of my mother-- the hair was a spitting image to hers.
The bare body of the thing was unsettling. The beige nakedness of the glossy fiberglass. Shaped after life, yet only bearing that merger outline of humanness. The slotted joints revealed peeking bits of the dull, gray metal skeleton that kept it posed in rigid stillness. The model seemed to balance between life and death, silently carrying the signs of both.
Just as I was about to stop gawking over my strange discovery-- I noticed its hands. The nails were painted a vivid shade of deep red. A red that evoked a darkness not unlike blood, yet a brightness that left heat in your fingertips. This brought more memories of my family... My sister had gotten into my mother’s makeup, and used up all her polish to paint her dolls’ nails. It was that same shade of dark, brilliant red.
The feeling of warmth and liveliness that it put in me, struck me as somewhere between unsettling and nostalgic. The memories it awakened were so sudden and strong, that I felt as though I were in a lucid dream. I couldn’t help but reach out to the hands, and try to hold on to such pleasant and genuine memories, far and fleeting as they can be.
As my hand touched the figure’s-- a shiver wracked my frame. I felt a sudden dampness. I looked at my hand, and there was a red mark. I looked back at the figure’s hands, and slowly reached out to touch them again. I brushed my finger across the mannequin's nails-- I felt the same dampness.
The paint was fresh.
...
As I closed that ancient shed, I peered into the inky blackness beyond the treeline. I figured if they wanted it back, then it would be gone by morning. As I headed back, I couldn’t help but wonder why the nails would be painted. I figured maybe it was stolen, and this was some attempt to increase the value. People never steal the things you’d expect them to. I didn’t know how much a mannequin would cost, but it would probably be more than I’d expect. Even then, that didn’t account for why they’d leave it in the middle of the woods. The woods were picturesque, so maybe it was for some kind of avant-garde photography? You never know these days... I figured that some answers were just never meant to be found.
Lying in bed, I was kept restless by those rekindled memories. That mannequin had unearthed parts of my past that I had thought long forgotten. When sleep finally came, it was far from restful, as I was taken to a dreamscape of tainted vividness.
...
The smell. That’s the first thing I notice. Noxious and chemical-- yet sickly sweet. A vomitous concoction reminiscent of paint thinner and rotting fruit. My head spins. My eyes burn. Then-- a new sensation. Warm. Wet. I look down-- an ocean of darkness, with flickering red waves. I’m treading a thick, viscous liquid-- thinner than tar, yet thicker than water-- or blood. I struggle to escape it, and just as I start choking on the rotten sludge-- I find solid ground. The ground feels smooth like glass, and has a heat that seems to come in quaking pulses from deep below. I try to walk, but my legs grow stiff. The liquid has begun coagulating around my limbs. I pull it off in hot, dripping sheets. Again, and again-- until it lies in a great heap. I try to walk once again, but feel a sudden searing across my form. I look down, and find my body drenched in glimmering crimson. The scent finally reaches me. Salty. Metallic. I look back at the pile of discarded sheets-- but, I do not see that toxic material. The pile is of my own skin.
...
The next morning, I found myself lying in shivering dampness. My bed was stained with sweat, my sheets laying around me in a haphazard tangle.
My skin still burned, as though part of me still stood on that vile glass shore. I took a cold shower, in an attempt to shake that unsettling warmth that still stuck with me into waking.
That hot dread stayed with me, all the way up to my arrival at the park-- my arrival at the shed. I checked, and the mannequin was, as I had hoped, gone. I put a lock on the shed, certain that would be the last time I would think of that silent figure, standing lifeless in its limbo of near-humanity.
It was around a week before anything of note happened.
That hot dread stayed with me, all the way up to my arrival at the park-- my arrival at the shed. I checked, and the mannequin was, as I had hoped, gone. I put a lock on the shed, certain that would be the last time I would think of that silent figure, standing lifeless in its limbo of near-humanity.
It was around a week before anything of note happened.
...
Seemed like a small thing at first, just a concerned neighbor. Someone owned a cabin just up the road from Great Pines, and they had called the ranger station. They had found some scratches, and wondered if I could head over and identify them. I had been told that some wolves had wandered into the grounds a few years ago. Nobody was hurt, but the scare did affect the park’s visitor numbers for awhile. I agreed, since it seemed best to discover them away from the park if it was happening again.
When I got up to the cabin, I was greeted by a wrinkled white-haired man in a grey suit. He told me he rented out the cabin, and had only come up to shut off the pipes before winter. He’d noticed the scratches as he was heading inside. They were all along the front door. He had a right to be concerned, as whatever had marked up the door had scored it until there was a small pile of wood dust along the ground.
As soon as I saw the marks, I knew it wasn’t wolves. I didn’t know what it was. The scratches were fairly shallow, something without the long claws of a wolf or bear. But, they were all about five feet above the ground, so it certainly wasn’t anything like a raccoon. Then I finally figured it out, and shook my head, smiling. The man looked confused, and I told him he simply had a bad case of “people” on his hands. He looked confused, and I explained that there was a high school down the road, and that the end of summer meant a final act of rebellion was usually in order, in this case their "prank" was obviously somewhat of a success. He laughed, saying he understood. His wife had wanted him to replace the door anyways, so there was no real harm in the long run. Mostly, we were both glad it wasn’t wolves, and agreed that it was lucky nothing had been broken or stolen.
He took off, as I said I would give a once-over to the property, just in case they had left any errant beer cans or other traces of their presence. I did find some scattered ground, where it looked like they had come up from the forest between the cabin and the park, but nothing else. As I headed back to my car, I took one last look at the door.
I didn’t see anything beyond random scratching, but as I looked closer there was something off about them. I could swear that in those scratches, there was just a hint of color. It struck me as something familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It is only now that I realize what shade it was.
...
I continued to have restless sleep, but without the horrific, vivid dreams. Yet, an infernal, choking heat was ever-present. It always stayed with me into the morning. My skin felt as though it were too tightly bound, and it took hours for that searing weariness to subside. It was as though I was stilling having the nightmare, but never remembered it.
I was also disturbed by my new tendency to thrash in my sleep. My bed was torn apart whenever I awoke, and I often found fresh bruises on my arms and legs. One morning I even found my bedside lamp shattered on the ground. I stopped sleeping with pillows or sheets, in fear that I might constrict, or suffocate myself in my disturbed slumber.
Weeks of sleeplessness became months of bitter exhaustion. I was perched upon a ramshackle scaffolding of wakefulness, and I feared that I was growing ever closer to a breaking point.
...
One afternoon, as I was preparing to check on the campgrounds, an older couple approached me. They told me they heard something in the woods as they were laying in their tents. This wasn’t too unusual. To the anxious camper an opossum scurrying up a tree, sounds all too similar to a predator prowling for fresh meat.
Their site was the northernmost of the campgrounds, and was closest to the untouched elements of the forest. This sealed my belief that it was just an errant forest critter that had simply crept a bit too close to their tents. I still headed into the adjacent woods, just to put their minds at ease.
As I looked for any droppings or tracks, I spotted some trampled ground. As I continued into the thicket, the snapped twigs and crushed leaves ended about a hundred feet out. I couldn’t find anything that indicated it was anything beyond what I expected, so I started back towards the camp site. Then, I heard something that seemed out of place in the verdant silence of the woods.
It was a gentle creaking-- reminiscent of slow steps on an old wooden floor. I figured it was the branches slowly moving in the wind. But-- I felt no wind.
I followed the noise further out, until I heard it again right above me. I looked up.
The sound came from the slow, steady sway of a rope, tied to a branch high above.
My heart sank, as I saw a human form dangling from a frayed rope.
Suddenly, I found my head spinning and had to look away-- before I lost any semblance of composure. It felt as though I was no longer in the forest. I didn’t feel the cool canopy of the trees-- I felt a scorching summer sun, and as I stared at my feet-- I swear that, if only for a moment, I was no longer standing on the floor of snapped twigs, crushed leaves, and dead pine needles-- but on bright, green freshly cut grass.
I shook myself back into reality.
After a long moment, I finally looked up again, knowing I couldn't deny reality forever. What I saw should have brought me profound and immediate relief. Yet, all I felt was an icy chill slowly creep through my veins.
Hanging from the rope, swinging in the silent breeze-- was a mannequin.
Hanging from the rope, swinging in the silent breeze-- was a mannequin.
...
I was certain it was a trick of my sleep deprived subconscious, blurring the morbid truth that dangled above me. Then, I felt something drip down, and hit my face. I wiped it away, and looked down at my hand. It was red-- deep and vibrant. I had nearly hoped it was blood, but as soon as the scent hit me-- I couldn’t deny what it was: noxious and chemical, with an air of tainted sickly sweetness.
I ran. I couldn’t stand another second standing there under her.
I ran until I stood shaking and breathless back at the campsite.
...
I ran until I stood shaking and breathless back at the campsite.
...
The older couple looked worried as I finally returned to the ranger’s station. They asked what I had found, and tightly held each other's hands as if they could tell that I had seen something. I told them they had nothing to worry about. As I started to head inside, one of them asked me if I was sure everything was okay. I stood there for a long, silent moment, before finally repeating myself.
"You have nothing to worry about."
"You have nothing to worry about."
A few minutes later, I saw them carrying their things to the parking lot. It was clear they hadn’t believed me. I understood. I didn’t really believe me either.
Sitting at the front desk of the station, I drifted into sleep.
...
I once again stand on that glassy shore, and hear the crashing of the red waves behind me.
The sound seems wrong-- deeper and louder than it should be. In front of me, is a door-- scored with glimmering red scratches. I grasp the knob, which burns bitterly against my hand, and turn it. I find myself standing on a floor of fraying ropes. I turn back to leave-- the door is gone.
I stand unsteadily on the swaying ropes as I try to find my footing. It seems no matter how I shift my weight-- I’m never balanced. I slip-- again, and again. Falling between the gaps in the ropes. I soon have burns all across my body. I collapse in exhaustion.
I feel my body slip through the ropes. Before I can grasp at them, I fall completely through. I dread my descent into the void below-- then I stop. There is a brief moment of relief-- then a pressure. The rope has twisted around my neck. I struggle with the rope, my fingernails crack and bleed as I claw desperately at the bindings. It isn’t blood-- the same smell as before-- my vision dims and grows blurry.
I look around me for a way out-- I see two figures in the distance. They both hang by their necks, swinging gently. I stop struggling and stare at them. One is small-- a child. I know them.
Everything goes black.
...
As I slowly stirred awake, I realized I was still sitting at the desk of the ranger station. I must have slept for some time, as it had grown dark outside.
I realized that the mannequin was likely still hanging in the tree in the middle of the woods. In the moment, I hadn’t even thought of what to do with the thing. All I knew was that I had to get out there before someone else found that morbid scene in the middle of the woods. The last thing I wanted was a bunch of desperate local reporters coming in asking about the "unexplained happenings in Attenbridge." I had dealt with enough of those to last a lifetime...
As I made my way towards the campsite, I felt a strange feeling welling inside me. It was some unnameable emotion, that kept my steps purposeful, yet left me feeling as though I was headed towards someplace forbidden. I felt like a child sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night.
Heading into the woods, I felt that I would easily be able to find the tree that held that dangling figure-- yet after an hour of aimless searching, I grew worried that I might never find that single tree among countless others. I nearly considered giving up, as I finally heard the same slow creaking from before. It struck me again how odd that calm swaying was-- there was still no wind. I looked up, and once again saw a rope swaying above me. However, the mannequin was gone.
I looked at the ground, and saw a wide trail where something had been dragged. I hoped whoever had put the thing there in the first place hadn’t moved it to a more visible area of the park. I saw the moonlight glinting off of something along the ground. It was the polish. It must have still been dripping wet when they had pulled it down. I touched it, and my skin crawled. It was still damp. I didn’t stop to think, I just started following the trail, hoping I could catch whoever had robbed me of restful sleep, and soundness of mind.
As I followed the trail, I noticed it was heading towards the eastern hiking path, and I feared to find the worst-- the thing standing right on the trail, somehow surrounded by gawking late-night hikers.
People have a tendency for that.
Just standing and staring...
Thankfully, the trail continued into the forest beyond. As I followed the trail through a clearing-- I knew where I would find it.
The small metal shed sat silently, looking somehow more decayed than it had when I first found it. The trail ended in front of the shed. The lock still sitting on the door.
I looked at the ground around me, but could find no other set of steps.
I thought that I would find whoever was responsible standing right behind that door, but as I unlocked it-- my heart froze in my chest.
It was just the mannequin.
...
I couldn’t think. I could only act.
I hefted the mannequin over my shoulder-- ignoring the nail polish staining my shirt and pants. I started towards the lumberyard. I didn’t know why I was going there, I was only guided by a gut-borne certainty of action. When I finally arrived, after an hour of grunting and sweating through the woods holding the surprisingly heavy figure-- I saw why I had come.
The incinerator.
The old lumberyard had fallen out of use, but the park still used the incinerator for unsalvageable wood scraps. I lugged the figure over to the large, black iron container, and set it down.
I stared once again into that lifeless face. I hoped in that moment it would suddenly be clear why the thing left such an impression on me. I looked down at its hands. The paint dripped slowly off its fingers, resting in small puddles at its side. They reminded me again of my sister. My mother.
She had painted her dolls with my mother’s polish. But, in the process, had also managed to get the paint all over her face and clothes.
When my mother had found her, sitting there covered in paint-- my mother had laughed. Laughed so hard, that it eventually drew me and my father into the room. We stood there, smiling. She then gently lifted my sister up, and left the room. I remember that moment, looking at those dolls, whose hands were haphazardly covered in that vibrant red nail polish. The bottle had been left on its side, and poured out a small puddle that clung to the shag carpeting.
As far as I knew it was still there. An eternal reminder...
It should have been a pleasant memory. Something that could be returned to in the darkest of times to help one find solace from the constant blows that the world delivers.
It wasn’t.
I suddenly felt sick, and quickly loaded the mannequin into the incinerator. Turning the machine on, I headed back to the station. I couldn’t be there a moment longer. I would come back in the morning, in order to throw the metal remains into the dumpster.
...
As I arrived back at the ranger station, I still felt sick. I sat down, hoping for the feeling to subside. As I closed my eyes to try to stop my head from spinning-- I heard something.
I thought it was a car driving up the road, crunching the gravel beneath its wheels.
I opened my eyes.
The mannequin stood in the doorway-- engulfed in crackling flames.
...
As the fire licked across its vacant gaze-- I thought it might burst into life. That it might charge viciously towards me-- with metal claws of melting plastic. Yet, it just stood there. Staring with those same glassy eyes-- as its skin fell to the ground in bubbling pools of toxic fumes. I noticed its hands-- they were outstretched towards me. Not in some bestial contempt-- but lovingly; as though it were offering a motherly embrace. But, mere moments later-- the hands dripped from those iron limbs, and laid in sizzling heaps. Even through the dizzying fumes, and thickening smoke-- I swear I could still see those nails... those red nails-- deep and dark, yet bright and vibrant-- nails painted the color of chokecherry wine. They disappeared into burnt blackness.
All that was left were metal bones and that staring face. It felt obscene staring at her. As though I were staring at a mutilated corpse. I looked away, and saw that in my inattentive daze, the fire had crept across the wooden building-- I was trapped.
The heat pounded against me, and I felt as though my skin too might slough off in the roaring flames. The heat felt familiar. It felt as though it were wrapped around me. My eyes burned from the smoke, and I squinted into twisting tendrils of the fire. The smoke twisted itself into a large plume, that seemed to hover over the mannequin. It looked like a large blackened tree. The flames around me seemed to all face towards her. It was as though they were suddenly more than alive, as they stood in unnatural stillness. I shut my eyes-- yet the scene remained before me.
...
A woman dangled lifeless from a tall oak tree.
Dozens stood around her. Just standing and staring.
The summer sun pounded unforgivingly above.
She never forgave herself. How could she have known?
Children are naturally curious. She just wanted to taste it.
The polish was named “chokecherry wine.” A bitter irony.
I just left...
There were too many reminders. I forced myself to forget.
...
As I reopened my eyes, I saw that the mannequin’s face was melting. It slowly caved in, and started to bubble and swell in the intensity of the heat. As the plastic finally burst-- a piercing screech escaped it-- a sound that was eerily human. It rattled apart the metal remains, which collapsed violently to the ground. I too collapsed-- finally overwhelmed.
...
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed. A nurse told me that I had been rescued by the fire department, who had found me unconscious on the ground in the ranger station. The station hadn't suffered any fire damage, but a significant portion of the surrounding forest area did. They said it was a miracle that I had survived. I only suffered minor burns, and mild smoke inhalation. A police officer came into the room, and asked if I knew how the fire might’ve started. I claimed ignorance, but asked if they checked the incinerator in the old lumberyard. They said they had, but that it had been cold to the touch.
After that, I was discharged, and promptly quit my job at Great Pines. I finally approached my father honestly, apologizing for leaving town so suddenly. With my job at the construction company back, and working at my father’s side, it felt as though I could finally deal with a life in Attenbridge. In the months that followed, my sleep was finally sound, and my dreams were pleasantly mundane.
...
...
A couple weeks ago, I ran into the park supervisor who had initially given me my job at Great Pines. I asked if he had found a replacement yet. He hadn't, and he asked me why I quit, considering how eager I was to start the job when I had arrived.
It took me a moment to put it into words, but I finally just said:
“The place was a bit too... quiet. Lets your thoughts get the better of you."
He chuckled dryly,
“Yeah... the guy before you used to say something like that.”
We talked a little while after that about more typical things. As he stood up and left, I couldn't help but wonder about what he said. I had always thought it was simply my own mind working me over. But, maybe it was something more. Maybe it was something in Great Pines. Something that's waiting for the next ranger to take up their post-- trying to get away from it all. Something that looks into your past, even if you won't.
“The place was a bit too... quiet. Lets your thoughts get the better of you."
He chuckled dryly,
“Yeah... the guy before you used to say something like that.”
We talked a little while after that about more typical things. As he stood up and left, I couldn't help but wonder about what he said. I had always thought it was simply my own mind working me over. But, maybe it was something more. Maybe it was something in Great Pines. Something that's waiting for the next ranger to take up their post-- trying to get away from it all. Something that looks into your past, even if you won't.
