I don’t remember much about the twelfth year of my life. I can’t recall the guests at my birthday party, the names of my teachers, or even who went with me to the school dance. But there’s one thing about that year that I remember as vividly as if it happened yesterday—my encounter with the Unknown.
At the time, Mom and I lived alone on an isolated farm. A large woods stretched across the edge of our farm’s front yard, and there was a single path through it about two to three miles long leading to the opposite end of the woods. Along the outer edge of that end of the woods was a small church that had a graveyard behind it and that faced a desolate county road. There were no other houses or buildings along the road, and thus few other people or traffic ever passed through outside regular church hours.
The night I saw the Unknown, I had foolishly broken two of my mother’s rules and thus ended up in a situation I never should have been in the first place. Because there were no kids who lived near our place and thus little for me to do, Mom allowed me to walk through the woods and hang around the church yard and parking lot, where I read, wrote letters, drew chalk art, or shot baskets at the church’s basketball goal. But Mom was a little paranoid about kidnappers and serial killers and stuff, so she had two strict rules about my walks through the woods to the church. I was never to go there at night, and when I went during the day, I had to start home in time to be out of the woods and back in our front yard by dark.
Well that night, I hung out all afternoon at the church, and like an idiot, I let the time get away from me. I don’t even remember what I was doing anymore, but whatever it was, I know that staying out past dark to do it wasn’t worth the experience I endured as a result. My earliest memory of that evening is simply noticing the full, gray-white circle of the moon and a few stars in the bluish-black sky, and thinking I’d better hightail it home before Mother figured out I was out there alone after dark and grounded me until I was a hundred-and-five.
I turned toward the backyard of the church and studied what I could see of the route I’d taken there, and would have to take to get home. At the end of the graveyard that stretched before me, which seemed a lot bigger right then than it probably really was, lay the edge of the path that led through the woods and ended at the front yard of my house. I had taken that path alone many times during the day, but never alone at night. And at that moment, with no other signs of life round me but the occasional hoot of an owl, chirp of a cricket, or the periodic whistling of the cold wind that prickled every hair on my body, I had never felt more alone in my life. Or more afraid.
I told myself I was being silly, that there was nothing to be afraid of, then took a deep breath and stepped from the parking lot to the graveyard. Since I had broken my curfew and was scared to boot, my initial instinct was to run. But this was also the first time I’d been in a graveyard at night by myself, and somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to run through it. Instead, I trudged along and eyed the gravestones around me with uneasiness. They had taken on a strange, gray-white glow in the moonlight, like they weren’t really gravestones at all, but instead the ashen faces of corpses, or maybe even ghosts. With that thought, before my mind’s eye sprang forth images from every scary movie I’d ever seen about creatures emerging from graves and grabbing, clawing, tearing—even eating the flesh of all nearby, unwary human beings. With every rustle of leaves or crackling of twigs, my hands grew clammier, my body trembled harder, and my heart thudded louder and faster, even though what I heard was nothing more than the sound of my own footsteps. At least not at first.
But as I continued along, I was certain I heard rustlings and cracklings in addition to my own.
Between each noisy step I took, I detected faint, identical sounds from somewhere in the distance behind me, as if another being were taking steps too, following me. I stopped and whirled around. Between the far side of the graveyard and the edge of the church parking lot, black formations hovered between the trees and the building. Shadows. Nothing more. I stared into the darkness, held my breath, and listened, but heard only the increasingly faster pounding of my foolishly frightened heart.
I sighed in relief, turned, and started forward again. Yet again, between the sounds of my footsteps, I was certain I heard others. I was about halfway across the graveyard by then, and I began to walk faster toward the mouth of the woods. That’s when the sounds became more distinct and rapid, like footsteps that were moving faster to match my own. I turned back, and this time, I saw that one of the dark formations that I had thought was a shadow now stood apart from the others, as if it had moved forward and toward me. It remained motionless, a tall and large but shapeless mass of blackness in the moonlight, still looking like nothing more than a life-sized shadow. So I let myself believe it was just a shadow as I looked back at it over my shoulder and took another step forward. But then it seemed to move forward a little, as if it had taken a step too. And as I watched and took step after step, it moved forward more and more, matching my steps and my speed, until I came to the sickening realization that it was no shadow at all, but some unidentified, living person or creature that was pursuing me.
I turned away from it and towards the woods, then broke into a run. As I flew towards the path
through the woods, I could hear the thump-thump, thump-thump sound of two feet running behind me through the grass. And they were getting closer. I reached the wooded path, it, then risked a second look back. My predator was rushing toward me in a blur of blackness that was still unidentifiable. That’s when, because I was watching it instead of where I was going, I tripped and fell to the ground. I could see the thing over my shoulder. It didn’t stop as it had when I’d stopped before, or even slow, but continued speeding toward me. I shoved myself to my feet and began to run again, now faster than before, faster than I’d thought I could run, to make up for the distance it had gained on me.
I tore along the twisting path through the woods, the towering trees and the dark shadows that before would have scared me now seeming like nothing compared to the unknown creature that chased me. I kept running and could still hear it running after me too. When I was a little more than halfway down the path and thus half-home, I felt and heard my body starting to heave, and my upper legs growing sore. I knew I that was getting tired, that even my adrenaline speed was about to run out, that I couldn’t keep up this pace much longer. Yet still, still, over the loud gasps that came from my own mouth, I still, still, still heard the Unknown behind me. And apparently, it wasn’t tiring at all, because I never heard it slow down, gasp, or even breathe as it continued in its determined, relentless pursuit of me.
I ran on, yet I could feel my own body slowing down automatically, despite my brain screaming that it should not, it could not, for I was so close to being out of the woods. Sweat poured from my body, my heart actually ached from beating so hard in my chest, and I thought my lungs would collapse any minute. But the Unknown wasn’t slowing. With each passing second, my feet pounded more and more slowly against the ground, while the sound of the Unknown’s steps kept getting nearer and nearer. Suddenly I could hear it breathing as it drew closer, and closer to me still, close enough even for me to feel its hot, sporadic breath on the back of my neck. And soon after that, I felt something else on the bare skin of the arch between my neck and shoulder—a hand. Its touch was like ice.
Then, just its grip was tightening on my shoulder, I saw at the other end of the path, the opening where the woods stopped and my front yard began. Seeing at last how close I really was, a new spark of hope ignited my heart and fueled a final burst of adrenaline strength. I broke away from
the hand and flew along the path again. And it was as if I literally flew, because I moved so fast that my feet didn’t even seem to touch the ground. I could hear the Unknown running behind me until the moment that I burst through the opening of the woods and hit my front yard. As I ran through the yard and toward the front porch of my house, I no longer heard any footsteps but my own. Yet I didn’t dare stop or look behind me again, not until I bounded up the steps of the porch, saw the warm glow of the lights inside my house, and pulled open the door to go inside. Only then did I risk a glance back.
Just inside the mouth of the woods, within the dark shadows that blended together to hide the path and anything on it, I saw, as if suspended in mid-air, two bright, identical, red glowing things. The creature’s eyes, perhaps—except that I saw no pupils. I saw them only for a brief second before they disappeared, as if they’d never really been there at all.
I never again saw the thing that chased me, maybe because I never again allowed myself to be caught alone after dark at the church, in the woods, or any other abandoned, lifeless places. I still don’t know the identity of what chased me. I’ve considered many possibilities: vampire, werewolf, ghost, resurrected corpse from the graveyard, Death, the Devil, or just a crazy person with some really realistic-looking, fake eyes. Of course, there’s no way I’ll ever know for sure. But the memory still haunts me, both in my dreams and my waking hours each day.
What bothers me even more than the incident itself is that whatever chased me, and whatever it was going to do to me, will forever remain unknown to me There is a small part of me that wishes I had been brave enough to turn around and confront it, to face whatever it was going to do, just so I would have at least known who or what it was, and what it wanted with me.
Sometimes, I feel like any fate I would have met, no matter how horrible, could have never compared with having to spend the rest of my life fearing the Unknown.
The
End
Macey Baggett Wuesthoff was born in Florence, Alabama, where she graduated magna cum laude from the University of North Alabama. Her publications include a novel Sacrifice (Amber Quill Press), several newspapers articles, and short fiction and nonfiction in four anthologies. Writing awards include the 1998 Phi Kappa Phi Student Scholars Award and second place in two contests. Macey resides in Florida with her husband Nathan and three Chihuahuas. Her self-designed website is located at http://www.maceyshouseofhorror.com.
Top
of Page
