Ten Steps into Brackenwood—By Ian A. Bain
“One,” Julia called out, for herself and for the boys watching, “Two,” she couldn’t let the boys tease her, “Three!” even if she only got 9 steps into the miniature forest, that’d be farther than either Martin or Greg got, “Four,” the patch of trees looked no bigger than a classroom from a distance, “Five!” but with every step, the trees seemed to multiply, “Six! Beat you, Martin!” Julia’s delight was short-lived.
“Still got four more, hot-shit!” Greg called. His voice seemed far like the boys were running away.
“Seven!” she trembled, “Eight!” two more, “Nine!” the things they say about Brackenwood can’t be true, “Ten!” can they? “Ha, Ha! Suck it, nerds!” Julia whipped around, her French braids twirling. She looked back to give Martin and Greg the finger, but they weren’t there. Instead of the open park that bordered Brackenwood, there was only forest.
Julia turned in all directions. Did I get that mixed up? God, I suck at directions! But there was nothing but pines and firs and birch. Julia picked a direction and ran. Leaping over roots like Spiderman and ducking branches like Black Widow, she ran and ran and ran. Julia ran ten steps, then fifty. She stopped counting at one hundred. She stopped running at two hundred. How? The bush isn’t that big. Julia pulled out her phone. Dead, of course, it is. If Mrs. Fletcher had just let me plug it in during English class. Bitch! Julia turned and turned, looking for any sort of clue about where to go. Greg’s taunts swum around in her mind, “They say once you take ten steps into Brackenwood, you never leave.”
Julia whimpered. She cried, and then cried harder, and—
Wait, what was that? Julia froze. Someone…breathing. Julia turned around and screamed. Wide-eyed, Julia asked, “M-Mom?”
Julia’s mother was posed like she was on a crucifix. She spoke in desperate gasps, “Ju-lia…you need…to stay here…or else…”
“What? What are you—” A branch burst through the crown of her mother’s head, and Julia screamed again. Brain, bone, and blood spat into Julia’s eyes and mouth. “Juliaaa,” her mother continued, her voice growing more mumbled and wet, “Say you’ll stay…forever…they say…they’ll stop…if you promise…to stay.”
Julia’s mother wailed in agony as the tree continued upwards and through her. Branches grew out of her shoulder blades, ripping her arms away. Roots tore her toes and feet and legs apart and then planted themselves into the earth. Within seconds, a new tree stood in front of Julia. Her mother’s heart sat in a hole in this new tree, still beating.
The cracks of the tree were filled with her mother’s pulsating veins. Limbs and digits and pieces of flesh hung from branches. Her big toe sprung from a shoot. Kidneys dangled. Her head was split in two and wrapped around the trunk.
“Pleassse…Juliaaaa,” her mother inexplicably continued, “say you’ll stayyyy.”
Julia walked out of Brackenwood and received her adulations. Martin and Gregory chanted her name and patted her back. But it wasn’t Julia high-fiving Julia’s friends. Julia is still in Brackenwood, still holding the tree she thinks is her mother.
What walked out was something else.
AUTHOR BIO
Ian A. Bain is a writer of dark fiction living in Muskoka, Ontario. Ian enjoys Horror, coffee, and long walks through the swamp with his wife and undead dog. Ian's fiction has appeared in various anthologies, magazines, and podcasts. Ian can be stalked online at @bainwrites on Twitter.
