Creepy - Creepaway Camp 2023 - Day 8: The Northern Woods of Western Mass & Out There, In The Woods, I Run Every Night

Episode Date: April 27, 2023

The Northern Woods of Western Mass***Written by: whatsurgentsays and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Link: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Northern_Woods_of_Western_Mass***Out There, In The Woods, I Run Every Night***Written by: Olivia White and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

John, I think it's time to level with us. What's actually going on here? I'm not playing dumb. No one said you were playing anything. Oh. Wait. They're right, John. Some really weird stuff's been going on around the camp.

Things have gone missing. That could be raccoons. There's no such things, raccoons. What? I don't want to talk about it. Anyway, there's nothing weird going on here except that it's just a three. of us around the campfire tonight. Wait.

Was showing up with the fire optional? No. Then where is everyone, John? Why's everyone looking at me? Because you've been rehearsing your pop and lock routine in front of us for the last 20 minutes. Where else are we supposed to look? So, would you say I'm getting better? Like on a scale between zero and distracting.

What would you say I am right now? So you all change the subject? If you stop dancing, I promise I'll tell a story. How about that? Not sure if I should be offended or not, but go ahead, Jimmy. Jimmy, you can really stay focused on a story when John's obviously trying to... Oh my God! What?

Jimmy's going to tell a story! Yay! Also, Jimmy, I really do appreciate how calm you've been staying during all this. Probably because of my time in the northern woods of Western Mass. What surgeon says? What? Nothing. You were saying, Jimmy.

As most weird and scary stories start off, this takes. place in the woods. If you're not familiar with Western Mass, it's quite different than the rest of Massachusetts near Boston and along the coast. When I say different, I mean the complete opposite. Most of the area I live in is made up of small towns, winding roads and woods, lots and lots of woods. In our town we have a few popular wooded areas, but none quite as as notorious as the northern woods. From afar, they don't seem much different than the other woods. There are a lot of trees, and some hiking trails, and the constant threat of getting lost

overnight. That's not too different than most townswooded areas, especially the further away you get from the city. The thing about the northern woods is there are a few really odd stories that come out of there. Some of these experiences include people close. claiming to hear classical music playing all around them, even when they're miles out from civilization. Every story is the same,

in that the music begins quietly at first, when they're far out into the woods, and it slowly builds until all around them and impossible to ignore. And just like that, it'll disappear. Another local legend revolves around different people going out for hikes in drastically different zones of the wood, and coming back talking of finding trees holding spotless portraits of people they didn't recognize.

Each story tells of the same site, a group of large pictures painted of unknown people from a previous century, all in golden trim frames. I've never personally encountered either of these, but wanted to mention them nonetheless. There is one old story about the Northern Woods I do know to be true, though I wish it wasn't. Years ago, a young girl and her family went out into the woods for a day hike. Let's call her Sally for the sake of the story and privacy. Sally and her family were locals, from a few towns over, and loved to hike around the trails in the area. The trails in the Northern Woods were a place her parents hadn't yet explored,

so they took their young daughters for a walk one day in the summer. As children are wont to do, apparently nine-year-old Sally wandered off while her parents were tending to her younger sister during the picnic lunch. Although they had only been busy for a few moments, by the time they realized she was missing, Sally was long gone. After an hour or so of searching, they contacted the authorities, a large-scale manhunt ensued,

bringing in many members of the town to look for Sally, but to no avail. After two weeks or so, most of the people searching gave up hope, and the family took it as a sign to begin mourning their daughter. That didn't mean the town's people forgot, however. One year later, on her birthday, which as is so happened, was around the time of her disappearance.

A few of the more spiritual townsfolk got together, and brought a handful of dolls to the woods for Sally's spirit. They left them by the area she went missing as a token of their love, and in hopes that if she was still lost in the woods, she'd have some company now. Rumor has that they also partook in some kind of ritual, though no one I knew in the town would elaborate on that part. A few days later, when one of those locals was hiking through the woods

near where they left the dolls. They were surprised to find them all gone. Assuming it was local kids taking them as a joke, the woman came back in a rage, made a bit of a scene to the family of a few local teenagers. Only none of them seemed to have the dolls, or even knew they existed. And one was even quoted as saying that would be a mean trick,

even for them. And this was the kind of kid who spray-painted genitalia on every open surface he could find. Flash forward a couple of years, and stories start to circulate from people who walk deep into the north woods. Stories trickled back of people going on hikes they thought they knew,

only to somehow end up turned around on the basic trails that they traveled hundreds of times. After some annoyed discombobulation, they'd come across a clearing they hadn't seen before, and in the clearing, would be none other than Sally's dolls. As the stories were told, the dolls were all in a line around a small table,

each having their own rock to sit on. The elements hadn't been kind of the dolls, however, and they were rotten and tattered with age. They would always be in line so that they all appeared to be staring and waiting for the newcomer, and a solitary spot was open at the rock table. As all urban legends go, it got darker, claiming that if you did sit in the rock and wait,

Sally would show up and you would become part of her tea party forever. One thing that all these stories had in common was that the people who saw the table immediately left, and many got lost on their way home. When I first heard these stories, I thought they were. were a load of trash. Just typical small town folklore trying to make a sad story scary. That was until another young child, this time a boy, went missing while I was living there. The story sounded similar. Family goes out for a hike. Parents stopped paying attention to one child for a while, and they disappear. Only this time it was a little boy, and the townsfolk weren't going to let

another kid go missing, considering how the last search failed. The town went absolutely frantic. All hands on deck was called, and we even shut down the paper, well, our whole seven-person editorial team, to devote all of our time to help. It was during these searches that I first began to suspect that there was a grain of truth to this story. As it turned down, Benaz, we'll call this little boy in this case, was found two days later. Other than having a few cuts and scrapes and having quite the appetite, he was fine. Only the stories he told of what he saw in the woods seemed very odd. An eight-year-old boy who knew nothing of local folklore said he left his parents because he saw a little girl, and she asked him to play.

And being bored of the picnic and his whining little brother, he left with her. He said she asked him to sit down at her tea party. Which he did. Only when he sat down, she disappeared. When he got bored and tried to leave, she reappeared. And told him that she didn't want him to leave. Then disappeared again. Every time he got up to walk away, she kept reappearing and bringing him back to the table again.

Ben's story concluded that eventually he cried and left from the table, running forever across the entire field, which really accentuated this. Which was strange, because although there are some clearings in the woods, I wouldn't call any of them a field, even from an eight-year-old. When he looked for the girl again, she had disappeared, taking her dolls with her. A few minutes later, one of the local searchers found him, and he was brought home. Now, there are two really odd things about this story. Number one is that he claims to have seen Sally,

and had no idea her story existed. Number two was a timeline of his story. Even though he's young and was likely traumatized, he should have remembered two nights passing, but his story only seems to span two hours or so. And when he was found, he should have been more hungry and dehydrated. But he was in near perfect health, as if he had just wandered off the trail an hour or so before. The family didn't think too much of this. and instead thought of it a miracle.

I, on the other hand, was curious as hell. So naturally, I began to walk with Rocco, my dog, in the northern woods as much as I could. I pretty much explored every trail I could with Rocco over the next few weeks. And even though the area of the northern woods is pretty huge, I honestly began to feel like I knew the area quite well. There were some really easy walking trails and some more difficult, A hill to climb, they called it a mountain put place.

With a great view, a few gorgeous opening clearings, and even a small pond that teenagers would escape to when playing hooky on beautiful spring days. All in all, it was a pretty beautiful area, and I felt Rocco and I had the place pretty much nailed down. That was until one morning, when Rocco and I were walking down one of the main paths, right at the beginning of the trailhead. I noticed what appeared to be a different path, jutting off from the main one, one I had never

noticed before. I began walking toward it, and heard Rocco cry and back away. I called him forward, and he reluctantly followed me through the brush, and down this strange new trail. We only had to walk a few minutes until we quite suddenly came to a clearing that seemed to have come out of nowhere, and was one I had never seen before. I stopped just at the edge and had an odd feeling. Then I listened.

No birds. No birds chirping. No bugs. No sounds of animals sneaking through the underbrush. This spot was just about dead silent. Just as I was about to make a note to Rocco about the silence, I heard a little cry from him. I looked over and saw him looking intently across the clearing. Therein between a few trees.

and open in the sunlight was a small table, surrounded by six or so rocks. Each rock had an old decrepit doll on it, save for one. And each of the dolls were positioned as if looking at me and Rocco, waiting for us to join them. Normally I'd like to think of myself as a pretty brave fellow, but this was a bit much. There was something about the placement of the dolls, and the fact that I swear I don't see them. when I first walked up to the clearing that utterly freaked me out. I've seen enough horror movies to know the overly curious guy who plays with the ghost dolls tends to end up dead.

So I turned on my heels and started to walk away. I didn't even have to call for Rocco. The moment he sensed I wanted to leave, the poor little guy was halfway back up the trail. I swear, though, that on our way back, I could hear the faintest sound in the background of a young girl crying. Even through my adrenaline surged fear, it did break my heart a bit. It didn't feel menacing, it didn't sound like a trap.

Just sounded like a sad little girl. One time I tried to stop and listen, I got a quick bark and cry from Rocco and resumed my journey home. By the time we got back to the main trail, I noticed. something odd. It was dusk. We had begun our walk at 7.30 a.m. And it had only taken us 15 minutes or so to find the new trail, and then 20 minutes max to walk down that. Then some time to explore the clearing. Yet somehow almost 12 hours seemed to have passed. I checked my watch, and it read the time I was expecting, about 8.45. Besides the fact that I was annoyed, I had literally wasted an entire day, but in a matter of minutes.

This definitely added to the curiosity of the situation. This was strange. This was very strange. But considering the weird tea party from hell, I just found, definitely took second place in the weird race of the day. That entire night, I couldn't get that quiet, sad cry out of my head. I also couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness that clearing had. It didn't even have a single bird to break the silence.

I knew eventually I was going to have to go back there. Only next time I would need to be prepared. Fast forward a couple completely normal weeks, and I felt I was ready to try this again. I had made my preparations, and felt like enough time had passed that when I saw this thing again, I wouldn't crap my pants. I packed up the car and grabbed Rocco's leash and off we went.

This time in our journey, the hidden trail wasn't so easy to find. I know exactly where it was last time, yet during the visit it was inexplicably gone. Although I couldn't explain it at the time, I figured I must have made a calculation, and Rocco needed a walk anyway. So we just traveled our usual trails. I know most people would say finding that was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, was paranormal. But I really did feel like I was meant to find it again.

I felt like whoever was there wanted me there. I just had this gut feeling I'd get there. I also realized most people who had experienced this and had a sensation that the creepy place wanted you to return would probably do their very best to never return. But hey, I'm a curious writer. Guilty is charged. About an hour and a half in or a walk

and far from the original entry point, I spotted it. There, behind a fallen tree on the opposite end of the woods was the exact same hidden trailhead I found before. I began to walk down the trail and Rocco was having none of it. He whined and cried and even sat his doggy ass on the ground who would not move. After a few minutes of calling, pulling on his leash and extensive amount of doggy treats, he followed me, reluctantly, down the path again. At this moment, I had really begun to wish I had brought a friend. I mean, I had Rocco, but he wasn't a very large dog.

And if I ever wanted to tell this story, he wouldn't be able to give his first-hand account. Unless I called the dog whisperer, that is. But this thought was fleeting, because just as I realized how big a mistake it was to go at this alone, I heard Rocco's cry and felt him hide behind my legs. There was a small clearing in the woods. What was strange is that it genuinely appeared to come out of nowhere. One second I was walking down this path surrounded by trees. Then I looked down to see what Rocco was up to.

Look up and bam. I'm at the edge of this clearing. And there, right in the center, was a small table surrounded by six or so rocks. from where I had originally found it. On all but one, there were seated dolls. Their clothes torn and dirty from years in the wilderness, and their hair matted and their eyes blank. This time, I walked towards the little table.

I noticed the silence again, and could hear my heart beating in my chest. I began to realize my plan was half-assed at best. I also realized that most normal people would not do what I was about to do. I sat down at the table. Nothing happened. None of the dolls came to life and strung me up between a few trees by my entrails. And no little girl's girl came out.

I waited a few moments. I even called out Sally's name. I'm still nothing. I looked closer at the dolls and realized just how old and dirty they were. They looked like they had been out there for ages. I began to think that maybe I really did just get. get lost this time. And I was where I originally thought I was. The whole thing I decided was just really odd happenstance of getting lost in the woods. What must have happened was some kids took the

dolls when the volunteers left them and set up a tea party for the missing girl Sally. My original loss of time could have been due to dehydration, or I could have even passed out or something. I laughed to myself. calming down and feeling pretty dumb that I actually believed that. I don't know. A ghost girl would show up, or these dolls would either kill me or want to talk politics or something. I got up, and as I did,

I took what I had came prepared with, a brand-new raggedy ann doll that I had purchased at the toy store a few towns over. As I turned to leave, I placed her on to the extra rock. Now empty since I've left it. She looked so out of place next to these aging dolls. Her clothes still clean and the dyes on her fabric still vibrant. I'm not entirely sure what was going through my head when I decided to do this. But the thought of this little girl's ghost out here, alone, stuck with old toys, was absolutely depressing.

I'm not even sure I believe in the paranormal. But on the one in a billion chance she was real, the kid deserved something nice. I started to walk away, back towards Rocco, who was waiting patiently for me at the edge of the clearing. When he saw me walking towards the creepy table he was hiding from, he was about 10,000 nope away from taking one more step. I smiled at him. I kept walking towards him, but the strangest thing happened. It almost appeared that with each step I took, the clearing became farther away, and I started to walk faster, and yet still the clearing seemed to be farther. One step forward, two steps back, if you will.

So I began to run and eventually panic, and I'll admit, I may have lost my cool a bit. I ran as fast as I could. May have made a few prayers to a God I haven't prayed to since. I was 12 or so. Yet with each step forward, the clearing just seemed to get farther away, just when I thought I would never make it out, and the edge of the clearing was almost a distant speck across miles of open field. I stopped and looked up.

Right in front of me was Rocco, and we were at the edge of the clearing. He looked at me, then behind me, and cocked his head like dogs do. and try to say either, what's that? I looked behind me, and the table was gone. I'll admit, that was a little spooky, and I definitely walked faster than was comfortable on my way out. I also swear I heard a young girl's laugh. That could have been my imagination.

Then I heard from what sounded like the wind, a whisper of come back. I felt a cold breeze, on the back of my neck, completely out of place on this 90-degree day. And it felt like small fingers trying to grab me. That definitely wasn't my imagination. I high-tailed it out of there. I got back to my car and it was much later than expected again.

And I was kicking myself for not taking another human to witness this. I definitely wasn't dehydrated. And I definitely didn't pass out this time. though I almost felt like it after that crazy run out of the clearing. That night I slept with most of the lights on and Rocco never left my side. I made plans with a friend of mine from college to meet up for breakfast, promising to tell him an interesting story. The next morning I woke up, got ready, and walked out of my house.

I almost didn't see the message at the end of my driveway as I walked to my car. But when I did, my blood ran cold. There, scratched in the dirt as if with a stick. Written in the half-backwards handwriting of a child was a message. Thank you, sir, for the dolly, and for coming to my tea party. Next time, we'll play a little longer. Needless to say, I haven't gone back into the northern woods again. Yeah, can't say I blame you for that.

I'm surprised you're here at all, especially with kids on the way. there's none of them want to have a tea party, I'm okay. Shit. What? Nothing. Just now I need to figure out something else to do on Tuesdays. And also, I forgot I needed to repaint the mess hall. Can we please get back to the weird stuff that's been happening around here?

There's no evidence of weird stuff happening around the campfire. No, it's been mostly fine here. I'm talking about the other stuff, like the noises coming from the woods at night. Oh, um... I think I can explain that. Out there in the woods, I run every night. Hey, John, what color were you thinking of her painting the mess hall?

Eggshell? Nah, eggshell's played out. I was thinking Olivia White. Sorry, Rissa. You were saying you do something absolutely insane? Like beyond crazy? Listen. Listen.

Come on, listen. I need you to listen to me. I need you to listen to me, so that this won't be you. So that you will never be in the same position I was. So that... So that you can find the freedom I found. So that you, like me,

learn how to run. This is not my confession. This is catharsis. This really is catharsis. Wind rasps through the sentinel evergreens. A chill enough to be. make me shiver. Discarred autumn leaves and twigs crunch under my feet as I jog. The familiar burning ache in my thighs kicking in, telling me I'm at the halfway point. As if I didn't know.

I know these woods like my own garden. They are my own garden, sort of. They're my woods. That's how I feel anyway. I don't own them. But they're mine. Here, this is Blind Man's Corner. I don't know why they call it this. Don't know why I do, too. It's a turning in the forest path that dips down a shallow hill and around the bank of the trees,

disappearing out of sight behind a copse of furs that even in the winter you can't see through. You could get lost in these trees, easily. That's why we, the joggers, the walkers, the lost and the lonely, Stick to the path. In the summer or in the daytime, people come here with their dogs, and the animals dart off into the woods,

confident and secure in the fact that they can find their way back to their owners. But we're not like that, are we? We get lost in the woods, forgotten and abandoned, never able to make our way back to those who love us, those who own us those who miss us it's a vast expanse of forestation out here central england no coast for miles

just acres and acres of trees winding paths and dead ends hiker trails nature walks keystone signs that say you are here I am here I am running running from what my trainers They're new.

I had to finally give in and replace my old beloved rebox. I feel them pound against the spongy ground in time with the flush of energy of my heart within my chest. I'm fit. Fitter than I have any right to be,

but my evening route is a hard one. Up the massive hill leading away from my little village, my home. And that's a decent workout just to start with. And then here,

and the first forest. Where the blackness presses down on me, chaperoned by an avenue of trees, extra weight on my shoulders, extra effort from my legs to wait through the trickle-thick darkness, that seems to ooze up from the very ground itself. Some people run with music. iPods, iPhones, Walkman. Do they still have Walkman these days? Uh-uh, not me. My music is in the trees, in the whisper of the wind in the branches, the chittering of insects retiring for the day, the rummaging of the squirrels and the darting of the deer.

Oh yeah, I see a lot of deer out here. They watch me from the sidelines. Reddish-brown cheerleader shouting me on with bright and silent eyes. Once, last summer, I saw the grandest stagg who bowed his head. and bent his knee just as I passed. Here, I am queen. Here.

My subjects watch in awe with their beady stairs as I pass, the sole human presence in their carnival of flora and fauna. Only at night. At night, I am alive, and so are they. In the daytime, I'm just another passerby. It's not my time. My contract. It's safe, not risky.

The man who walks his little Yorkie waving to me every time I go by, he pretends to be friendly. But I see him watching me as I run off. His eyes on the backs of my legs. He's old. Older than my dad. as old as my granddad maybe. Then there's the woman who comes here alone for her lunch break,

clutching a brown paper bag as she walks through the woods. But where does she go to eat? I've never seen. I don't think she stops. I saw her leaving once. The bag still full to the brim in her hands. Or maybe it was just the rubbish she responsibly didn't leave in the woods. I like to think she's still searching for her.

clearing to sit and eat. And every day she comes in the hope the trees will part and show her the perfect spot. Just for her, hers alone. Just like this path. This route is mine alone at night, just like how the bounding of my heart behind my breasts tied against my chest under my sports bra serenades my passing into this. The darkest heart of the woods. Don't you feel unsafe, Rissa? My friends ask. Out there in the woods, isn't it lonely?

Isn't it dangerous? You should get yourself a running partner. Get yourself a nice mitt. And then they stop, remembering, biting their tongue. The first flicker of an apology in their eyes. No, I say, laughing. No, I don't feel lonely. I don't feel unsafe.

You want to know where I feel unsafe? Walking through the town at night, as a woman, the gaze of men on me all over my body, undressing me with their eyes, or here, even, when men stop and stare at my tight running clothes, when a certain man watches me leave. Then I feel lonely. I feel unsafe.

Here? Nobody is here. Why would they be? Killers, they say, half-jokingly, lurking in the woods. Killers don't just lurk in the woods, I say. Killers? Lurk in our offices. Our stores. On the bus with us as we ride to our next destination?

Killers lurk in our bedrooms. Hidden beneath the skin of our lovers. Here? Nobody is here. Why would they be? Killers, they say, half-jokingly, lurking in the woods. Killers, don't just lurk in the woods, I say. Killers lurk in our offices, our stores on the bus as we go to our next destination.

Killers lurk in our bedrooms hidden beneath the skin. Out here, in the woods. Nature looks after her own. Listen, I'm not a melodramatic woman. I'm not prone to bouts of poetic hyperbole. I'm not. Out here, in the woods. My thoughts are unique.

I'm a normal, everyday woman, at least on the surface. I've dealt with things. I've moved on. I have a steady job working in a fashion store. I'm assistant manager and chief buyer. I'm very good at my job. I socialize. I go on dates.

Okay, I don't go on dates. anymore, not for now, but everyone knows why. And still, I do socialize. I see friends. I don't drink with them, but I see my friends. And I can hold a conversation. I can live with one foot in reality, or both feet, depending. But here, out here in the woods, I am someone else.

If you've ever appreciated nature, you'll know what I mean. If you've ever appreciated darkness, you'll know what I mean. It envelopes you. It permeates your being, invades your every orifice. And from the moment I step out my front door for my nighttime run, I become her, the other Larissa. I call her Glory. Listen, I never said I was a comedian. I take the bend at Blind Man's Corner like a pro, slowing my rhythm just enough to shift my body into the slipstream of the forest, following the path.

Always the path. Now there's a long straight, lined by trees that I knew the name of once, but no longer needed to know. In the same way you don't name the individual hairs that grow out of your body. There's a little path into the trees here. I know because I've been down it so many times. It's overgrown now, hidden by thorn bushes and a patch of stinging nettles that, I think regretfully, is enough to put off any child looking to discover adventure and magic in these woods. The path leads further into the woods, not on an official route, but one beaten into the earth

by generations of young feet, heading to the fabled house that, I, my mother, my grandmother, her mother, all of us, when we visited as children. It's not a house, not really. It's a ramshackle hut at the base of a tree, then another even more haphazard dwelling in the tree's arms. The perfect place for kids to play, to imagine, to learn.

Countless generations, and to me, countless hours and afternoon spent there with friends, climbing and playing, and then as we got older, smoking and drinking and truth or daring, until our bodies stopped changing, and our minds began changing. Enough to become awkward, to feel responsible, to no longer want to engage in the pure, bare, raw truth of our games.

What I'm saying is a lot of them lost their virginity there in the trees. A lot of them saw their first breasts, vaginas, penises, out there in the trees. Out there in the woods. Lie a thousand tales of coming of age. of simply coming, uncomfortable and warm and loved and awkward on a blanket on the forest floor. I have long since passed the turning to the tree house when I stop thinking about it. It's not every day that I do. I'm not caught on the past. I don't dwell on it. I know that's bad for me.

Not that past, but another. But it's all applicable, isn't it? You can't dwell on one thing but not the other. Moving forward, always. That's me. Running through my woods, even though the route is circular, it's still progress. Up ahead, a squirrel darts into a hole in the tree.

I slow somewhat, knowing what's coming next. and I need my energy for that. Beyond the straight, the path devolves into a mess of mud and discomfort. There's safe passage to be had here, if you know how to take it. I'm reminded now, as I always am, of Conan Doyle's hound of the Vaskervilles. As the brave detectives chase the phosphorescent mastiff through the swamp, knowing any wrong step could leave them caught, trapped, unable to move forward, unable to catch their quarry. This isn't quite that dramatic.

At worst, I might lose a shoe, might bring my barefoot down into the mud, might remember what it feels like to step barefoot into another liquid crimson pool across my kitchen floor, just mud and puddles. And yet it can bring all that back. Weird how association works, isn't it? I know it's valid because it's happened before. Yes, I lost a shoe in a mud pit. It was one of my beloved rebox. I didn't abandon it, though. I fished it out, ran home with the offending, filthy shoe on my foot, put both shoes in the washing machine. I'm not sure if that's good for them, but what choice did I have? And oh, how my friends, co-workers, laughed at that story. I told you it's a bad idea to go running in the dark, Rissa. No? Why? I just had to wash my shoe. Come on. It's

Hardly PTSD. They didn't need to know about what I thought of as my foot hit the mud. As the cold, viscous water flooded through my toes, slicked the bottom of my heel. I shrugged it all off then. Now, though, I'm far more careful crossing what we locals call, the minefield. I know the route as well as I know my own body. and I slow because it's sensible.

And it's not a compromise to my exercise to do so. I'm very fit. I said this already. I can afford this luxury. I pick my way across the minefield, observed by unseen eyes. I'm sure a deer has been following me this whole time, just off the path out there in the woods. And if I didn't know better, if I wasn't such a girl of routine, I might be tempted to step off the path into the trees and just have a look.

Nothing silly, nothing too dangerous. Just a look, you know? But I don't. Instead, I keep running. Listen, I'm 29 and I haven't always been a good person. I know this. I'm the first to admit it. I admit it to the fox and her cubs, watching me from the hollow beneath Mary's tree. And now I admit it to you.

Mary's tree? I know why we call it that. Centuries ago, a woman named Mary died in its arms. The victim of a man. We all know this story. So, but for the grace of God, go I, feet pounding confessions as I pass the spot that Mary died. I know I'm not a good person, but neither was Mary.

And we still remember her, don't we? Further on still, in the blackest night, is the path to the hermit cave. And here's where I detour, sitting to rest on the rough-hewn rock outside the cavern, I don't go in, though. We never go in as adults. They say, the hermit, whoever he was, still haunts these parts. And it was here.

I first felt the touch of a tongue on my sacred place. Inside the cave. At 16. My friend Amelia, I don't tell this story. The hermit has become someone else in my house. mind. If you've known me for years, you'll know who I mean. And the fox from earlier has followed me here. Maybe she wants to hear the story to judge me on it. I know there's no excuse for cheating on your long-term partner. I know. I know despite the abuse, the vile words, the raised hands that I am

culpable for what I did with Philip when Jerry was away. That Philip's blood is on my hands just as much as his spirit was inside me, that it's on my feet as I walk through the kitchen door that night. And so I run, to grind it into my skin, to pound the souls of my feet until the guilt, the responsibility flows up inside me like Jerry, like Philip, like Amelia's tongue, a moment forgotten and suppressed always, except when I'm out here in the woods. I'm, I'm run. I run through the night, past the huntsman's copes, through the hangman's row up and over Gallows Hill, taking the route my ancestors took, that Mary took, that Mary's killer, name forgotten by history, took. It strikes me as my legs propel down Gallows Hill, just how much we

love a tragic woman. Victim or corpse, struck beautiful by death, women cold and on ice, women whose cook old husbands have taken a knife, women with their throat slit or their uterus cut out, women hollowed and empty, leaving an angelic shell for our memories to defy, to deny. I should have been a Mary. It was in my fate. I know it. Seven years ago, with Philip and his slit throat smile on the cold kitchen floor, I was next.

I, the infidel, the Jezebel, the whore of Avalon, was next. Oh, and what sweet torments my dear Jerry had for me. I knew. I sensed. Like his intent was thick in the air, mingling with the copper tang of Philip's blood, a heady promise of violence and vengeance because I, the battered, not yet wife, had found solace in the arms of another. arms

dead arms my fault arms through which blood no longer flow my fault so I run and I keep running and then I stop you can't see the opening here because there isn't one

you can't see that just beyond the path off the path lies a monument a memorial with so much more gravity and weight than Mary's tree or blind man's curve or the huntsman's copes. So much fresher. So much more important.

We don't have a name for this place. Because nobody but myself and Jerry know that it's important. Here. Jerry brought me after our first date and here Jerry first entered me. there on the soft loamy ground a blanket under my naked body there where he whispered sweet promises in my ear promises broken by bones and skin also damaged also hidden by clothes as this path is hidden by trees aren't you worried about a killer in the woods rissa they ask and no i'm not worried because there is a killer in the woods. I put him there, and I'm at peace with that. I duck through the trees, push my way past a bush,

take care not to scratch my perfect legs. Here, I am glory, not Rissa, fully and completely. Up ahead, the other tree. Nobody knows and nobody cares, but I call this. the tree of Rissa. Here, seven years ago, this is the place that Rissa came to die. No such relief for my dear, dear Jerry.

I run my hands over the mottled bark. Jerry's face is barely visible after all this time, and even if you saw it, you wouldn't know he's a knot in the wood barely human features but as i run my hands across his face i feel the lifeblood of my former lover former tormentor and the branches creek as if in a plea for respite i will never let him out i can't and behind me stands the stand watching with his mate by his side the stag and the deer lower their heads in silent approval as i remove my hands from jerry's petrified face and turn my legs burn so i must run you wonder how i got him here how i avoided his wrath how i imprisoned him i told you out here in the woods i am God and the trees, my disciples. The wood bows to me,

and all I have to do for penance is run. Nightly I run and my lover cares for me. Here I am safe. Listen, this is not my confession. This is not a cautionary tale. This is a call to arms. For those of you who are like me.

Officially, Jerry is still at large. Don't I feel unsafe, they ask? And I pretend that I do. But of course I don't. Jerry is still out there somewhere, a tactless person tells me from time to time. and I nod and agree

and I'm not lying because he is still out there somewhere out there in the woods see you Nate it's all Rissa not me that's really

chivalrous of you to say John but I'm talking late at night like 3 a.m. It's more like a shuffling and dragging sound. John what was that story you were telling us when we first got here? Oh, yeah, you mean, um, what was it?

The, uh, the guy who'd cut off people's body parts and nailed them to the trees, so he'd be adding extra limbs to it. Pretty bad pun, if you ask me. Where exactly did you hear that story? Hear the story? ERISA, I hate to break it to you, but I think there's been a pretty serious misunderstanding.