The Phantom Forest

"I knew right away the men would not believe, and would not remember".

There are two of them, both the same age, both nearly the same make and model. They had grown up in the same neighborhood. They had played in the same cool shadows and clear blue skies. They had memorized the leaves, choked on crab apples, and painted starships on the sidewalks. They had run at dark, spied on old men, and split lips. Most of all they had scoured every inch of the nearby forest which could only be termed by the most excellent title they had conceived as children, "Snake Tooth Path". The forest did not bear any resemblance to a snake or its tooth in any conceivable fashion. It was relatively small and it sat in-between two roads where traffic was rare. There were old paths that crossed and divided it. The paths were marked with black stones and twists of green vine. In the left center of the forest where the path was widest there was a pond thick and muddy with a skin of bright green algae. The slime never seemed to loose its sickly hue. Huge trees boarded its edge, one had been shattered by lighting, and the others were staggered, half dead. In the center of the pond was a grassy island they had never been to, the water too deep, muddy, and limitless. The men are still scared though, still scared to cross the dark water, an uneven oblivion.

It is summer, the wind is hot, animals, pack horses running and sweeping. It was a little after noon, both men had been home a few days, and it was nearly the forth of July, the paradise offices cold and empty. The forest was bright green in the sun, and its innards were cut with shadows where spiders spun wildly. Rodomontade of them to enter it after so long, no respect towards ceremony or ritual. It noted this indiscretion. They were both white, tall, fat, they moved across the paths with uncertainty, there posture had a sentiment of youth in its clumsiness. Cicadas they ululate nearly, under the tremulous leaves. They had stopped to stare at the pond, they were moving their hands around endlessly, the hands looked ridiculous soft, infantile, without a grime of toil.

This would be draconian, it would all be draconian, and the level of disrespect it saw, yes, draconian was clearly ratified. It would start with the water, they use to cry and wail at it when toys would sink into it. The mud will turn over, it will boil but they will dismiss it. Another threat must be staged, and the entrances must close, the green wall sealed silently with a slip of ivy. More threats staged, more threats staged. You will see my list; men are not the only monsters to be organized.

1. Their toys, old toys, will float up, from an age ago.

2. More vines along the edges, so thick and sharp they cannot leave.

3. Running past the second hill, towards the pond edge, the island.

4. Humming, children singing, their laughter on the trees.

5. No children there, not a shadow or breeze, none

6. Insects quiet, nothing living making a sound.

7. Rotating leaves are watching, moving unnaturally.

8. There is no else, every drop of wild supernatural.

9. Strips of the back skin, I rip them off at the ponds edge.

10. Force them on the island, screaming crying.

Do they not marvel at my fictional presence, the Phantom? They cried and screamed. The one on the left, who has dark hair and a ridiculous stomach, he has soiled himself. They had run wild between the two forest ends, trying to break my wall. The vines would throw them back, good extensions patient and obedient. They screamed hideous infantile screams; I ate up the sound on the tree's tips then emitted wind. They had crossed to the island when I had finally appeared; to this I am very surprised. They staggered between all the old toys afraid each plastic piece was another of my traps, another biting vine to spring out. The wind howls and leaves fall at them, nothing painful just annoying. When they got to the edge of the island I grabbed both of them by their backs. My claws, edged ivory, ripped their cloth and backs. The skin came off in a wide strip pale, and smeared with red. I find red to be a savage hallow color. I remember their backs daring each other to swim. Do they remember my forest when they were kids now? If they had a moment of wonder no blood needed to appear. Did they remember my forest now?

My list is completed, my list is completed. The growth of them is extraordinary, children moments ago in warm green memory, and now they are cold desolate men. They still have the same eyes, the same colored orbs that sit back wistfully and skeptical. Do they remember how wild the green was in their eyes when I amused them? They used to try swimming, but too afraid an oblivion of black mud and moss. Now men I am curious if they would grumble over ruined shoes? Good thing I removed some of their back skin. Childhood memory beautiful and ravishing every raindrop a wonder. It fills my chest and mind then consumes the laws of the woods. How will they react now trapped bleeding on the island? The skin I took is pale white with smears of red muscle and blood. I muse over it confounded.

It was a strange thing before them. John was crying a ridiculous amount, and Luke was backing up on the ground trying to pull him along. Blood stained the tips of the long grass in a macabre design. It was a shadow, or pieces of it were. The shadow had no texture but it was susceptible to the mixing wind. It billowed, a curtain, a shroud. White pieces of ivory hung illuminated and sharp. Its face was masked in pearl, with a hood wrapped around it. No mouth only eyes, two hollow slit eyes. It was not moving or standing still, and it shook like reality was not its common domain. The Phantom would be lasting fixture on them, beyond the holes in their backs which drooled blood. Some psychiatrist would have permanent source of income from it, and the nightmares would be wealthy. Never mind, it was going to kill them, annoyed at their lack of wonder, their ignorance to the forest. It grabbed each man by the throat, its ivory edges making shallow slips along their throat. Wind roars, the pond shudders, and the island grew deeper. "Dad are you in there dad, Michael and I are looking for you" a child yelled.

It dropped them immediately, the vines opened and the wind settled. More children, more wonder, the children that were once children. The men screamed for them, and it was gone. It moved just fast enough for them to catch of glimpse of the shadow crossing a path. The running phantom did not freeze them motionless, like their fathers had long ago. More children, more wonder for it to bask in, and torture. They had made more children to make shadows with and to dare to cross the mud. They would now believe and they would now remember. They always believe and always remember. They would believe and remember.