Story-A-Day #271: Forest Lights

FOREST LIGHTS

It was a dark, but not stormy night. A mid-August chill had settled in with the sinking of the sun and he was glad he had thought to put on a sweater and jeans. It had been a wise move.

He had just pulled into the narrow dirt track that ended at his family's cottage, and the stretch after the long, dark drive felt better than it should have.

He was looking forward to a nice glass of Shiraz by the fire, but first he had to haul his luggage down the narrow dirt trail.

He piled everything neatly by the trunk of his car and slammed it closed with a hollow thud. He should be able to make it in one trip, which was a bonus.

He piled on his luggage and set off down the lane, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. It felt good to get away from the dull roar of the city.

A chittering whistle sound erupted from the trees to his right, and he paused while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A flicker of light drew his eyes deeper into the woods, then another.

Fireflies, he thought immediately, but they weren't. Fireflies were green, sometimes white, but these lights were different: blue, green, orange and white.

They flickered and wove through the trees as he slowly continued to the cottage. He wasn't scared, but he did feel a little uneasy.

He had probably just imagined it, but he thought he could hear a hushed whispering off in the night. It wasn't English, it was more musical, almost like the rolling consonants and tidal flow on the Welsh language.

He hurried along and was relieved to finally arrive at the dark mass of the cottage. He fumbled briefly with the key before bursting inside where he quickly flicked on the lights and slammed the door shut behind him.

He was safe, and he felt a little ridiculous. He had surely imagined it all. The lights had just been resonant spots from the river of headlights he had driven into for the past four hours.

Surely that made the most sense? Whatever the case, he was glad to be here, in the well lit interior of the cottage.

He peered out the window on the door, but all he saw was darkness, deep and impenetrable.

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Story-A-Day #97: The Old Mill

THE OLD MILL

When I was young, my parents bought an overgrown acre of land on a lake. Over the next several years, they cleared chunks of land: a lane from the main road and a path to the beach. The biggest clearing effort was easily the great big chunk that soon became a hole, then a cinder block foundation, and over time, our two-story cottage. It was an interesting and protracted transition, and while I remember the summers spent in our tent trailer with great fondness, it’s nice going to bed with a solid roof above, and a warm comfortable bed below.

Spending most of my summers there provided great opportunities for growth and adventure. When we were really young, we were content to frolic in the lake, pulling out giant pieces of driftwood and chasing down tadpoles and crayfish. That eventually led to the building of forts, and eventually, my ambitious multi-tiered tree fort in the plot of vacant land between ours and the neighbours.

I stumbled across the old foundation when I was scouting for locations for that tree fort and wound up picking a triangulation of tottering tamaracks nearby as the basis for the fort.

As I entered my teens, I still spent hours building up the fort, adding new platforms and railings, an observatory platform almost 30-feet above the main structure, a half-assed roof over the main “floor”, even a series of narrow 2x6 walkways that angled off through the treetops.

I had good motive too. There were a couple girls who would come up and stay at a campground across the bay and my tree fort became an annual showcase that I used to impress them. One summer we set out to spend the night on the large main platform. It was a cool night in August and a friend from town and I hurled our sleeping bags up onto the platform and helped the girls climb the ladder.

We sat up there in the dark, shining our flashlights out through the trees and telling ghost stories. The trees fluttered eerily and the haunting song of the loons echoed up and down the lake. It was probably not even midnight before we had fully creeped ourselves out. At one point, we even managed to convince ourselves that there was a ghostly figure wandering through the forest below. We spent a sleepless night huddled together in the safety of the fort and silently vowed never to repeat the process.

We did again the next summer and over my remaining years of high school, and even into college, I would often return to that platform and spend the night searching the forest for the figure of that ghostly woman.

I eventually looked into the history of the area and discovered that there had been an Old Mill in that nook of the lake. It had thrived until the early 1900s when a massive fire burnt it to the ground and killing the millwright’s wife. There had been speculation that there might be more to the story, but her death was officially declared an accident.

Over the years, I have often felt a presence in the woods though. I chalked it up to the innate creepiness of the forest, but there were times when it felt like I was being watched. I was never positive, but when I took this photo, I realized that there was something out there.

The rectangular flash seemed like an anomaly, but when I inspected the site closely, there was nothing there that would create such a reflection. It was just dirt and rocks and wood. If you look long enough into that rectangle, you start to see a face. It almost looks like a woman peering anxiously out a window…