Nothing leapt from the trees to clamp jaws around his throat and he forced himself onward through the inhuman din and the alien dark.
Once, Green drove his old neighbor, Mr. Reynard, to an antique shop called Honeywell Treasures forty minutes outside the city. It was a repurposed barn in the middle of farmland. The vast cornfields made him feel alone and exposed. There was something deeply haunted about all those rows of green hissing in the breeze. There were words in that sound. It wasn’t a wild space. It wasn’t a human space. It was something in between, where the stink of manure and hay dust tapped him on the shoulder and asked,Are you lost?
This was so much worse.
He finally reached level ground and saw a double-wide trailer sitting on blocks, tucked back with a couple muddy parking spots carved out in front. There was another lit sign with the stylized moth logo above the wordOffice. Below the sign, a hunk of obsidian hung on a chain. The volcanic glass was wrapped in rainbow-colored Christmas lights that made the stone’s surface shine like an oil slick in the dark.
He didn’t have a chance to park. Someone was approaching his window. He shrank away from the movement, felt rude, and wrestled a smile onto his face. As soon as the window hummed down, a large woman with a shapeless hat like a brown paper lunch bag planted her elbows on the car door and leaned in uncomfortably close. He felt the car tilt in her direction.
“Hi, Mack. I’m Dancer. Like the reindeer. I see you admiring my hat. Sad news. It’s one of a kind and I don’t sell them anymore. Don’t ask why.”
Green’s heart pounded in his throat.
“Fair enough. I’m Green. Looking for a place to camp. For a while.”
“Smart you coming to a campground then. Sound plan. I was just joking, by the way. About the hat, I mean. I do sell them.”
He did his best not to let his anxiety show on his face. Dancer was very close and so was her hat. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties and smelled faintly of maple syrup.
“So, um, how do I sign up for a campsite? I’m planning to stay awhile.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. You want me to build the price of the hat in or do you fancy a separate bit of haggling for that discrete piece of commerce?”
“Maybe just the campsite for now.”
“Shrewd. I like it. Well, you pay what you think you owe here. How much would you like to pay up front?”
Green fished in his wallet and pulled out three twenty-dollar bills.
“Would sixty dollars be alright to start?”
“It would sorta violate the premise of you choosing the amount for me to weigh in at this juncture, but I think we can confidently say that I do not feel taken advantage of at this stage in our business dealings. Hell, you’ve earned yourself a hat. Here, take mine. I warmed it up for you.”
Dancer pulled the formless felt thing off her head and deposited it snugly on Green’s scalp. It was warm and a little itchy.
“Now then, I expect you wanna meet the patch of dirt that you plan to call home, yes?”
“Yes. If possible, I’d like something next to the woods with a little privacy.”
Dancer laughed like a clogged pipe and dramatically scratched her chin while scanning her surroundings.
“You don’t say? Yes, we’ll see if we can’t find something next to the woods. As for privacy, most days you could walk around out here buck naked and have a very good chance of not sullying the eyes of another human being, though frostbite may well exact some form of retribution for your audacity.”
Green felt a grin tug up the corner of his lips. Dancer was not what he had expected.
“Great. Should I just park here or…”
“Nah, just unlock for me.”
She rounded the car and got in the passenger seat. She must have pulled another hat from a pocket, because she was wearing one again by the time she got seated. Green was six feet tall himself, but was certain that Dancer was taller. She filled the car and the glow of the dash lights made her eyes look as black as old coffee.
She thumped the dash affectionately.
“Good car. I like this car. Personable. Drive on.”
He did as he was told and followed Dancer’s directions down increasingly narrow lanes.
“Turn right at the moss man,” she said.
