When I reach the bottom of the staircase, the foyer with a looming ceiling opens to a living room to the left and an intimidating kitchen to my right. I see the front door, and my nerves and anticipation of getting out of this house carry me toward it.
Reaching for the handle, I stop. Next to the door, against the wall, is a wooden coat rack and storage bench with jackets andsweatshirts. But what has my feet glued down a little longer than I have time for are the small pairs of shoes. More specifically, the pink glitter ones reflecting glimmers of light from the patio drifting through the windows.
I shake my head to clear my mind.
Rossco is in the backyard, but I’d rather run around the house through the soft grass than attempt to find the back door and risk being seen or heard.
Flipping the lock, I pull open the door quietly and step out into the cool night air. It brushes against my clammy skin, covering my body from head to toe in chills. I may be running all night, but being lost in the orchard or surrounding woods with Rossco sounds better than being trapped in that room.
Run far and fast and pray to God that they don’t know this property as well as they said.
Inching the door closed, I take off down the patio, to the sidewalk, and around the house through the grass. The dew from the earlier rain hangs off the blades, the water already soaking through the fabric of my Nikes.
Rounding another corner, I see him down the short decline, my boy curled up in the wet grass, sleeping next to a water bowl. Reducing my pace, his soft ears perk, and he whips his head up, making eye contact with me.
I can’t help the small smile that lifts my lips. “Hi, boy,” I murmur.
Standing on his feet, his tail thrashes back and forth with excitement. Delicate whimpering noises reach my ears. It’s the sound he makes when he hasn’t seen me for a few days, and it accelerates my pulse. Sprinting toward him, my arms fly around his frame. My fingers scratch the skin behind his ears to get him to calm down, but his body jerks in my hold.
“Shhhhhh— Shhhh, Rossco,” I whisper, slamming my eyes shut, praying nobody hears him.
Running my hands across his thick coat, it only takes a moment before his whines stop. The cottage beside us is entirely dark. I hope the monster who’s in there isn’t awake. That thought alone has me desperately reaching for Rossco’s collar and removing the chain. Once it’s removed, he glances up at me.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, ensuring he’s starting to follow me before I break into a full-out sprint across the yard.
His body bolts in front of mine, and we run. And run until the expanse of the yard transforms into an expanse of apple trees lined in perfect rows on each side of us. The crescent moon is the only light penetrating through the branches, their arms with dangling red fruit feeling like long fingers reaching out to keep me captive.
I loved the movieSnow Whitegrowing up. I was innocent enough to dwell on the beautiful parts where a girl finds refuge with the dwarves.
They weren’t her family, but they became family.
This feels identical to the forest in the movie.
Shadowy.
Haunting.
The silhouettes around me in every direction are alive, making my skin crawl and burn under the gaze of whatever is watching me.
There may be millions of apples in these trees and crunching beneath my feet, but just like Snow White’s story, none grant wishes. Because the apple in my drink—alongside the poison the twins gave me—had me waking up to a nightmare and not a fucking prince.
My feet pound into the damp earth, and after five minutes of running, I can’t take any more and hunch over, heaving. I’m a good runner, but all around me is the same.
The haunting trees.
The heavy air brings tears to my eyes and burns my lungs.
This orchard is already driving me to the brink of madness, and it will only take a few more steps to shatter any sanity I have left.
I don’t know where we are going or how to get out, but I understand that if we keep running straight for a mile, we’ll eventually reach the edge of the forest.
Maybe letting the forest floor swallow and kill me would be easier.
But life isn’t that kind.
I place my hands on my hips, trying and failing to suck deep breaths into my lungs. Rossco is fifty or so yards ahead of me, and his presence gives me the confidence I need to keep going.
Taking a step, something grabs onto my flannel, jerking my back into a hard wall of muscle. A piercing scream escapes my lips and echoes through the orchard—the rest drowned out by a large, calloused hand that covers my mouth, silencing me. I struggle to breathe, the faint scent of oil and dirt from his palm overpowering the musky air.
