Clearing Thought

A restless mind, wandering aimlessly between the trees as the moon glares down like a searchlight through the leafless branches above. An owl looks on, eyes wide, inspecting the intruder as he was assigned the moment he set foot inside the nook once constructed by an eager woodpecker.

It wasn’t every night he came here, only when he was troubled by something. Whenever a little parasite gnawed at the inside of his head, he would always retreat, far from his home, far from civilisation, far from what anybody else would call sanity. You see, these woods were filled with a presence, one that could frighten even the strongest man so that he could no longer cope with the sight of trees without breaking down into a flood of tears and infantile screams. In these woods lived a species of animal, one that modern man has used in fiction for hundreds of years. Remember, there’s always truth in the most deranged of fictional tales.

This particular mind belongs to Yorkshires finest estate agent, Terry Maycroff. There wasn’t a week that went by where he failed to sell a house in the town of Doncaster. He was renown for bending the truth and informing people with a little twist of his own creation. This was a gift for him, although it came at a price. It plagued his conscience, ate away at his ability to cope with guilt. The woods he visited on these unplanned occasions were a way for him to cope with his feelings, the locked up remorse would be let loose on the creatures that lived between the trees.

He had a route that he followed each time he wanted to perform his worthwhile routine. When he parked his car beside the abandoned road side café he would slip between the broken beams of the picket fence and over the fallen trunk that passed for a bridge, arching crookedly over a dehydrated stream. The circle of bramble bushes caked in the memory of birds from their homes above was his most vivid directional aid that Terry had. He knew that once he reached that point he was close to favourite perch, a hollow trunk with a neatly chipped bench. The smell of rotting wood did not deter him from his quaint little den, if anything were to disturb him it would be the terrible sounds that echoed throughout. A howl of pain and anguish, released from the aching lungs of a dog. He was used to the sound, used to its disturbing tone, a tone of what he was sure was revenge…

There was something different this time. The howls were there, but not emitting from a single pair of canine lungs. There were more, not just two or three, but six or seven. Terry felt his heart drumming against the inside of his ribs, for once he felt nervous being in the presence of these mischievous cries. He cut short his usual ten minute sit by a considerable nine, not only were there more howls, but they were closer, much closer. He was sure that he could feel the warmth of the enemies breath on the side of his face, the gruff sound of their pants in his ear.

Then, he felt the pain. A searing heat scolding his neck as the blood trickled from his gaping wound. Now he could see them, standing on their hind legs, darting humanly around him with eyes pinned on their tasty victim. Paws pressed tightly to his chest, pinning him to the sodden ground, leaves gluing to his face as he rolled in the carpet of broken trees. His breathing became a struggled purr as each of his ribs began to snap, the warmth of his own blood rising from the depths of his throat made his mouth taste like it felt.

Like death.

His eyes grew heavy, he could no longer feel the pain, it was now far too intense for his puzzled mind to cope with. He gave in to the urge, and his eyes blocked out all light.