Walking Foster

As he bobbed along happily he looked constantly at his surroundings, trying to spot birds or other wildlife along the trail. As he glanced ahead, he spotted through the branches, a figure standing in the road.

The overgrown foliage stuck almost half-way into the path at this point, and he could not make him or her out very well. So he stepped right and craned his neck- continuing on, he rounded the bushes to find- nothing.

He stopped singing, but continued to march. "That’s strange," he said out-loud to the woods. He often talked to himself, and rarely stuttered when alone. "I coulda swore there was a person…" He continued forward, glancing at the path and the woods on either side, trying to see any sign of the figure. He was sure he had spotted someone standing there, they had been dark like a shadow, but they had been there all right. To say he was not slightly worried about the strange happening would not be right. He did wonder with some apprehension as he went. There was nothing to do however, but keep walking. It was what he always did.

As he passed the spot where he gauged that the person had been standing, he thought he saw the tufts of grass that grew in between the old wagon ruts a little more pressed down than normal. He carried on.

After another half hour or so of uneventful traveling, he spotted something to the right side of the road. It was the west side of the Old Weik path; away from the sea. It appeared to be a piece of wooden crate or perhaps a ship’s cargo pallet. Maybe it was the remnant of an old wagon or cart. Whatever the case, he was almost to it now. The item was leaning crookedly against some thick shrubbery. The greenery was so dense in this dark corner of the forest, that the dismal sky did nothing to help bring light to this bleak, little hollow in the woods. As he approached his absent minded thought was, that he had not sung his song once since sighting the mysterious figure in the road back a ways, and had only whistled it half heartedly. Now he stopped entirely as he realized, the item in question was- a gate.

The small opening in the overgrown hedge was almost non existent. He could barely see into the little alcove there. Stepping forward he spied a path winding away. His curiosity got the better of him and he walked right up and put his hand on top of the lop-sided gate. The wood was old and cracked, and grey like the heavy sky. He leaned over the gate and peered into the grove. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light and he could see that at the end of the path, was a dark little shack of a house. The whole thing leaned to one side. The ancient shingles were slowly falling away. A crumbling stone chimney sat to one side. The multi-paned windows were shutter-less and filthy. An old grey door stood open a crack. The darkness beyond that crack was absolute. Looking at that obsidian sliver of unknown made a lump in Foster’s throat which he promptly swallowed.

He had slept in abandoned houses, shacks, barns and any other covered structure that would keep him dry on a rainy night over the years. But this place did not appeal to him one bit. There was something unsettling about the tiny house. Also there was a musty smell here. It was an odour of rot and decay.