The Forest

Underground, beneath the forest floor there are warrens of tunnels, dug out by ten dirty fingertips. The roots hang like wet hair from the ceiling, matted in cob weds and dust. Beatles and worms scurry from the torn peat and broken earth. There is a man watching you. You can not see him but you can hear his steps in the echo of yours. The tunnels branch off in the almost absolute darkness and widen out into large cave like rooms. Each of these room have many doors varying in their appearance, unsure of why, one door stand out to you and you approach it steadily, careful not to stir up the ashy earth underneath your bare feet.  As you grow closer you become aware of a fluid sound and hushed drone of voices, almost voices of lovers.

            The door is black wrought iron, darkened by age and dust, it has a inwards catch handle and a tall barred opening towards the top of the door. It's hard to reach it. The sounds are from inside. Your toes sink into the dirt, the full weight of your body pushing them downwards, your limbs stretching, fingers straining in the openings ledge, pulling your face closer to see, your eyes just peering between the gaps in the bars, your lashes fanned open wide like spiders legs. The sounds stop. Your breath catches in your throat and you fall back into the room. The dirt covers your clothes as you scramble to push yourself to your feet.

            Your back inside the tunnel, quickly turning each bend leaving the door behind. You are unaware that on the other side of the door  four feet move from atop a awfully worn bed catching at the rusted metal frame before settling with a crunch on the uneven floor. Two sets of toes push away long piles of marrow and sink into the earth beneath, two sets of fingers reach the door and rest against the bars . The weak bodies pull so that two sets of dark eyes stare out blindly into the darkness.  The presence from before grows stronger, a deep laugh can be heard, the bodies begin to moan again. There is the sound of footsteps and a hint of a figure of a man. Sound stops again for a few moments, then a click.  The presence is gone. The door swings open. 

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© Kate Ruston and Happy Little Narwhal 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Kate Ruston or Happy Little Narwhal with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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My e-Books:

From the Watchtower

The Blind Kings Sons 

Harry Potter and the Gothic Genre