I’m writing this from a peculiar place, so bear with me.

What’s peculiar about it is hard to say, but we’ll get to that. I have the time.

It’s certainly not the computer I’m typing on, a pink Sony Vaio—my wife’s, mine broke two years ago and I never bought a replacement—or the glass table top that it sits on. It’s not the familiar apartment that holds me, nor the sloping hills outside my westward facing windows. It’s none of those things, but yet, it is.

I’m sorry. Like I said, there’ll be time for that. I don’t write much, so forgive me for the disorganized jumble you’ll find ahead, should you choose to continue. And I hope you do. Truly.

The hills outside my window are as good a place to start as any, I suppose. Forest Park. And how lucky we are to have it in our backyard. Eight miles, fifty plus acres of lush hillside forest, less than ten minutes’ walk from our door. Over seventy miles of trails crisscross the park—one of the largest urban forests in the country—and I get to stare at it from nine stories up while I eat my dinner every night, like a privileged nobleman observing his kingdom.

Melody, my wife, she always used to tell me, “Don’t take it for granted, Tom.” She’d smile at me from over her plate and say, “One day we’ll be that boring old couple in the suburbs, Tom. You’ll miss this place. You should get out there more.”

The forest was always her place, she felt comfortable there. Hell, she’s the reason why we paid an arm and a leg to live in downtown Portland to begin with. Sure, her job was close and sharing a car was made a lot easier by her walking or taking the MAX to work, but it was always about the forest. She told me it called to her.

“I was meant to be an explorer, I think. One of the first trailblazers. There’s so much to be seen and I want to see it.”

They say opposites attract, and well, I think that’s mostly bullshit. But I see where they’re coming from, because I think you need someone who’s different than you in certain ways, someone who’ll pull you out of your comfort zone every now and then. Melody did that for me. I’m much happier spending a Saturday on the couch with a good sci-fi novel or watching a classic film. But what would life be if nothing but manufactured experiences? Other people’s visions realized through screen or page; stories told, never lived. So I got out there with her, but only on occasion. Call me lazy, if you want. Maybe you’re right.

I could never resist her, not from the first day I saw her to the last. She’d flash that big smile, cast her head down slightly and give me that look. The look that told me I was being ridiculous, the one that said she’d get what she wanted and that I’d be happy giving it to her. And she was right. Nothing ever made me as happy as making her happy. Her bright smile was the treasured jewel I hunted my whole life. She gave me a reason to exist.

I’ll never forget the day we moved into this apartment from Vancouver. It meant a longer commute for me, an additional layer of income tax, higher rent; it also meant the world to her. That beaming smile melted all other factors from my mind in one luminous instance.

I was exhausted. We spent the day packing our entire apartment into a U-Haul and then unloading it, piece by piece, pushing our bedframe and bookshelves and tv-stand into the freight elevator on a semi-functional dolly. Our life’s possessions were laying haphazardly on the carpeted floor and the new apartment had that somehow vacant, absent feeling that new dwellings seem to hold on to before they’re a home, before they belong to you.

I plopped down on the floor to catch my breath, but in an instant I was back up again because she was dragging me to the wide western windows to see the view. It was July and the sky was orange, then purple, then the deepest blue as it slowly faded to black toward the top. She pulled me by the wrist and stepped into the one remaining beam of sunlight that was bleeding through the window. The air coming from outside was still cool, I remember that. And she was beautiful. So beautiful.

“That’s Forest Park,” she said. “One of the biggest urban parks in the country. And look how close!”

She pointed and I followed her finger. I would have followed her anywhere.

“I’ll know it well. Every trail, every tree, every hidden path and lookout. It’s our backyard. I can’t believe it.”

I looked out at the rolling hills of deep green pine forest, the sprawling, seemingly endless waves of evergreens as the sun settled behind it. It seemed infinite. We seemed infinite. I turned to face her again and she was staring at me, eyes wet and full.

“I know how hard this move was for you,” she said. “Thank you for doing it. We’re going to be happy here. I love you.”

She let go of my hand and walked away, looking for the bag that had our toiletries so she could get ready for bed. I stayed a minute longer and gazed out the window at our new domain. I thought about what she said. One of the largest urban parks in the country. Our backyard. It seemed to go on forever. I wondered what might be out there, hidden deep in a place so big.

I don’t look out that window much anymore. It gives me chills.

We spent good years here. And she was right, we were happy. I can sit here now—and I do, probably too much—and backtrack my entire life, scanning all the memories I have, as far back as they go, and find no better days than the ones I spent in this apartment with Melody.

At first I joined her frequently. Every Saturday and most Sundays she wanted to be out there  

traversing those old trails, trying to see every inch plotted on the map. The paths are well-traversed, especially when the weather is nice. I doubt you can go more than ten minutes without bumping into another hiker. But that changes when you go deep enough, once you leave the areas of second-growth and find yourself in the few distinct patches of old growth forest. She and I made it out there a few times, but not too many; I didn’t much care for the long hikes, and when I was with her we tended to stay close to the park entrances or trailheads.

I could tell she wanted more, every time we were out there. She liked having me with her, I have no doubt of that. Her face would light up like a little kid showing off her favorite toy or unveiling her secret hiding spot as she’d lead me to a new trail, somewhere I’d never been before. Some of those places had to be spots she’d never been before either, seeing as in those early days we were both taking our first steps into Forest Park together, but you would have never been able to tell. It was like she’d lived in those woods for years.

I loved spending time with her, but like I said, spending an entire day outside dragging my body up steep hills was not my kind of party. And I didn’t want to slow her down. She would never complain when I’d ask her to stop at a crest so I could catch my breath or when I would suggest we take the shortcut back to the car, but I could see it in her face. The desire. She was practically bouncing with excitement as we would take our first few steps into the dense shade of the trees and after an hour or two, unlike me, she had lost no enthusiasm.

Gradually more and more of her hikes became solo ventures. I held out for as long as I could; not only because I liked being with her, but also because I was worried. Hiking in Forest Park is a far cry from rock climbing or mountain summiting, but it tops out somewhere past one thousand feet of elevation and there are more than a few precipitous switchbacks and spots of unstable ground.

I guess I’m a little paranoid by nature, but can you really blame me? Who doesn’t feel that way as they watch their loved ones walk out of sight? That they’re leaving forever, gone, stepping out of the show for the last time. Have you never lingered, greedily holding on to every last second before they disappear around the corner, just in case it’s the last time you see them? I’d say you’re lucky if you can’t relate, because that feeling is like a hole being wrenched open in your chest, a heavy, sick weight at the base of your throat. But maybe you’re not lucky. Maybe all it means is that you’ve never felt love the right way. The way I felt it for Melody. I didn’t want to lose her to that forest.

When I finally decided I couldn’t keep up, I asked that she send me a tracking link from Google Maps before heading out, this way I could open my phone and see where she was. It wasn’t exactly real-time, but it would usually update within every ten minutes. This way I’d know that she was ok, and if I didn’t hear from her or couldn’t reach her, I’d know where to look.

She smiled and turned back to me before stepping out the door. Her black hair was in a ponytail, she was wearing dark leggings and one of her sleeveless workout shirts; my old college backpack was tight to her back, filled with water bottles, turkey jerky, headphones.

“You’re worse than my dad.” But she smiled as she said it, her radiant, sharp smile.

“They say women marry their fathers.” That was my go-to line any time she’d hint that I was being overprotective.

“Gross.”

She stuck her tongue out at me and closed our front door behind her. Ten minutes later my phone buzzed with a text from Melody. It read: See me on Google Maps! followed by a short URL. I clicked the link and it opened my maps app and I saw a dark green circle with a capital letter M a few blocks from our place. I tapped it. A white box popped up at the bottom of my screen that said  

Melody, and beneath it, Near NW Thurman Street, Just Now.

So began our new routine. Most Saturdays she would be getting ready to head out—almost always in a nearly identical outfit, sleeveless shirt, leggings, backpack—when I got out of bed, but sometimes I’d wake up to an empty apartment. Those days I’d check my phone first thing and see the familiar text: See me on Google Maps!

“Guess it’s just me and you today, buddy,” I’d say to Buster, our orange tabby who’d be sleeping in the warm spot next to me—Melody’s spot. He crowded up against her warm body every night when we’d climb into bed. She’d act annoyed—“I have no room with his fat body over here!”—but she loved it. Then she’d scoot over and crowd my side of the bed. That would be my turn to act annoyed even though I loved it.

I’d spend Saturday checking the Goodwill on Burnside for books or reading or listening to some vinyl. She’d spend it exploring the deepest parts of Forest Park and giving me minor panic attacks when she’d step into the occasional dead zone and lose cell service. I’d text her but get no reply. So I’d open the app, tap the green circle with the white M and see “Near 45.5474, -122.7430, Last Updated 35 minutes ago.” Then I’d be uncomfortable and distracted, unable to read or do anything until I’d get a response from her. Which I always did.

One day after work she came to me excitedly, I think it was a Thursday, and told me that she planned to hike the entire Wildwood trail. Twenty-eight miles from top to bottom.

“I don’t like it.” I didn’t want to be a spoilsport, but it was the truth. It worried me. A lot.

“I’ll be fine, babe. You know I can handle it. I did sixteen miles two weeks ago and I was fine.”

“This is close to twice as long, Melody. You’re gonna be gone for hours and I’m gonna worry the entire time.”

“Well then don’t worry.”

“Yeah, if it were that easy.”

But she already had that look in her eyes, that devilish smile working its way to her face. The expression that told me I was going to cave and that I might as well stop now.

“You don’t think I can do it?” But she already knew the answer. Of course she could do it, we both knew that. She was strong. Fierce. There was nothing I or anyone else could do to stop her. 

“I know you can do it, but I’m going to worry the whole time.” Feeling a little guilty about the pouty attitude I was taking I added, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I’ll be fine. I really want to do this babe. I have to. Think about your books.”

“What?”

“Your books. You always tell me that you couldn’t stop reading if you had a gun to your head. It’s just something you need to do. This is the same for me.”

I looked at our tall black bookshelf and the tv table that sat next to it, bottom shelves also lined with books. I thought about all the adventures within those pages, the worlds that existed, and how much of a shame it would be if those experiences were forever confined between front cover and back, never to be known or experienced, nothing more than words on paper. She had won all right, and we both knew it.

“You have to send me a link. And keep your phone on you. Answer every text I send and don’t ghost me. I hate it when you do that.”

“I will.”

“And take your portable charger in case your phone dies.”

“Ok.”

“And you have to start early. Can’t risk being out there after dark. It’s gonna take at least six hours if not more.”

“I know. Speaking of, actually…”

She turned her head down and smiled her cheeky smile toward the floor.

“What? What else can you take from me?” I feigned exhaustion but in reality, I don’t think I ever loved her more than I did in that moment. Funny, right? Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me as I remember it now. Or maybe sometimes our brains know something we don’t, see things coming that are out of our field of vision.

“I was hoping you could give me a ride to the trailhead. Either that or I’ll Uber, like last time.”

“No Ubering for the queen; her humble servant will make sure she gets there safely.”

Then we laughed, and kissed, and anything past that is blurry, although I doubt you need me to fill in the blanks. One thing I know is that worry, and fear, and the long, winding path of the Wildwood Trail were as far from my mind as they ever would be again.

That Sunday morning we were both out of bed on time (a minor miracle on my part). Melody was finishing her preparations: filling her two water bottles, zip-locking her snacks, checking the portable battery. I thought about how I’d fill my day, or, to say what I really mean, how I’d go about distracting myself so that the worry wouldn’t consume me. By the time I finished brushing my teeth she was sitting at the little bench by our front door lacing up her sneakers.

“You have to send me your route before you go. Just in case.”

“Already did, darling.”

I pulled out my phone and saw a text from her with a screenshot she had taken from MapMyRun. The route was clearly traced, every switchback visible with helpful mile markers along the way.

“I left it up on the computer too.”

I saw the pink laptop sitting open on the small, circular table by the windows—what functioned as our “dining room.”

“Ready?” She looked like a kid on her first day of school. The backpack aided the illusion, especially the way it sagged toward her lower back because the straps were too loose. But it was mostly her eager, expectant smile.

“Let me fix that, otherwise your back will be screaming before you’re quarter-through.” I tightened the straps and then remembered I meant to give her one more thing to take.

“Just a sec.”

“You trying to keep me here all day?” I could hear her shout from the hallway as I dug through the top shelf of my dresser.

“Nope,” I said as I emerged from the bedroom, “just want you to be safe.”

She looked surprised as I handed her the black-handled pocket knife my father had given me on my nineteenth birthday.

“What’s this for?”

“Protection, dummy. You can clip it to your shorts.”

“Protection from what?”

“I don’t know, bears? Or crazy homeless people living in the woods. Or…”

“Or…?”

“All the dangers of this cruel and unpredictable world, my love. Just don’t stab anyone unless you absolutely have to.”

“Ok, dad.”

And then we were off, climbing steadily up Burnside, then Skyline, all the way to Newberry Road, eleven miles deep into the West Hills. The morning was beautiful; mid-sixties, not a cloud in sight, just an endless vista of soft, pastel blue as far as the eye could see. We drove with the sun-roof open. The breeze was just chilly enough to offset the sun which was already beginning to boil as it climbed toward the top of the sky.

“Couldn’t have asked for a better day, huh?” I was trying to make conversation because the twenty-minute drive to the trailhead was making me uneasy. Was she really going to walk all the way back? It seemed crazy to drop her off at the top of these hills and drive home alone. Every additional twist on the slow journey up seemed to add another pound to the dumbbell that was hanging in my gut.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful. Which means every person in Portland will be out there today. I prefer having the place to myself.”

If the abundance of cyclists trudging their way up these steep hills, crowding the narrow roads and slowing traffic were any indication, she was right.

“I know you do, but I don’t mind you having some company. Someone to help you out if you trip and twist an ankle or something.”

Finally we were there and I was driving around the ROAD CLOSED TO THRU TRAFFIC sign that was guarding the entrance to Newberry. I let her out at the trailhead—crowded by parked cars, which eased my nerves just the slightest bit—and reminded her to check in with me every now and then. I’m glad I made her double back to the open driver’s side window and kiss me before she left. I’m also glad I watched her walk away until she disappeared from my sight. Forever.

I resumed my normal Sunday routine twenty minutes later when I was out of the mountains and back in the city. I stopped at Black Rock to get coffee and drove back to the apartment. Buster was a small orange circle of warm fur sleeping on the couch, and I decided to settle in next to him and pick up the Jack Finney novel I was working on.

I checked in with Melody, who should have been a few miles into her journey by now, to see how she was doing. She said she was good, but that she was definitely going to have to stop and pee somewhere along the way. That worried her because of the frequency at which she was running into other hikers. I told her I believed in her and wished her luck.

What a silly topic to fill our last conversation. If that even was still Melody I was talking to.

I didn’t want to bother her the whole way through so I let the conversation stop there. Part of the appeal of being out there was taking a break from all the screens that fill our daily lives, so I decided to let her enjoy it, but I still opened my phone every twenty minutes or so to track her progress. She was moving along at a good clip, as always. Every time I loaded up my map she was a little further south, a few centimeters closer to our apartment on my screen.

Two hours—and many quick checks of Google Maps—later, I was deeply lost in the book I was reading. Rarely do I get so many uninterrupted hours to just read. I’m often alone for small stretches on the weekend, but this was the longest undertaking she had attempted yet. I knew she was apt to be gone for six, if not seven hours, and we were maybe halfway through. All my responsibilities had been handled, and the day was mine. I quickly decided I wasn’t getting up until this book was finished.

The empty coffee cup was sitting on the table to my right; I had long since finished it and made the switch to beer. I wouldn’t let myself get past two Rolling Rocks though, just in case I had to drive to a trailhead and begin a search and rescue. You never know.

Buster was purring contentedly away next to me, dreaming sweet dreams, but I hardly heard him. My mind was far away. My thoughts were occupied by questions I was hardly equipped to handle. On the surface the story I was reading seemed like political narrative of its time, a Red Scare warning if nothing else. A lot of Golden Age sci-fi was, after all. But there was something else there, underneath. Fear of the unknown, perhaps? Or was it worry about being replaced by something alien, something possibly devoid of a moral compass? I was hoping to reach the end so that I might find answers, but I never made it. No quick solutions at the end of this tale. No easily digested lesson wrapped in a pretty, literary bow, begging for skin-deep analysis by eager ENC 1101 students. Just more dead zones and grey areas. Darkness begetting darkness; a tale older than tales.

That’s when I heard the familiar jingle of keys outside my front door. I thought the footsteps would continue down the hall to one of the neighboring apartments, but when they stopped at my door and I heard the lock turning, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. How could she be back already?

The door opened and Melody walked in. She walked into the living room, took off the backpack, and let out a long sigh as she stretched her arms to the ceiling. For a moment I almost couldn’t speak.

“H-Hey, how’d you get back so quick? I wasn’t expecting you until six or seven.”

She let her hair out of the ponytail and it rained down on her shoulders like a mean black tidal wave. Her head tilted sharply to the left and I heard her neck crack.

“I got tired and decided to skip out early. I took one of the Firelanes to Leif Erikson. It’s much easier terrain.”

“Still, I swear I checked twenty minutes ago and you were in the dead center of Forest Park. How the hell did you get back so fast. Did you Uber?” I pulled up my phone and opened Maps to see the last time it updated.

Her green circle was deep in Forest Park, practically parallel to the Saint John’s bridge. I tapped the icon to see what time it had updated. It said Just Now.

I looked back up at Melody and she was staring at me, her face framed in dark silk. I didn’t like the way she was looking at me; her blue eyes seemed deeper, darker, duller. She was studying me.

“No Uber. I walked fast, I guess.”

I tried to act normal, but I could feel heat rising to my face. I felt sick, dizzy.

“Yeah, I’ll say.” I looked back down at my phone again and unease became thick, gripping panic when I saw her green circle icon moving. I swallowed hard and tried to hold my composure. It seemed terribly important that I didn’t make the wrong move.

“What is it?” I looked back into the alien face standing across the room from me and once again felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Like I was being studied, or maybe on the verge of being scorched to death by the sun’s cruel rays.

“Nothing. I guess my phone is just being weird, or yours.” Then, quickly, I added, “Can I see yours? I want to check your maps app and see if it timed out.”

She handed it to me. And it was Melody’s phone. The colorful marble swirl case, the little pop-up grip on the back with the mountain imagery printed on it, everything was right. I unlocked it and opened Google Maps. It didn’t show anything; no tracking icon, just a bird’s eye view of our neighborhood with a blue dot that represented her, right where our building was located.

“I guess it did just time out.” I handed it back to her, reaching across the coffee table between us.

“Hmm. Weird.” With that she turned and went into the bathroom.

Put yourself in my position. I know I sound a little crazy, but how can someone be in two places at once? Technology fails, often. I know. I tried to put my faith in that, tried to close the door that was slipping open in my mind, because I could see what was behind it, and it was nothing but deep purple madness all the way down. But it wasn’t enough.

I got up and searched through the backpack she had placed in front of our tv stand. It was my old college backpack all right, and the contents inside were what I expected. I saw her headphones, a water bottle, a half-empty bag of jerky. But I found myself glancing up toward the bathroom door as if I were a child peeking into places he wasn’t supposed to see. As if I was scared.

No, this is madness, I said. Anxiety is a bitch. You’ve dealt with this before. Stop trying to ruin the best thing you have in life.

But it’s so far, I protested. So far. How could she be miles into Forest Park one second, here the next? Even if she took an Uber (and lied about it, why?) there’s no way she made it out from Wildwood that quickly.

The tracker had timed out after my last check, and I was absorbed in my book. That’s what I settled on. Time flew by. How sure could I be that I had seen her location less than twenty minutes ago? It could’ve been an hour and I wouldn’t have noticed, I was lost.

She’s different. You saw it. Shut up. Shut up.

So I did. I shut up. I convinced myself that I was being a nut, nothing more than a wild imagination running free. I sat down on the couch and waited for Melody to come out. I’ll ask her how the trip was, see if she wants me to rub her feet. Stop being a fool while I’m at it.

I decided to check Google one more time, hoping to receive an error message so that I could put this to bed for good.

Her icon was off trail.

Somewhere dead center between a sharp hook in the Wildwood and Firelane 7, just south of the Saint John’s Bridge. About halfway between Newberry, where she started, and our place. Right where she should have been. I tapped the icon to see when it last updated: One Minute Ago.

I tapped that icon more than a few times as the night wore on, sitting next to Melody on the couch, wondering about her and those dark eyes. It stayed right where it was. I told myself it meant nothing, but I took a screenshot. You know, just in case.

That night my sleep was restless. I woke up over and over again, never finding true sleep. I couldn’t get comfortable no matter what I tried. Every time I broke through my paper thin rest to stare at the dark ceiling I’d have this feeling that I had just left a bad dream. The remnants of some nightmare seemed to hang on to me like a grudge. The details eluded me, but the feelings, those stuck around. It was despair, and confusion, and gut-wrenching panic. They came back with me to the real world.

For the rest of the week I worked to suppress the crazy thoughts that were swimming through my head, but I kept finding myself checking the screenshot, opening Maps and scrolling to Forest Park. I’d look out the window as the sun set. The treeline was a peaked black silhouette set on a dark blueberry backdrop. I wondered what might be at that spot where her tracking icon stopped, hidden so many miles into our sprawling backyard.

I tried to busy myself with work, or the gym, or reading, but even that couldn’t hold my attention. I’d find myself drifting. I’d reach the end of the page and realize I hadn’t processed a word of what my eyes scanned.

She was different. It was subtle, but undeniable. A less observant person might not have noticed, but we were different, Melody and me. She was everything to me. I think I’ve made that clear. And this person, this…I don’t even know what to call it. It wasn’t her.

Melody was always warm. We used to joke about how we were meant to be, because I’m always cold. I called her my “winter Mel,” because I used to love cuddling up next to her when it was cold outside. Feeling the warmth of her skin on mine, it made me crave winter. She was like a furnace. In the summer it was hell; no one has A/C in Portland, despite the fact that it clears one hundred degrees at least two or three times every summer. I used to sleep as far as I could on my side to avoid her burning skin.

After the day of her hike she was cold to the touch, like me. Laying next to her in bed was like sleeping with a corpse. Being that we were on the verge of summer that should have been ok, but it was anything but. It was repulsive. Every time we touched I could feel her stealing my warmth, the little bit that I had. If it were just me that noticed, maybe I could have written it off, or at the very least ignored it. But Buster noticed too. He always slept at her feet or crowded up next to her chest, enjoying her warmth. All three years that we were together he never left her side of the bed. After that Sunday night he slept next to me, and he never went back. Even in the day he’d lower his body to the ground and slink away to avoid her if she reached out for him. Animals know, I believe that.

Still, I forced myself to cuddle next to her, to wrap my arm around her and hold her at night. I missed her. I was desperate for her. Her sleek raven hair was always in my face; it normally smelled of shampoo, something fruity and delicate. No more. She smelled like the woods. Dirt and air and old leaves. Holding her was like facing a stiff autumn breeze in the forest.

And the dreams. It was bad enough waking up every night with a racing heart, feeling like I had barely escaped something horrible. But then I started remembering them. Oh, how much worse that was. The first one that I could recall came Wednesday night, that’s just a few days ago now.

When I was fifteen, in the summer between tenth and eleventh grade, I started getting these nightmares. It was probably because my sleep pattern was in shambles: I’d stay up later and later each night until eventually I wasn’t lying down for sleep until sunrise, sometimes seven or eight in the morning. I’d wake up and start my day somewhere in the neighborhood of four p.m. I liked the solitude of late night. Oh, the irony.

Those dreams varied in a number of ways, but one thing was consistent: the shadow man. A dark, spectral figure that would appear somewhere. Sometimes behind me, sometimes on top of me; he was the constant thread in these dreams. He was like the grim reaper, but more ethereal. Think dementor from Harry Potter. Cloaked, dark, floating, evil. Sometimes he’d creep into my room and slide to the foot of my bed. He’d stand there, growing, until he was over me, and then suddenly, he’d lunge and press down on my chest and I’d fight and scream and try to rip myself free. I eventually came to find out that this was a common experience for some people, known as sleep paralysis. It went away for the most part after that summer, only returning a few times in college to remind me of what was possible. This first dream was sort of like that.

I woke up in bed, as I had every night before, feeling like I just escaped a terrible dream. I was lying in my bed in my usual spot, right underneath the window. Everything was as it is in real life, to a tee. The curtains swayed with the cool breeze of a late spring’s night. I was lying face up on my puffy blue pillow. Melody was lying next to me, on my right. I rolled over to hug her.

She was facing me, lying on her side.

It was dark in the bedroom, too dark to see her face fully; most if it was obscured in shadow, with the faintest light of the moon skimping the highest part of her turned head. I lay there, face to face with her for a minute, waiting for my eyes to adjust. She wasn’t illuminated enough for me to tell, but I felt that her eyes were open. That she was watching me. I wanted to speak, to ask her what she wanted, but my mouth was frozen, my lips were sealed shut. I watched the crease of her lips as it slowly extended upward, toward her right ear, growing, growing, going farther than it should have been able, turning into a sick joker grin in the dark.

Behind her, I saw the door slowly push open. I tried to look but couldn’t rip my gaze from her slowly morphing face. Something was coming in from the hallway. It was dark and shadowy and it slid toward the bed as if it hovered instead of walked. Just as it reached her side of the bed I woke up. Shot up, actually. My heart was pounding and I could feel the coppery taste of fear and adrenaline in my mouth. I didn’t sleep again that night.

Thursday was a long day at work. I was exhausted and my mind kept returning to the dream I had. I told myself it was just sleep paralysis, nothing I haven’t seen before, but that was like trying to sell ice to an Eskimo. It was a slow day at my office, so I decided to do some research. Just to pass the time.

Google Maps was already open in my browser, as it had been every day that week. I was studying the intricate zig-zagging lines of trails that cut through Forest Park without any conscious thought. I had already plotted the fastest route from Lower Macleay to that spot between trails where Melody’s marker settled. At first I told myself it was just to see how quickly she could have gotten home, but before long I knew otherwise.

I opened Wikipedia to the entry on Forest Park (Portland, Oregon). There wasn’t much to learn there: some technical definitions, history, information on the creeks, trails, vegetation, and wildlife to be found within. For the most part a dry read. There was something in the first paragraph that gave me pause, though. Forest Park is mostly second-growth, meaning it’s woodland area that has regrown after a timber harvest, but there are a few patches of old growth, deep in the center. Right around where Melody stopped moving. I hovered over the definition of old growth, because I was curious. There were a few synonymous terms. Virgin forest was one that caught my eye. It was primeval forest and ancient woodland that made me shudder.

Ancient, primeval, old. That was what I was feeling each night as I cuddled up next to the stranger in my bed. I closed my internet browser and went back to work, but my concentration was poor. The final straw came later that night.

When I got home that evening Melody was already there, standing at the counter in our kitchen, wiping her lips. It wasn’t uncommon for her to beat me home, but she looked as if she didn’t expect me. I greeted her as I stepped into my closet to change. She came and stood in the doorway to talk to me for a minute as I undressed. I noticed a slight pink smear extending from the  corner of her mouth up her cheek.

I went to the gym, showered, brushed my teeth. That night I went to take the trash from our kitchen to the garbage room on our floor. As I pulled the bag from our small trash can and stuffed the waste down farther so I could tie it, I noticed a discarded case of ground turkey, raw, mostly eaten.

I had a lump in my stomach that night as I climbed into bed next to her. Had I not remembered my dreams the next morning, maybe I wouldn’t have taken action. Maybe I wouldn’t be in the position I’m currently in. It’s hard to say. What I found in the garbage…it looked as if someone had grabbed the bloody clump of shredded meat directly from the Styrofoam carton, taken a few big bites, and thrown the remains in the trash. I think that was what pushed me over the edge; my dreams that night were just the icing on top.

I fell into a loose, restless sleep, and dreamed I was in the woods. It was dark. I was hiking through trails I hardly knew, with only the slim, silver light of the crescent moon to guide me. I was deep in Forest Park, lost, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of there, and fast. I found myself on a narrow section of trail in a valley I didn’t recognize that dipped toward the Earth.

I wasn’t alone. Something was stalking along beside me in the trees. I could hear branches snapping beneath its heavy steps and I saw the blur of movement just beyond my line of sight.

The rest of the park stood above me on perched hills. I walked faster, picking up my pace until I was trotting along at a slow jog, trying to keep my footing on the narrowing section of trail. Panic was rising in my chest, fear was consuming my mind, emptying me of rational thought. I was like an animal in a trap. I didn’t think, just acted on instinct. Sounds came from behind me and to my left. Low, guttural growls and the sound of feet quickly closing in on me.

All at once I knew this was the end. This was how I died. Just before the eldritch, woodland  creature that was chasing me could break through bramble and consume me, I woke up.

Or at least I thought I did. What alerted me to the fact that I might still be trapped in a dream was that I wasn’t lying in bed. I was sitting. Sitting in the very chair that I type this from, actually. But there was no computer in front of me on the glass-top table. I had an unobstructed view from this chair to the heavy front door on the other side of the room. The light fixture above me was on, shining bright, yellow light on top of my head. The rest of the apartment was pitch black.

She came around the corner, from the hallway just to the right of the front door. From the bedroom. Once again she was no more than a silhouette because I was sitting in the only light. She was a dark outline slowly creeping toward me. Her head was slightly askew, as if sitting on a broken neck. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands hung low by her sides. What I’ll never forget is her fingers. They extended from where her hands hung—above her knees—all the way down to the floor. They dragged along the carpet as she stumbled toward me. I could hear the rasping sound her nails made as they scraped the worn fibers.

She reached out to touch me, from fifteen feet away. I passed out before she made contact. I’m thankful for that. When I woke up, the sun was shining on my face, I was in bed, and Melody was already gone, at work, presumably.

I grabbed my cell phone from the window sill and called my office to tell them I wouldn’t be making it into work today. I knew they’d think I was taking an impromptu long weekend, but I didn’t care. It was time to act.

The sky darkened considerably by the time I was dressed and out the door. What seemed to be a picturesque early-June morning looked more like a late-fall afternoon. Anyone in Portland can tell you I should’ve expected it; this part of the country has a way of making you think summer’s come  early, only to douse you with rain as soon as you put your raincoat into the winter closet. As a result, Lower Macleay was close to empty when I got there.

There was still the intermittent jogger and the occasional elderly couple—Eddie Bauer trekking poles in hand, perfunctory smiles pasted to their faces—as I got going, especially at the start of the trail, but nothing close to what you’d expect this time of the year, even on a weekday.

The walk was nice at first. Lower Macleay is fairly flat for a while, and the small creek off to my right provided a nice auditory distraction. It was peaceful. I couldn’t absorb much of that peace though; my mind was racked with anxiety. Part of me was excited, the other was wallowing in dread. I was afraid to feel hope, so I tried to stifle it. But it continued to poke at the barrier I constructed, trying to force its way in. I wanted to see Melody again, my Melody, the real one.

Within ten minutes I hit the Stone House—the “Witch’s Castle.” An abandoned stone structure that used to be a bathroom for hikers, or so I’m told, and has since gained popularity as something more. I’d been to it countless times before, but something about the dull gray sky and abnormal silence of the trail gave it a menacing feel. I walked quickly past it and began my ascent at the switchback. I knew from experience that from here on out I’d be doing some serious incline, so I dropped my head and focused on my breathing.

Not long after I began climbing I hit a fork in the trail: downhill to the right, uphill to the left. I stayed on the Wildwood and continued to climb. I didn’t bring headphones with me. It’s not that I didn’t think about it, I did, I just chose not to. It felt wrong. I wasn’t trying to enjoy this. It felt wrong to be in her woods without her. I had a mission. So I walked on, my run-ins with other hikers becoming more and more infrequent, the only sound my own two feet connecting with hard-packed dirt and my labored breathing. The sky continued to darken as if it were six in the evening instead of a few hours shy of noon.

Less than two miles later the incline began to level off and I found myself moving faster on legs that felt staticky and warm. Eventually I was parallel to a road on my left. Few cars drove by on this desultory Friday morning. I passed the trailhead on 53rd and noticed how empty it was. Normally packed with more cars than can comfortably fit, the wide spot in the road next to the sign seemed barren, almost deserted. One new glossy orange Subaru that looked fresh off the showroom floor and an old red Tacoma pickup sat spaced apart from each other on the extended shoulder. I kept moving.

This was the part I was dreading, the home stretch. I had at least three miles ahead of me before I reached the spot between trails where Melody’s marker had paused indefinitely. I knew a good section of this from the hikes we had taken together but knew that if I continued I would reach a part of Forest Park I had never seen. The trail continued to switch back repeatedly as I marched onward, high up now, close to the highest point in the park. To my right was a precipitous drop that I wanted no part of, so I kept my eyes forward and focused on my goal.

If she’s out here, I’ll find her. If not, I’ll find something else. Something, anything at all that can help me understand what happened. Where she went.

At this point it seemed I was deeper in Forest Park than anyone else dared venture on this cloudy Friday morning. I hadn’t crossed paths with any other hikers for the better part of an hour, and the silence pressed down on me like a weighted blanket. Aside from my own constant footsteps, the only sound was the wind as it gently caressed the tall trees that surrounded me, making them whisper secret words to each other. Again I reminded myself that I had a purpose, and focused on that.

I kept my eyes forward, my feet moving, and I walked. I worked hard to clear my mind. I knew that whatever I was going to come across was going to challenge me, and I needed to be level headed. Prepared.

I wasn’t ready.

I came upon a section of trail that dipped savagely toward the Earth. Suddenly, I found myself staring into a familiar valley that I had never seen. At least in the waking world. I stopped moving for a moment and stood gaping in disbelief. Hadn’t I been here before? In the dark? Thoughts of the primordial beast that stalked me through these trees caused a shiver to rack my body.

I can’t go down there, I thought. But, Melody, I answered. I got moving before my survival instincts could halt me.

I descended into the valley at a much quicker pace than I had climbed. It was lightly drizzling now, and the narrowing trail was slick and muddy. I had to brace myself on branches and shift my weight on thick, obtusely jutting trunks to avoid slipping and tumbling my way to the bottom. When the trail finally leveled off I found myself deep beneath the rest of Forest Park on a section of trail barely wide enough for both of my feet. The tall trees all sat perched high on the hills above me. The vegetation that grew at the bottom—where I was—was tight and densely packed. It was suffocating. I could feel it closing in on me. And it was thick. I wondered what might hide behind it, watching.

I pulled out my phone to check my location. No bars, but the GPS still loaded. I was approaching the elbow where Melody had wandered off trail. I took a few more steps and came to the switchback I was looking for. Instead of turning sharply right and beginning my ascent to saner, more level ground, I ignored every evolutionary instinct in my body and stepped off the trail, walking toward the indistinct no-man’s land between the Wildwood and Firelane 7.

I was in the old growth. I’m no forestry major, far from an expert on woodland classifications, but this I knew instantly. The trees, the shrubs, the fucking dirt beneath my shoes—all of it was so old. I knew that no matter how popular Wildwood Trail is, no one had stepped foot on this soil, this section of forest that stands off-trail, in years. Decades. Maybe centuries. Except for Melody. She had been here.

I got to thinking as I walked, periodically looking at the screenshot on my phone and comparing it to my current location. When was Portland founded, 1845? 1850? If I remember correctly, the city existed before Oregon was even admitted to the Union. What was here before that? Native Americans, sure. Their imprint is all over this region. Wy’east, that’s what the Multnomah tribe called Mount Hood. And speaking of Multnomah, that’s the name of the county in which my apartment stands. But what about before that, before them? Animals, wildlife? I guess if you follow that logic back far enough you reach the dinosaurs. But what about before them? What if I stood in this spot, this plot of God’s green Earth and traveled back to the earliest days, before history, before anything we know or could possibly recognize? What roamed the Earth then, what called this section of forest home?

I had a feeling I’d soon find out.

I kept moving, stepping over thick brambles and pushing branches and leaves out of my way. My cell phone told me I was here. I was where Melody had last walked. I looked around, turning in a tight circle, and I found…nothing. Nothing at all. Just more greenery growing out of the ground. I was in a deep ditch somewhere just south of the Saint John’s Bridge and there was nothing noteworthy within eyeshot. My disappointment was thick, heavy.

I called her name as loud as I could. I knew there’d be no answer. Big, drooping tears filled my eyes and spilled down my sweaty cheeks.

I turned to leave and saw that somehow on my way down into this trough I had walked past a set of stone steps set deeply into the Earth, mostly covered by dirt and small, intertwining vines. There were four steps. They seemed to lead nowhere. Probably part of an old staircase that existed eons ago, down here in the depths. I walked up them as I headed back toward the Wildwood Trail, and, eventually, back to civilization.

Misery is a strong word. It originally existed to describe distress of an almost indescribable magnitude. Most people today hear it and think of the Stephen King novel, or subsequent movie adaptation. So let me give you a few more: Anguish. Torment. Despair. Despondency. Desolation. Woe. I could continue, but why bother? Why even write this when it surely won’t reach anyone? Anyone real, that is.

Fuck it. I’ve come this far. Let me tell you how this ends. Hope you’re not looking for rainbows and butterflies.

I climbed out of the sunken dip of land and rejoined Wildwood, feeling emptier than I thought possible. It felt like someone had replaced my heart with a hollow drum and was mercilessly pounding it, forcing me to feel the empty rattle in my chest.

My feet carried me mindlessly back in the direction I had come. The wind was gone, the world was quieter than when I began my journey, but these things I hardly noticed. Only upon reflection do they seem important. At the time, I was lost in my own sorrow, an empty shell shuffling on mostly numb feet.

What now? Just go back home, continue to share a bed with the creature wearing my wife’s face? I had no plan. I walked on, hoping things would make more sense when I was out of these damned woods. I was praying for a convenient deus ex machina somewhere along the trail: Look, one of her shoes! a message for me carved into a tree!

What I got was more empty trail.

After I ascended from the deep valley where I faced my reckoning and began the tedious but more stable stretch of the trip, my mind slowly began to clear. I became observant. At this point it had been at least two full hours since I had encountered another hiker on the trail. More concerning than that, I no longer heard the cheerful chirping of birds or the occasional rustling of a squirrel off in the brush. The wind was entirely missing. The air was flat and stale. I stopped walking for a moment and with the sound of my own two feet hobbling along now missing, I realized the world was entirely silent. I could hear my own heartbeat over the faint ringing in my ears.

It was eerie, so I started to move faster. With every corner I turned I hoped that I would run into a jogger or hiker, but feared I would find myself standing face to face with some unrecognizable, ancient horror. Neither of those things happened. I walked quickly, jogging when I felt comfortable enough with the terrain to do so, and before long I found myself emerging from Lower Macleay.

Finally, civilization. Welcome back to the land of the living. Except—

I walked to the roundabout at the entrance of the park. It was empty. There’d been cars there when I came in this morning. Guess they had enough of this ugly day and went home. I turned right and started down Upshur Street.

Empty.

Even on the ugliest of days I had never seen this street devoid of cars parked along the curb. So, no one is hiking, okay, but what about the residents of the neighborhood? I kept moving, trying to fight the tightness that was squeezing my throat shut.

I went a few more blocks before turning right on 25th Ave. I took the next left onto Thurman and briskly walked toward 23rd where there had to be people. Even in a fucking monsoon people line that street looking for new and interesting ways to waste their money. I didn’t like all the empty driveways and dark windows I passed on my way.

The sky was still that same uniform gray color. I couldn’t even make out any clouds—it was as if one giant cloud was blanketing the entire sky, casting my city into growing darkness. I turned right onto 23rd Avenue and my heart stopped.

The street was deserted, utterly empty as far as my eye could see. Not a single car, pedestrian, shopper—nothing. All the shops and restaurants stood dark and empty. The windows felt like vacant eyes watching me, the sole performer in this pitiable show. I kept moving, furtively glancing over my shoulder or snapping my head to the left or right with every passing intersection.  

I was alone. The silence, the still air; it felt like the world had stopped moving. I could think of nothing else to do, so I kept walking until I reached my building. I pressed the elevator call button expecting nothing, but to my surprise it came—ding. I rode it to the top floor and entered my apartment.

And here I sit, at my dining room table, writing this sad story on my missing wife’s laptop for reasons that even I cannot explain.

Speaking of Melody, where is she? Where is she really? Did she climb those old, beaten steps in the forest too? Is that where she went? Did she cross over to…wherever it is that I am now?  

That must be why her tracker stopped moving. The signal can’t reach her here. I’ve checked my own phone and found the same. No bars, no signal, not even the GPS can register my location. I’m cut off.

I wish I could think of anything else beside her, but I can’t. What did she do when she crossed over? Did she have the same experience I did when she left the park? Did she feel the same rising panic with every additional empty street she encountered, every blank, vacant house she passed?

Oh God, I wish I could have been there for her. Did she come here, too? Surely she must have. Where else would she have gone? She must have come to this apartment looking for me, only to find a gray, empty home, devoid of all life and love. She came looking for me, and I wasn’t here. And now she’s gone. She probably waited, maybe even slept in our bed for a night or two before she picked up and left. It makes me sick to think of her here, alone, lying in what was once a happy bed, a happy room, missing me while I was missing her. Where is she now? Alone in this motionless world, wandering, hoping to find someone, anyone else with which she can share this misery?

She’s gone, forever. I wish I could pull out my phone and call her. Or open Google Maps and see her green token moving through the world. No luck. Not here. I want to go out and look for her, but what if she comes back? She will eventually, right?

You know…somewhere out there, right now, in my real apartment, in the real world, there’s a woman who looks just like my wife. I have a feeling that soon she’ll be joined by a man who looks just like me. I wonder what they’ll do, when they’re together. Who they might call. Who they might go see.

Are they happy? Did they miss each other, while one was away? Do they love?

I’ll wait. She’ll come back to me, if I give her time. And when she walks through that door, I’ll be here. We’ll be together again. The rest of the world won’t matter if I have her. She’ll come back.

We all come home in time. And when she does, when Melody finally tires of walking through empty fields and deserted streets, meeting nothing but the wind and the lifeless, soulless, reaches of this planet, she’ll return. And I’ll never let her out of my sight again.

We’ll love each other. And it’ll be all right. Yes, it’ll be all right.

I’ll wait for my darling to come home.