Thicket

The woods were dark, but they walked through them anyway. Two paths led towards the meadow and the road beyond: one that crowded the underbrush, and another delineated by the ancient, spaced-out trees in the centre. They chose the darker of the two. Vermin stirred the leaves around their feet, racoons swayed invisibly in branches criss-crossing overhead, and the two girls reached a bend in the path.

“Which way?”

“Through there –” the leader pointed to the deep underbrush.

“You didn’t bring a flashlight?”

An impatient sigh.

“No. Ready?”

A nod, they left the path and, snapping twigs, plunged into the densest part of the little forest. They’d watched the last of the dog walkers head home; they had a little while before the teenagers arrived with cigarettes and pot and bottles of beer to shatter against the trees.

“Do you think the police tape is still up? Do you think there’s still blood?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the murderer?”

“Shut up.”

“Do you think they’ll catch him?”

“Do you want to do this or not?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re almost there. I see something.”

It glittered through the trees, reflecting the faint starlight. They approached the great white boulder nestled at the centre of the undergrowth.

“She was here?”

“Yes, my dad said so. Lying on top of it like she was asleep.”

They examined the boulder, standing on tiptoe to see its blank, flat surface.

“What do we do?”

A noise behind them. A white wide-eyed look, and the two girls grasped hands.

“It was nothing.”

“Let’s run. Now.”

 “My dad says you should never run from a predator.”

They turned and gently pressed their way through the thicket opposite the rock. The trees embraced them, shadows hiding shadows, and the two girls crept towards home.

Ashley Woodward