The Wind In The Willows

It seemed like a moment frozen in time. The clouds sat frozen in the sky, the leaves on the trees refused to rustle, and not even the birds chirped from their perches. The creek was muted, the grass still, and his burning lungs failed to breathe in any fresh air. He had always read about one’s heart pounding in their ears in moments of panic, chaos, danger, but no such sound echoed in his ears. His heart simply hammered away in his chest.

The small meadow he had run to had always seemed to provide protection when he was a boy. When his father was enraged or his mother maniac, it had seemed removed from the world, a welcome safe haven for a scared child. No wolves that had once roamed the mountains had ever set foot in it, no snakes slithered through the green blades. The willows surrounded it like an impenetrable fortress, the creek that ringed the northern side acting as a mighty moat. He had fancied it a magical barrier keeping his sanctuary safe from the world.

When he grew, stubble cropping up on his chin and his mailbox filling with bills, it was always a place of peace. It never felt right to bring a drink, nor to invite anyone else in. It was a reverence greater than a cathedral, a defense better than a steel wall. When he was in this glade, it felt like not even a nuclear strike could break the stillness. Worries fell away, willingly robbed by the hidden valley. When his wife had left, the valley had been waiting to wipe away his tears. Divorce was said to be a painful experience, a serrated dagger that was plunged into the heart and could never be removed. Here, in this place, the dagger felt like nothing more than a pinprick and was gone faster than a shadow when the sun shone. When he had buried his best friend, dead with a bullet embedded in his chest, this was the first place he had come after the funeral. The arms of the valley had held him, filtering out the bad memories and surrounding him with the good ones. Yes, they had argued, fought, gone separate ways for the childish reason of loving the same woman, but they had spent countless afternoons after school in the rafters of his friend’s barn. Old cigarette butts and magazines had littered that loft, dreams and plans had formed but never come to fruition. Every problem of mankind had been discussed and solved and then forgotten again. Those were the memories that had visited him that afternoon while wearing black, and those were the memories he chose to hold close. 

He shivered involuntarily.. Even on the brightest day, it never warmed here, the once- bright light dim. The morning blanket was a layer of frost, fading away by the time the sun reached its zenith, but returning as soon as the harsh rays were gone. Not that he had ever minded. It was always too hot, even in the mountains, and that heat was simply another outside threat that never could reach into the stillness of this place. It had seemed so natural in the moment, so safe. The few friends he had ever told of this sanctuary had always had the same thing to say: “Creepy.”

But it wasn’t creepy. It wasn’t like a cheap horror movie. There wasn’t anything seeking to snatch him into the small creek, no monstrous beast stalking him in the trees. What sounded terrifying to anyone else only sounded like home to him. It was the one reason he had never left his hometown, even when everyone else he knew had. His friends were gone, seizing better opportunities that had fallen into his laps. His parents had left, their age catching up to him. His two children had been taken in the divorce, but it had mattered so little. His little sanctuary had always felt more alive than anyone and understood him far better. It had watched him grow, watched him pour over college textbooks as he tried to make something of himself. It had been there when he read the letters of rejection sent back by every company he had ever tried to sign on with. It had watched him accept the job offer from the mill, watched his face fall as he saw the 60-hour week waiting for him. It had heard his rants about his idiotic coworkers, arrogant pricks of supervisors, and greedy bosses. It was his greatest friend, always listening, never judging.

At least, it had been.

He felt it, then. The wind in the willows. The world was still silent, unmoving, time frozen, but the wind was there. 

His eyes darted to the disturbed limbs, his body paralyzed, frozen. He wanted, he NEEDED, to move, to breathe, to yell, to scream for help, but nothing happened.

The wind moved, disturbing the grass by the stream. Just a small patch. Then, it stopped. 

Another patch of grass swayed in the breeze, a few feet closer. It seemed agonizingly slow, yet far too fast. Closer, closer, closer crept the breeze, drawn to the man lying against the log. He smelled it then, the overpowering scent carried in the breeze. Bile rose in his throat but refused to come out as the stench wormed its way into his nostrils and down into his lungs. He had smelled it only once before, yet it was unforgettable. It had filled his grandfather’s house, the old man having not shown up for their weekly chess match, the only positive contact he had received in his youth. He had opened the door of the old ranch house and been hit with the same smell. It was emanating from the kitchen where he found his grandfather splayed out on the kitchen floor, lifeless eyes terrified and fixed on the screen door leading out the back.

It hadn’t occurred to him before that, if he had followed that dead gaze, he would have eventually come to the glade he had called his home.

The wind was brushing over his feet now, the sickening smell blowing fresh on his face.

It didn’t even let him have the decency for one last scream before he discovered what death really felt like….