No Rest for the Wicked

Submitted into Contest #277 in response to: Write a story with the word “wicked” in the title.... view prompt

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Creative Nonfiction Historical Fiction Indigenous

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

And there she goes again, driving down the street in her matte black Jeep, returning from who knows where. The sleek, modern vehicle stood in stark contrast to the haunting ruin of her home.

The iron gate, now an electronic fortress, opened with quiet efficiency—its sterile precision a jarring juxtaposition to the rot within. The Jeep disappeared behind the gate, heading toward the refurbished carriage house tucked behind the decrepit Victorian mansion. 

The house, standing as the last on a dead-end street, loomed like a sentinel at the edge of civilization. Beyond it stretched an untamed forest—dense, brooding, dissected by a winding stream that seemed to bleed through the land itself. On foggy mornings, the mist blurred the lines between shadow and substance, transforming the forest into a threshold between worlds, where the known dissolved into mystery.

The mansion was a decaying monument, cloaked in ivy and surrounded by skeletal trees that clawed at the heavens. Its once-manicured lawn was now a burial ground of crumbled stone relics, exuding a silence that felt almost sentient. 

And yet, amidst the decay, traces of wealth lingered—the pristine gate, the sleek Jeep, the modernized carriage house. These flashes of affluence hinted at a fortune carefully rationed to maintain the barest necessities. The mansion itself, though, was left untouched. Perhaps Valerie Grimes, the rumored she-devil of Hemlock Hollow, preferred it that way. 

Valerie was the subject of hushed warnings in town, a figure cloaked in rumors as thick as the poison ivy that thrived on her property. On her land, toxic plants like hemlock grew lush and tall, their sinister beauty a sharp contrast to the decay of her mansion. Hemlock’s delicate white flowers masked its deadly nature, while poison ivy wove itself into every corner, clinging to trees, fences, and the very foundation of the house. 

Unlike most, Valerie was immune to poison ivy’s wrath. She could touch the leaves, even rub them along her arms, without so much as an itch. It was an eerie gift she hadn’t dared to question, another quirk that set her apart and fed the town’s suspicion. 

She thought often of hiring a gardener to tame the encroaching vines and the hemlock’s menacing sprawl. Yet each time she considered it, a deep unease stopped her. The land was already restless, its history heavy with blood and betrayal. Disturbing it further felt like tempting a wrath she could not hope to control. 

Instead, Valerie let the plants be, their toxicity a natural boundary between her and the world. She came to see the hemlock and poison ivy not as intruders, but as manifestations of the land’s pain—a warning, perhaps, to tread carefully on soil steeped in generations of suffering. They flourished where other plants withered, thriving as though nourished by the shadows that hung over the forest and its tragic past. 

Valerie’s property became a place of quiet menace, a sanctuary for the poisonous and the misunderstood, much like the woman who called it home.

The Grimes family legacy was steeped in industry and tragedy. The estate, built in the early 1800s, had once been a grand testament to wealth earned from logging and manufacturing. But the industries were unforgiving, claiming lives so frequently the tragedies began to feel like curses. Generations of Grimes met untimely, violent ends—often at the hands of the very forest that had made them rich. 

Valerie inherited the mansion after her parents’ untimely deaths—a car crash during a winter storm. Their vehicle skid off an icy road and slammed into a tree, marking yet another chapter in the family’s grim history, one always tied to the trees that dominated their land. 

Her grandfather had met his end beneath one as well, crushed by a falling tree while overseeing work in the woods. It was a rare visit—he usually stayed far from the dangers of logging—but on that fateful day, a sudden gust of wind twisted the tree’s descent, sending it crashing down before he could hear the warning shouts of the workers. 

Her great-grandfather’s death had been equally brutal, trampled by spooked logging horses hauling timber through the dense forest. The family’s blood seemed bound to the land, soaking into its shadowed soil with every generation. 

Valerie often wondered if the forest’s vengeance wasn’t finished with her yet.

Locals hinted that the forest wasn’t just a forest—it was her forest. Its towering trees grew unnaturally tall, their twisted roots clawing deep into the earth like skeletal fingers. The dense canopy above knitted together so tightly it cast the ground into an eerie, perpetual twilight, even on the sunniest days. 

On shadowy nights, the forest seemed alive with sound. Whispers slithered through the undergrowth, groans rose like ancient echoes from unseen depths, and low, guttural growls reverberated through the air. The origins of these noises were unknown, but they felt alive—watchful. Some said the forest breathed, its breath laden with secrets and the weight of an ancient, unspoken curse. 

Despite her dark reputation, Valerie had quietly woven herself into the fabric of the community under an assumed name. She ran a nonprofit tree farm that supported local children’s programs and charities, planting two trees for every one harvested. The farm's success stood in strange contrast to her fading mansion, a quiet atonement for her family’s bloody legacy.

Solitude suited her. It gave her the time and space to unravel the tangled web of her family’s history, a solitary quest to understand the land’s dark legacy and the spirits that clung to it. Yet, the deeper she dug, the heavier the weight became. How does one make peace with the dead? How does one atone for generations of blood spilled and suffering sown into the soil? These questions lingered in her mind, as unyielding as the forest itself.

Her groundskeeper, an Abenaki man named Joseph, managed the farm with quiet determination. His ancestors had called this land home, and his work felt like reclamation. Other Abenaki families joined him, their hands tending the soil in silent hope of lifting the curse born of centuries of greed and violence. 

But the past haunted Valerie like a living thing. As a child, she had spent countless hours wandering the forest with a boy named Steven. He knew the woods intimately, as if they spoke to him in a language only he could understand. He taught her its secrets—the way the trees murmured in the wind, how to trace a deer’s tracks, the haunting art of animal mimicry. 

Steven’s moose calls were uncanny, each one so perfect it seemed to summon the forest itself. Without fail, a moose would appear, its massive form emerging from the shadows with a presence both regal and unnerving. But as Valerie grew older, Steven vanished. Her father claimed there were no other children or houses nearby. But the memory of Steven—and the moose that answered his call—haunted her. She needed to know more.

Valerie’s research unearthed a grim and haunting chapter in the land’s history: the colonial massacre of the Abenaki people in the 1700s. English colonists, motivated by scalp bounties placed by the local government, waged brutal campaigns against the Abenaki and even targeted the French Jesuit missionary who lived among them. The English feared the influence of French Catholic priests, believing their proselytizing would strengthen alliances between the Abenaki and French forces, threatening the colonists' hold on the region. 

Entire villages were razed to the ground, their inhabitants slaughtered. Survivors fled into the wilderness, returning only briefly to bury their dead before abandoning the land forever. What was once a thriving and sacred homeland for the Abenaki was systematically stolen by the colonists, piece by piece. 

Nearly a century later, the Grimes family acquired the land, establishing their wealth atop the scarred and bloodied soil. They built a legacy unaware—or perhaps willfully ignorant—of the atrocities that had fertilized their prosperity. 

As Valerie delved into the records, the weight of this dark history pressed heavily on her. The massacre wasn’t just a tragic story; it was the foundation of the place she called home. The voices of the past seemed to grow louder, echoing through the trees that had stood witness to it all. This land wasn’t merely haunted—it was angry, restless, and soaked in generations of suffering. 

For Valerie, this discovery was more than a genealogical pursuit. It was a revelation that reframed her family’s history and deepened the mystery of her own connection to the land. The forest, with its dark and tangled roots, seemed to beckon her, holding answers she wasn’t sure she was ready to uncover.

Driven to uncover the truth, Valerie visited the local university to delve deeper into the region’s history. She spent hours combing through archival records, old maps, and rare books, piecing together fragments of a story long buried. Among her findings was the Jesuit priest’s journal, preserved in the rare books section—a delicate, leather-bound account written in fading French. 

The journal spoke of a boy named Atian, an Abenaki child the priest had taken under his wing. Their bond was evident in the priest’s descriptions: Atian’s curiosity, his skill in the forest, and his quiet resilience in the face of a world that sought to erase him. Yet the journal ended abruptly, just after describing a fishing expedition, leaving the events that followed shrouded in silence. 

The priest’s murder was documented in history books, but there was no mention of Atian beyond the journal. The boy’s fate remained unrecorded, a life erased like so many others from that era of conquest and violence. 

As Valerie read Atian’s name, she felt a shiver run down her spine. It stirred a memory, faint but persistent, of Steven—the boy she had wandered the woods with as a child. She recalled how, in French class, her classmate, a different boy named Steven had taken on the name Étienne, the French equivalent. Now she learned that Atian was an Abenaki name for Steven. 

The connection clawed at her mind, impossible to ignore. Had the boy she once knew somehow been linked to this long-forgotten history? Had Steven—her Steven—been more than he seemed? The idea was absurd, yet the more she thought about it, the less she could shake the feeling that the land, the forest, and its past were far more intertwined with her own story than she had ever imagined.

One night, a vivid dream drove her back to the woods. In it, Steven appeared as he had at twelve years old, pointing toward the stream and a large cedar tree. Beside the tree stood a massive bull moose, its antlers silhouetted against the twilight sky.

The next morning, she found herself at the cedar tree where she and Steven had first met. There a huge moose stood, pawing at the ground. Its massive hooves breaking the soil with deliberate force. When the hole was deep enough, the moose stopped and turned away, retreating slowly into the shadowed forest.

Valerie hesitated before approaching the tree. The disturbed earth called to her like an open wound. Kneeling, she grabbed a stick and began to dig. It wasn’t long before she hit something solid.

Clearing the dirt, she uncovered an old, weathered strongbox filled with relics. Surprisingly, the 14” x 10” box was still intact. The box housed a French-Abenaki handwritten dictionary, a rosary, a small metal crucifix with an inscription, and a leather pouch.

Valerie confided in Joseph about her vision and discovery, “What do you think this stuff is and why was it buried here?”

Joseph confirmed the pouch was Abenaki, and impossibly old. The crucifix bore the inscription, Souvenir de la Mission, which translates to Remembrance of the Mission. “These objects tell a story,” Joseph said gravely. “Jesuit missionaries were known to give Native American converts rosaries and crucifixes.”

Valerie’s pulse quickened. “What kind of story?”

“The kind of story someone wanted to bury, protect and preserve for posterity so that the history wouldn’t be lost to time.” Joseph’s voice was heavy. “One that might change everything.”

Valerie admitted that she was starting to question her own sanity. She spoke hesitantly, as though saying the words aloud might shatter her fragile sense of reality. 

"I’ve been thinking about Steven," she said, her voice barely audible. "The boy I used to play with in the woods when I was twelve. But now, I’m starting to question if he was ever real. Was he just my imagination? A ghost of some kind? I don’t know." 

“Things don’t always walk where you can see them, Valerie. There’s a breath to this land, a rhythm, like the pulse of a river beneath the ice. My people, we don’t take what’s here lightly. This forest, this soil, they hold more than just the bodies of men—they hold the stories, the pain, the lessons of those who came before us. It is alive, in a way. A spirit can linger in the roots of a tree, in the shadow of a stone.”

He paused, letting his words hang in the air like the mist that hovered over the land at dusk.

“Spirits walk here. I’ve heard the stories. Some say the trees listen, and if you listen close, they’ll tell you the past, but only if they trust you.”

His eyes met Valerie’s, full of quiet knowing, as if he were gauging whether she understood the weight of his words.

“You ask about Steven—what if he’s more than just a memory? The old ones used to say, sometimes the land sends those it needs, those who carry the weight of what is unsaid. Perhaps Steven, or Atian, was meant to walk with you for a while. Maybe he’s still walking here, through the cracks in the trees, waiting for you to understand. But be careful. The land ... it holds its truth close.”

Joseph leaned forward, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What makes you doubt his existence? You remember him clearly, don’t you?" 

She nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup. "He felt as real to me as the trees in the forest. We were both twelve back then, and we spent what felt like an entire summer together. But the more I think about it, the more I realize how strange it all was. I’ve looked through every map and deed I could find—there was never any mention of a house or a family living anywhere near here. It’s like he appeared out of nowhere." 

"Maybe his family was transient? Squatters, living off the grid deep in the forest?" Joseph suggested, even though he sounded like he didn’t believe it himself.

Valerie shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I thought about that. But if they were there, why didn’t anyone else ever see them? And why would a twelve-year-old boy wander so freely and so far from wherever they were hiding? It doesn’t add up.

Sometimes, I think he might have been from another place entirely. Or maybe even another time." 

"My people believe that when things don’t seem to fit," he said softly, his voice careful and deliberate, "they are often tied to the spirit world. A bridge between realms." He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on hers, holding her attention even as her mind wandered. 

"For conversation’s sake," he continued, "let’s say this Steven was really Atian—the boy the Jesuit priest mentions in his journal. Maybe he came to you when you were young so you’d remember him later. Maybe he knew you’d uncover the truth when you were old enough to understand. And maybe … just maybe … remembering him is part of the message. A mission, even. But you’ll have to figure out what that mission is for yourself." 

Joseph paused; his expression thoughtful. "I have a feeling Steven will guide you to the right path. He hasn’t left you, Valerie—not really. He came to you in vision just the other night.”

Valerie didn’t respond. Her gaze drifted past Joseph, through the small kitchen window, and into the dense shadows of the forest beyond. She didn’t see the trees, though. She saw Steven in her mind’s eye — his shy smile, the way his dark eyes seemed to carry the weight of countless secrets, and how his laughter had echoed in the woods like sunlight breaking through clouds. 

Why now? she wondered. Why had her childhood memories of him suddenly resurfaced, intertwining with the chilling history of the land and the journal’s haunting accounts? 

She clenched her hands in her lap, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all. The massacre, the Jesuit priest, Atian, the land soaked in blood and loss—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle she was destined to solve. 

But how? How could she possibly bridge the gap between her memories and the restless spirits of the past? 

Joseph’s voice broke through her thoughts, gentle but firm. "Trust yourself, Valerie. And trust him. You’ll figure it out." 

She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but something about his words felt steadying—like the roots of the trees outside, grounding her amidst the storm of uncertainty.

But deep inside, she couldn’t shake the growing unease. Who—or what—had Steven really been? And why did thinking of him now feel like trying to solve a riddle the forest refused to reveal?

The land, the forest, and all who had walked upon it held stories long buried, and Valerie was determined to uncover them. To atone for the past, and perhaps, to reshape the future that lies ahead.

November 23, 2024 00:59

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