Journal of Lucy Scott

Journal of Lucy Scott – YEAR UNKNOWN

June 8

I arrived at the cabin this afternoon. The drive was the same but different. The large rock at the turnoff was still there, but it was covered in moss, and the thorny brambles were covering most of it. The little general store was still open, but the cheery store owner, who was always out sweeping the porch, was old and grey and had an air of bitter regret. His usual friendly 'Thank you' was now a mumbled grunt of acknowledgment as I purchased the basics for the weekend. Even though age had taken its toll on the little backwater town, the air was clearer than I remembered. It felt like the trees had been holding their breath, waiting for me to return. I shouldn't be surprised that so much had changed; it'd been nearly 15 years since I'd been back here. Everything is just as we left it after Mom died, a little less vibrant, with the lemon polish she'd used on all the furniture fading to a waxy musk. And now, with Dad gone, I was hyper-aware of his touches to the cabin. The coffee cup left by the chair from the last bit of coffee we had the morning we left was dried and stained at the bottom. His coat was covered in a light layer of dust over the chair; he only wore it up here, never in the city. I am the last. I'm alone. As terrifying as that thought is, I need space to think, to grieve, to feel without anyone watching me, observing my pain.

It's just me now. Me and the woods.

June 9

I've never slept well in new places, but this place isn't new. However, something feels both new and old when waking up. I know that sounds crazy, but the air feels the same but different, older, but not stagnant. I think the cheap wine got to me last night. I just stared at the crackling fire in the main room, not even crying, looking around and remembering. The logs covered in spider webs reminded me of the time Dad taught me to cut wood and the difference between hard and soft wood for fires. When I heated up my dinner in the holding pot, I remembered how my mom taught me to make cobbler in a Dutch oven over the fire. My grief was potent, and I'm sure anyone driving by could feel it. I fell asleep on the couch, wrapped in my father's old chore coat, under my mother's quilt. I dreamed of the forest last night; it was whispering, not like the wind. It was as if it were speaking directly to me, in a language I don't know, but somehow I understood. I woke up with pine needles in my bed. I must've left and grabbed more wood for the fire in my sad, drunken state. Usually, that type of dream would have woken me up and kept me up the rest of the night. But it was oddly comforting.

I'm not afraid. Just tired.

June 11

I skipped a day. I don't remember doing that. I don't even remember what I did. I must have gone on a hike; I woke up in the morning, or was it afternoon (I'm losing track of time), after sleeping in my dad's chair. I was covered in dirt and leaves, and I was still wearing my muddy hiking shoes. They say when you're in deep grief, you lose pockets of time just from sheer exhaustion. That must have been it.

After I cleaned off my shoes, showered, and devoured whatever I could get my hands on, the sun was setting. I heard something, not a whisper like in my dream, but a low hum. Steady. Rhythmic. It came from beyond the tree line. It must be a neighbor or someone camping, just in case I went outside to check the generator. Nothing was on. The hum stopped when I opened the door.

I stood in the dark, listening. The air buzzed with something ancient; it didn't scare me, but it did make me lock the doors and windows and ensure all the lights were on for the first time since I was a child.

June 12

I haven't slept. The humming returned around midnight. Louder. Closer. I covered my ears, and it felt like it was still going inside my head. How can that be? I read that long-term use of Bluetooth can cause headaches. Perhaps all that time spent in the city with my headphones on for hours a day, plus everything else, has affected me, and the silence of nature has 'reset' me? Or has it just made me aware of something?

It may have been a bit over the top, but I smashed it all. I turned off the generator; there's no electricity here anymore. There are no radios or towers. I crushed my phone and turned off the generator. No signal anyway. Felt good. But I still hear the humming; maybe it just takes time to leave your system?

That must be it.

June 13

I locked myself in the cabin after I saw her. In the woods. A girl in a white dress, barefoot. Long dark hair. She didn't look at me; she was just staring at the cabin, turned, and walked into the trees. The hum seemed to follow her. Maybe she was carrying a speaker; kids do that when hiking these days.

I want to follow her. Ask her name. But my gut is telling me to stay inside. So I won't follow. I won't.

Entry 7

It must have been a few days since my last entry, but I can't recall the exact days. Time is feeling weird. I'm still not sleeping; I have little naps here and there, but I keep seeing her around the woods.

Even now, she is at the edge of the trees again tonight. I assume it's night, the sun is down, and the moon is high, but didn't I just hear the sounds of birds at sunrise? I have enough food for a few more days, but it will run out soon. I've broken down the kitchen table for firewood; I can't push myself to go out there while she's out there. Even if I don't see her, I can hear her and feel her.

She's closer now. I can see her face; she's not a little girl at all. Her face should terrify me, but it doesn't. I know this will sound crazy; maybe I have cabin fever (can you get cabin fever, even if you're not on a ship but a literal cabin?), but it looks like mine. Just older. Hollow. Not decayed, but stretched thin and shiny, like time had forgotten her.

The hum has changed. Not louder, but it is more inviting. Almost comforting. I want to see where it's coming from

Entry 9

I stopped trying to count the days. The sun rises, sets, and rises again, but it doesn't feel like it's following the natural loop. I no longer feel tethered to it.

I hear the hum in everything. The wind blew through the cracks in the walls. The creak of floorboards. The crackle in the fire. My breath.

Maybe it's always been there. I just didn't know how to listen before. I want to go outside. I want to open the door and run to the sound. I hadn't seen the woman in a while; maybe she knew she was keeping me inside. But I can feel something, something watching me, wanting me to come, but not to harm or scare me. But welcome me.

I've been inside too long, maybe if I just open a window.

Entry 10

I stood at the edge of the woods tonight. That feeling of someone or something watching me was gone; instead, it was just a low, friendly hum welcoming me to follow.

Entry 11

I went to get more firewood; I felt like I was finally alone. The comforting hum had become a part of me. I was barely aware of it anymore. The woman was nowhere in sight.

But I was. I saw myself standing among the trees, waiting. A calm, patient smile on my face. I looked happy. I felt a sense of peace for the first time in weeks. I wanted to go. But I didn't.

Not yet.

Entry 12

I've made a decision.

Tomorrow night, I'll follow the sound. I need to know what it is. What it wants.

I feel close to something, an answer, maybe. Or an ending. Or a beginning. Who knows, but I can't just sit and wait for life to do what it did to my mother and father. Waiting for life to do something amazing. Something amazing is here, and I don't have to wait. I can't. I need to try.

If I don't return and someone finds this journal, I hope it makes sense. I hope you believe me. I hope you find your adventure. Don't wait.

And if I do return, I'll tell you everything.

Just in case, goodbye.

—Lucy

EPILOGUE

The cabin is silent.

The rhythmic hum has stopped.

The sun peeks through the pines, golden light spilling across the worn floorboards. The wind shifts through the open window. The pages of the journal lift, flutter, and fly one by one into the forest.

There is no sign of the woman. No trace of her footsteps. Either of them.

Only trees, the sound of birds, a sigh from the forest at the start of a new day, and one of relief.

A quiet peace settles over the woods as the dawn plays among the morning mist.