Chapter Text
Snow and slush have long since soaked my stockings and boots as I pushed through thickets of brush and briar. My sleeves were tousled and torn, my stupidly unprotected hands adorned with scratches and cuts as I'd been scouring these woods for well over two and a half hours, at least. It could have been longer, knowing how time seems to fly against my better judgement, but I shan't pay mind to that right now. I had come out here to study the flora and wildlife, to research how each living thing, be it plant or beast, interacts with one another. Becoming practically stranded in an icy wasteland was not on my list.
There could be anything in these woods: wolves, bears, rabid critters, men with god-knows-what intentions. The list could go on. All I have is this puny pocket knife. Not only that, but the frigid, ever-dropping temperature. I could only last so much longer before my internal body temperature reached dangerous levels. If I were not to find my way out of this labyrinth of a forest by sundown, then I'd surely need shelter, fast.
My eyes dart around the landscape (or rather what I can make of it), scanning for debris and any fallen tree limbs and sticks I could possibly use to put up a hasty shelter. There are plenty, but my hands are already damaged enough; I would surely get an infection. I glance around twice over, realizing that this may be my only option. Suppressing my constant shivering, I swiftly kick up the rapidly accumulating snow to make a circle just large enough to make room for what I've got in mind: A simple double lean-to, meaning I'll need to find the properly shaped branches for the job. I silently thank myself for having grown up in a rural childhood where I had the freedom to learn such a skill.
The wind is painful against my numbing cheek as my hands grasp uncomfortably at an armful of sticks and branches. My body is quickly losing its strength, so I need to be hasty. It's a struggle trying to get the main frame to stay aloft, my boots slipping against the slippery ground as I push them upward until both sides make an upside-down "V" shape, each connected with a single straight limb about my height, laid horizontally to make what can only be described as a poor excuse for a roof.
Now for the time-consuming part: Gathering every last stick of proper length and width I can find, I make a shabby pile next to the skeleton of my soon-to-be shelter. One by one, I lay each stick against the base frame at about a 45-degree angle to make the slanted walls. By the time I'm finished with both sides, it is nearly sundown, the sky an intimidating purplish-grey. The snow has turned to pellets, rapidly hitting the ground with a speed akin to a handgun.
Diving into the slim entrance of my shelter, I mentally facepalm at the realization that I hadn't the time to gather twigs and leaves to stuff between the gaps of the walls, leaving just enough space for the icy bullets to slip right through. No matter; a shelter is a shelter. This is infinitely better than being out in the open. I rip my outer coat off and cover my head and shoulders, curling into a ball on the frozen floor to preserve whatever waning body heat I have left. My body is quivering violently, my fingers completely sensationless, and my cheeks numb and sore. I lie there in the barely-two-feet-wide floor of my makeshift shelter, silently praying that my shivering does not halt.
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Sleep is nearly impossible. Oh, who am I kidding. It IS impossible. Water is quickly soaking the floor that I had hoped would at least stay relatively dry, and it has only been about half an hour of lying there, trying desperately to get this night over with. I can't afford to take any more of my clothes off to make myself a blanket: for one, they're nearly completely soaked, and secondly the ground beneath me is soaked as well. My body and mind are exhausted, yet sleep is completely foreign. I desperately wish to move about, to try in vain to get into a more comfortable position, but even the slightest twitch unleashes what little body heat I had preserved.
Perhaps I might die out here. Which is worse? Ripped apart by a pack of wolves? Mauled by a bear? Or simply lying here, slowly succumbing to the icy embrace of mother nature? Slowly, my body begins to cease its shivering. For once, my mind does not reel, and I lay oddly content in my predicament. At least it's... a bit warmer. Perhaps that's just the hypothermia speaking. No matter. Nothing left to do now but wait.
Wait for whatever is approaching with slow, heavy thuds against the snow. Approaching- Hold on. Approaching? What on earth-...No. No, no, no, that is not a wolf. That is no animal. Move! Move, what are you waiting for?! To hell with hypothermia, get up and run!
The footsteps halt. Nothing is heard except for the harsh, howling winds and the tiny ice pellets battering against the muddled surface of my bare-minimum shield against the elements. The smaller sticks making up the walls of my shelter that hang loosely over the edge of the platform are agitated, dancing rapidly almost as if they are just as panicked as I. I cannot move. This is how I die. Captured, defiled, god-knows-what. My ears ring, my heart just barely functioning enough to get blood to my extremities- hell, even my vision is fading.
Am I just dreaming? Have I fallen asleep, and just unaware of it? Something touches my foot. Kick! Kick it away, damn you! Every part of me wants to scream, shout, kick, thrash, anything to scare off whoever or whatever is waiting for me beyond the mere inches-wide walls of my shelter. I can't turn my head to look toward the entrance, to see whatever is out there. I can't even muster so much as a yelp.
I hear more rustling. The footsteps are leaving. I wish I could sigh of relief, but my lungs hardly move more than they already are. Am I dreaming? Am I asleep? Or am I truly dead?
My silent relief is swiftly cut off as not even a minute later, the heavy footsteps approach once again. Has it returned to claim me? Has it made up its mind? My nightmarish thoughts parade through my head, rendering me oblivious to the sound of the outer walls of my shelter being tampered with. After a moment, I snap out of my thoughts, my cheek still pressed unmoving against the frigid earth. I finally know why I'm unable to see; my coat still covers my head. No wonder.
Something is tampering with my shelter, I can hear the sticks being shifted apart. It's taking its time, peeling away bit by bit of the only shield keeping me alive, if even that. I try to muster a shout, a last resort to scare the thing off, but I lie ever motionless, silently awaiting my presumed demise.
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I awaken to dead-silent daylight. That can't be right; I was dying the night before. Unless... am I already dead? Blissfully unaware of my horrific demise? I finally am able to move my body, albeit it is very painful to do so. Laying in practically the same position all night in the subzero temperatures has done a number on my muscles and joints. I pause as I notice something peculiar. The gaps in the walls of my shelter are completely filled in, the only source of light coming from only the small entrance.
Fighting the soreness in my body, I drag myself out from beneath the pile of rubbish I had dared to call home throughout the night. There is a large piece of cloth (perhaps hide) draped over the top, steel rods staking them to the frozen ground. I certainly did not do that. Was this the doing of whomever was outside the night before? I pace around the outer perimeter of my shelter, limping a bit from a stiff leg, as I examine the oddly thoughtful work of the mysterious thing that I had thought to have been my unmaking.
Perhaps it was a fellow explorer, or perhaps a hunter? Yes, of course- they noticed my ailment and gave me the gift of safety from the outer elements. That is all. I clumsily kneel in front of the entrance of my shelter, running a hand through the practically bone-dry dirt. I then cautiously feel the material that had been draped over the stick pile: it is certainly not cloth, no, it's a form of tanned hide, clearly made to be waterproof.
The only explanation that runs about my mind is that of a hunter. I don't recall a mere explorer carrying about a hide such as this, unless they were a survivalist like myself (at least that's what I'd like to call myself). Glancing around at my surroundings, all I can make out is the thick white blankets of snow piled about the treetops and ground alike. Any trace of whichever direction I had come from the day before has long since been covered by the previous night's snowstorm.
Two very contrasting questions worry in the back of my mind: Do I continue on in what can only be assumed as an endless labyrinth of wood? Do I stay here and await any sort of assistance? The first question seems far from comforting, distant from even the faintest light of hope. I will only exhaust myself if I keep going, and I'll once again (or twice, perhaps thrice or more) have to rush to put up another lousy shield from the cruel elements of the nature that I had always been fascinated with.
Right. I need to gather whatever I have on me and use it wisely, now that I am in a clearer state of mind. Of course, there are the clothes on my body, my knife, my shelter, my satchel- my satchel! How on earth have I not realized my satchel has been attached to my waist this entire time?! I could have had so much as a map, or even a matchbox, anything! My knees plummet into the icy cushion of snow as I hurriedly snatch my satchel from my belt.
Rummaging through the cloth-woven bag I remove everything I can find: my notebook, a matchbox with two-no, three- barely dry matches, my knife of course. Unfortunately, no food. I usually bring with me dehydrated meat and a water canteen but of course the one day I decide to leave the most valuable things behind, I end up in such a situation. Unbelievable.
What am I to do for however long I am to stay put here? God knows how long it will take for any other human being to find their way out here in the same unfortunate path as myself, much less someone who actually knows their way about these woods. Something in the back of my mind clicks: how on earth have I not panicked yet? In much less severe situations I've repeatedly found myself losing my mind over something so little.
Now, I find myself stranded in the seemingly endless wood, the only observable colors my weary eyes perceive being the blinding white of the thick snow and ice and the occasional greyish-black of the tree trunks peeking out from within their icy coats. Perhaps I am in shock. That is the only plausible explanation.
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Not a single soul has come around. The entire time I've been here (it must be well past noon by now, it has to be), I haven't heard so much as a single familiar noise, of someone merely the same species as me. Throughout today I have heard the occasional scurry and rustle of a nearby squirrel or rabbit, and distant wolves, thankfully far too distant to be that of a threat.
Perhaps I should document this? I have my journal and a pencil just hardly having much of a point as far as a nub. Yes, in case I shall die out here, someone may be fortunate (ironic, really) enough to find the documentation of my impending doom. Perhaps whomever that may be will know not to do the same as I've done. I pick up my luckily dry notebook with numbed fingers, scooting further backward into my shelter, carefully minding the shallow "ceiling." I can hardly grip my pencil properly, and I would hold back on attempting to perform something such as this if writing weren't the only subtle escape from the harsh reality I sit in right now.
Right. I shall write everything I remember up until now:
I am Annalise Merielle. I am twenty-three years of age. Today is the 5th of January, 1928.
This very well may be one of the final entries I shall write.
I am currently stranded out here in the frozen wasteland I once took great pleasure in strolling about, studying the wildlife and flora. I do not believe I will survive much longer, much less through another night of subzero temperatures in the little protective clothing and supplies I had brought with me. Sheer stupidity was the causation of this matter, and I shall suffer the consequences. I saw the day before that the snow had begun to fall, rather rapidly, however I remained indulged in my obsessive observation of what only can be named as a previously undocumented fungi.
For hours I wandered through the woods in desperation to find even the slightest hint of civilization, however the temperatures would only drop further, and the ice and snow piled higher. Only at nearly sunset was when I finally decided it was time to put up a shabby shelter, a mere inches-thick shield against the elements. Sleep was an awful attempt as the bullets of ice pelted against the poor excuse of a shelter I had thrown together in such short time. The "floor" beneath me was wet, musky, and freezing, my clothing nearly soaked, and ice and snow melt dripped effortlessly through even the slightest gaps in the walls.
A most terrifying experience as well, as for some odd reason my body was unable to move for what felt like hours. The most peculiar event occurred within the pitch black midnight hour (I do not know what exact time, my mind was in a particularly poor state); something- no, someone- perhaps a fellow explorer (or at least I hope), found its way to my little "home," and, once again I tell you it is the strangest thing, reinforced my walls with what I can only describe as a thick, waterproof tanned hide. Whomever it may be, I owe utmost thanks to, it may have been the only reason I survived the previous night.
My only wish now is to meet them.
However, none of that, now. You, whomever has found this pamphlet, must take great caution in these woods. Turn back now and return to whence you came, else you may end up like myself; stranded, increasingly hypothermic, soaked, hungry. I can feel the frostbite slowly seeping its way into my fingers and hands, and soon that may spread further. I have no fire starter, meaning no warmth except what little my soaked coat can provide. I warn you, go now, and learn from my m-
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I drop my pencil, my numbed fingers frozen. I had heard a loud snap of a presumably dead tree limb somewhere in the distance, just as I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. My widened eyes are staring out from within the small gap of the entrance to my shelter to which I sit adjacent. A person, if I shall even call them such a thing, stands unbelievably tall between two large tree trunks. Most of their figure is concealed by the piles of thick snow, but they are undoubtedly enormous. Their shoulders are broad, concealed with thick furs and a shabby cloak.
Help. Please. My mouth wants to utter the words, but the elusive words are tightly constricted in my nearly frozen throat. My mouth opens, my silent voice breaking as I finally let out the first noise I've made in possibly over a day.
"Hello." Not even so much as a "help, I'm lost." Just a simple hello.
The figure falters, their head leaning a bit to the side. Their broad figure sways lightly, as if they want to approach. As they move, I notice an odd yellow glint in what seems to be their left eye. No, no, the eye- it's glowing! No such human's eyes are able to do such a thing! What once was fear is quickly lost in my foolish fascination.
At the figure's silence, I muster up as much voice as I'm able, and attempt a second time. "Hello." Ask for help, damn you!
The figure takes a slow, almost clumsy step forward, a bit more into the light but just enough to the point of still being mostly concealed. I could swear I had heard a soft, deep, rumbling noise come from its direction. Surely not, certainly a human could not have made such a noise.
Finally, it steps forward into the light of day, all of its... certainly interesting features coming into view. An unbelievably low, sonorous voice mutters out slowly:
"...He...llo."