The Bargain of the Trees

It’s almost seven. Zoya leans back in her chair, stretching her arms with heavy sighs after a fifteen-page essay. It’s due tomorrow, so there’s still time for edits – but she’s been staring at her screen too long. She peeks out her bedroom window to the right. The last creeping bands of pink and orange sun grow dim across the barren treetops of the forest nearby, bleeding into the horizon beyond her corner of the suburb. The autumn air is cool and fresh, the wind is tame and her work is done for the day. She’s looking forward to her daily run. Kicking off the chair, putting her PC to sleep and slipping into freshly-laundered workout clothes and a thin jacket, Zoya gets a few more stretches in, creaking her three-hour homework stress out of her bones.

When she makes her way downstairs, her father’s watching The Devil Wears Prada in the living room. He peeks over his shoulder to see her pass. “Beta, why you are running? It’s cold. Forget it today.”

Zoya’s already near the door, putting her headphones in. “I have a jacket.”

“Get bigger one, it’s too small.” He gestures with disdain at her garb with his entire arm. “You will freeze. Listen to me, listen to your father. I never disobey my father when I’m your age, na?”

“I’m not gonna freeze. Relax.” Zoya glances at the coffee table. A bowl of potato chips.

“And aren’t you supposed to be watching your cholesterol?”

Her father smirks. “You don’t listen to me, I don’t listen to you. See how it feels? Yea.”

She sighs. “That’s your last bowl. I’m throwing all the chips out when I get back.”

“I’ll buy more,” he snaps, mouth full and munching.

“Byeee.” She waves at him as she steps through her door, music kicking in and shutting out his final protests. And from the second her feet touch the sidewalk next to their driveway, she breaks into a brisk jog, matching her steps with the beat of Snakes by PVRIS. 

The neighborhood is still awake, readying for Halloween as the end of October creeps closer. Zoya nods at a few of them who smile back, regular interactions on her runs to the nearby forest trail. The sun has set, but the sky’s ethereal blue glow still sets the evening alight, the final curtain call before the impending pitch black of a cloudy night. Street lights start coming to life as she runs, orange lamps blinking awake and washing the streets in their signature dreary warm glow. The wind is chilly, but she doesn’t mind. The running keeps her warm. She passes the last house on her street and takes a right, approaching the entrance to the trail. And in a few seconds, like every evening before, she steps off the curb and onto a winding dirt path, flanked by grass and dark, naked trees on both sides.

Though music blares in her ears, the woods around her are quieter than they should be. She’d know this, if she would simply take her earbuds out. She would notice the birds – or lack thereof. Their chirping cacophony is replaced by still silence today. No squirrels skirting across the path like she often sees. She’d notice the strange feel of the air, dense and humid among the trees despite the time of year, if she wasn’t already sweating from her quickening pace, her breath sharp and hot in her lungs.

Maybe it’s the overwhelming denseness of the air, or the compounding oddness of the forest tonight, but Zoya – through the beats of her playlist and the pounding rush of blood -still catches on to a prevailing sense of unease. She slows her run to a brisk walk, panting, coughing a bit – not something she’s used to at all, given how often she runs. She usually doesn’t start slowing down until the end of the forest trail, which is at least fifteen minutes away if she picks up her pace again. After a few calming, heavy breaths, Zoya takes her headphones out – her ears feel stuffy, the music obtrusive and loud. Also not sensations she’s used to at all.

But maybe the most unnerving thing about tonight is something Zoya hasn’t yet noticed. Although, as she slows down, it dawns on her the more she thinks back. Not a single soul on the trail. This is a popular time to run for her neighborhood. There’s almost always two or three others, at least. Is it because tonight is particularly cold? Not really – it can’t be that cold. Maybe it’s just a freak coincidence that everyone else decided to go easy on the cardio today. The thought of her being all alone in the forest makes her a bit nervous. But she pushes back on her fear almost immediately, like a reflex – it may look like dense, remote woods, but the neighborhood, houses, cars, lights and people are much closer than it seems. Moreover, she’s been running here every day for almost nearly two months – one of her freshman year resolutions for self-improvement –  without any cause for concern. And if all else fails, she knows she has her phone with her. And she knows there’s reception here. It’s all good.

Enough lazing around. Zoya starts running again, but keeps her earbuds out. Just the sound of her feet on the crunching fallen leaves, her breath, and a distant, faint wailing of a fire truck. Civilization is closer than it seems. She’s safe.

Zoya comes to a dead halt, letting out a sharp gasp. Panting, sweating, both hands over her mouth, she’s staring at something just off the trail.

Pale, wrinkled, ghastly and matted with filth, is the hunched and drooping figure of what looks like an old woman. Tiny tufts of spindly white hair sticking out of a barren scalp, saggy skin dangling off her bones with barely any signs of flesh – starved, malnourished, almost near-death. Not a shred of clothing on her either. The woman is on her knees and elbows, head hanging low and tucked between her arms, facing away from Zoya and the trail, her arched back stretching skin over the bones of her spine, a grotesque and miserable display. Tiny, shriveled and completely unfathomable.

Zoya’s first thought is that she’s dead – but no, she’s clearly kneeling in a deliberate pose. She can see the woman’s back rise and fall. She’s breathing.

“Are you OK?” Zoya steps forward, her shock falling away to concern now. “Hey – hello? Ma’am?”

The woman seems to make a sound, some kind of rattled whisper, but her face is still tucked into the ground between her arms, and Zoya can’t make anything out. She moves closer still.

“Are you… hurt?” She bends down a bit, to try and see the woman’s face. “Can you hear me?”

Slowly, the woman’s head moves. Zoya flinches back, but not too far. She raises her face out of shadow. A skeletal, sunken face, skin drooping in curved flaps off her neck and cheeks, and incomprehensibly sad, bloodshot eyes. Even in the near-darkness of the evening, Zoya can make out the misery behind those steel grey eyes. Yellowing, watery, covered in cataracts – she may as well be blind.

“Oh my god – ma’am, can you hear me? How’d you get here, what happened?”

The woman unhinges her decrepit jaw, a toothless black hole puncturing the striking paleness of her face as she opens her mouth to speak. Looking up at Zoya, she mumbles, barely audible, struggling to get words out. Zoya realizes she’s not speaking English.

She looks around her, up and down both ends of the path. Still not a soul, and the sky is getting darker every minute. As she stands, her breath mists up in front of her face. It really is getting cold. Zoya looks back at the naked woman, who’s still staring up at her, mumbling.

“Fuck, you’re freezing. Here.” She takes her jacket off and slowly approaches the woman, bending down. The autumn air hits her bare arms and sends goosebumps up her neck. “Here… ma’am? Can you – do you wanna put this on? I’m gonna call for help, okay? Just put this on.” Zoya places the folded jacket in front of the woman, gesturing with her hands to wrap it around her in case she didn’t understand English at all. Finally breaking eye contact, the old woman moves, looking down at the jacket and reaching for it with a spindly, bony hand. Zoya pulls out her phone and dials 911.

“911, do you need police, fire or ambulance?” 

“Um – ambulance I think?” Zoya’s keeping a concerned eye on the woman, who seems to be feeling the jacket with both hands now, still hunched over and kneeling.

“And what is the emergency?” 

“Yeah, I’m on a – walking trail, um – Spring Valley trail, just off – just off Carlton and Millmoore? And I was out for a run – and there’s this – I saw this old woman laying on the ground, she’s naked? She looks really sick – like she’s been abused or something -”

“Is she still there? When did you see her last?”

“I’m looking at her right now, I – I don’t wanna leave her and there’s nobody – nobody else here…”

“You said she’s naked?”

“Yeah. I gave her my jacket.”

“Does she have any injuries, can you communicate with her?”

“Um – no, I – didn’t see injuries, just… she’s really, like – dirty? And I don’t think she can speak English.”

“Okay, now can you tell me where on the trail you both are right now?” 

“I ran for about – five minutes since I – since I entered from Millmoore, so… yeah, about that far in. I’d say. But I ran kinda fast so it might be, I don’t know, more than 5 minutes if you’re walking-”

“Alright, responders are on their way, I’m gonna ask you to stay with her until they get there, is that OK? What’s your name?” 

“I’m Zoya. Rashid.”

“Alright, Zoya, if you feel safe, I’d like you to stay with her but it’s completely up to you. Responders should be there in ten to fifteen minutes. You can leave if you want.”

“Okay. No, I’ll stay, it’s fine.”

“Alright, I’m gonna call back to check on you in a few minutes, is that alright?” 

“Yup, all good – I’ll be here.”

“Great, thanks for letting us know. They’ll be there soon. We’ll chat in a bit. Take care, Zoya.”

“Yup – bye.”

Silence again. Zoya peels the phone off her face, covered in sweat. That’s a lot of sweat for such a cold night, even if she has been running. And her panting hasn’t slowed either. She wipes the phone on her pants and puts it in her pocket, fighting a small urge to pull it back out and start recording.

The woman, who was fondling her jacket with both hands, has now taken to sniffing it, crunching it up and drawing deep, rattled breaths, stuffing her nose in the jacket. Zoya’s transfixed. She concludes the woman must be senile, must’ve fled from some kind of treatment facility – or maybe somewhere far worse, given the state of her.

The woman rolls out a grey, slimy tongue, licking the jacket’s inner lining. Zoya recoils instinctively. “Ugh. Jesus…”

She keeps checking both ends of the trail, hoping someone else would come along. But still, no one in sight. She looks back down, and the woman seems to be wholly engrossed in the jacket, sniffing it, tasting it, feeling it. Zoya checks her phone – still a long way to go. She’s reconsidering her decision to wait here. It really is getting dark. And she really does feel unsafe. She lifts her eyes off the glow of her phone screen to meet a sight that makes her heart stop.

“AAH-SHIT!”

The old woman, seemingly still in her hunched posture till now, has crawled over in Zoya’s direction, onto the trail. Trembling, she’s managed to get up on one knee, holding the jacket with both hands, and trying to move closer to Zoya. Those eyes, unblinking, locked again on her face.

“Um – I called an ambulance for you…” Zoya tries some last-ditch attempts at communicating, pushing past her shock. Her heart’s still pounding. She has a headache. She wants to go home. And she’s finally feeling how cold it really is.

The woman drags her body ahead with one foot on the ground, her other knee digging into dirt.

“What do you – what the fffuck…” Giving up trying to talk to her, Zoya steps back. It’s too unnerving. The movement, the eyes, the impossibly malnourished body of someone that shouldn’t be alive. Against her better self, she gives in to fear. Hating herself for it.

“Okay, please, stay – here – okay, ma’am? Stay. Here. For the ambulance. Help, I called help. For you. They’re on their way, okay?” Zoya says this as she keeps stepping away, back in the direction of the trail’s entrance from where she came. “I – have to go – I gotta go. I’m sorry. I gotta go. Okay?”

And without a second glance, she turns away and breaks into a light jog. She doesn’t feel like running faster. She’s tired, and severely disappointed in herself. How could she leave that poor woman alone? What if someone else finds her and – what if they harm her? So what if she’s creepy and weird? She needed help.

The night is upon the woods now, only a glimmer of blue light breaking through to illuminate the path ahead of her. She turns a sharp corner on the path and keeps jogging, fighting the urge to stop, to go back. It really is getting very dark. And the voice on the line did say, only stay if you feel safe… Only stay if you want to. No obligation. Right?

Exasperated, Zoya slows down, and stops, panting and huffing. “God dammit…”

She looks back up the curve of the path, and seriously considers it. Why would this feeble, weak, sick old lady make her feel unsafe? How self-centered does one have to be, to abandon someone like that in a moment of need? What kind of person does that? Zoya feels a corrosive sickness bubbling up, a seething upheaval of disappointment and anger. This was wrong. It was wrong, and she’d never forgive herself. All she had to do was wait a few minutes. How hard was that?

Zoya looks away from the path and down at her phone to see if the operator had called her back yet. It had been more than a few minutes. Maybe there are too many calls. Should she just dial 911 again? What if someone else picks up? She wants to know how far away the responders are.

Phone in hand, Zoya sways on the spot, stuck and unsure, and turns around to go back. And she freezes.

There, at the end of the path, right on the sharp curve, she sees it. Jacket in one hand, fully upright, the old woman is moving down the path, a mere ten feet away from Zoya – running at her. 

Skeletal arms and legs flailing, staggered gait, but her gaunt eyes – now black shadows on her face – fixed directly ahead. On Zoya.

She screams, spins on her heel and trips, falling face-first, smashing her chin on the ground. She springs back up, feeling none of it, and breaks into the fastest sprint she could possibly push herself to do. Faster, faster still, no looking back, her feet flying over dry leaves and cold earth, hair blowing back and the icy wind numbing her face. Not fast enough. Not at all fast enough. She grunts and screams, pushing her legs beyond their limits, begging to see the end of the path – and she trips again, this time flying a good distance before crashing and rolling on the ground, blood spurting from her mouth. No time. No time. She jumps back up yet again, back to her sprint, feeling none of it, blood pounding, legs and lungs searing with pain. Can’t stop. Need to leave the forest. Need to go home.

Was the path really this long? She can’t remember. Did she take a wrong turn? Was she even deeper in the forest? She can’t run anymore. She’s pushed herself enough. Wheezing, she stumbles to a halt and falls again, covered in dirt, blood dripping down her face. Blood spurting out with each heaving cough. This isn’t just from a cut in her mouth. She’s coughing it up. Her head is spinning. This isn’t just exhaustion. The air is sickening. Stuffy. Dense. Heavy. Pushing her down. She’s too weak to get back up. Too sick. Panic sets in. The sky is getting dark, and she can no longer see the entirety of the path. Zoya scrambles for her phone. She needs to call for help. For herself now. She pats her left pocket, where it always is – and feels nothing.

She tries her other pocket, the only other one on her – nothing.

They’re both empty.

Overwhelming dread. The truest, purest dread she’s ever faced, as she stares into the increasing blackness of the forest, engulfing her now. Did she drop it? When? She fell a few times while running… did she drop it then? How far back down the path was it?

It’s getting too dark to see. Her head is spinning faster still. She feels a stinging liquid shoot up her throat, into her mouth, out her nose – choking and coughing, she doubles over, vomiting into the dirt. This isn’t just exhaustion from running. There’s something in the air. As she stares down at her own blood and vomit swirling in a puddle, she hears it – a rustling, a steady patter of feet. In the deepening darkness, through pounding pain and blurring sight, Zoya turns her head to see it.

The old woman is peering at her from behind a tree. Head cocked sideways, she cracks a wide, toothless grin, stretching and contorting her skin further still. And she raises one long, skeletal arm, fingers clutching a glowing, vibrating object.

Her phone. Zoya’s phone. It’s ringing too, and the woman shows it to Zoya, a gleeful grin pulled across her face, staring down at her. And as the phone rings, the woman steps around the tree. Shambles over to Zoya, who begins to crawl away – impossible thought it may feel to move at all.

“No – no – no, please-”

She sputters through bloodied teeth, crawling backwards away from the beast until her back hits the firm, indifferent bark of another tree. And she begins to scream.

“NOOO! STAY AWAY! FUCKING LEAVE! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The woman ignores her, taking a few shambling steps closer and stopping to stare and grin at Zoya every few seconds. Wobbling side to side, her shallow breath grows louder, heavier, eyes wider – like she’s excited. Zoya kicks her legs to keep her back, but strength drains from her body with every passing second. She can’t kick anymore. And she can’t scream. Her voice cracks. She fumbles around with one hand and wrenches out some grass, throwing it at the hag who now stands over her, grinning down, the strobing light of her ringing phone periodically lighting up a horrific, twisted, evil, smiling face against the pitch black darkness of the night.

And with every flashing glare of the screen, Zoya sees this monstrous face get closer to hers. The woman is bending down, getting on all fours, crawling up to Zoya on the ground. She’s hyperventilating, breathing uncontrollably, shaking her head in defiance, too terrified to make a sound. As Zoya faces down the creature, blood and tears soaking her face, the woman’s smiling mouth opens wide. A putrid smell, rotting and vile, penetrates the air. Zoya has no time to turn away. Every ounce of strength is gone, and she’s paralyzed, seemingly by the air itself, unable to move. As though the forest and its roots have held her in place. As though the trees themselves gaze down upon her with malicious intent.

The thing places a hand on the back of Zoya’s head, and presses their mouths together. This close to the phone still held in its hand, Zoya can see the caller ID.

Dad

The creature’s grip on the back of her head grows stronger, and Zoya sees her own sight dwindle to utter blindness. Feels something immense drain from her, and feels her body shrivel and shrink, and the hand on her head grow heavier, thicker, softer and warmer.

The creature transforms, skin darkening, arms and legs filling out, growing in height, and thick black hair breaking through its scalp, flowing down to the ground. Body warping from a mangled heap of skin and bone to a whole, healthy and strong form. When it finally wrenches its mouth off Zoya’s, she’s shrunk to a third of her size, eyes dull and grey, her bones brittle, a husk of what she was mere minutes ago.

The creature stands upright, looking down at her. It has Zoya’s face, her body, her voice and her eyes – but behind the veil, the shadow of its evil, gleeful grin remains etched on its new face. It explores its new body – feeling its arms, running fingers through its waist-length hair. Feeling its new face. Smiling its new smile.

It looks at Zoya’s phone, still clasped in hand. Several missed calls, some from dad, and others from a blocked number. She decides to call dad back, and she walks around Zoya’s body, squatting down next to her.

Zoya can hear her. Zoya’s still alive. Blind, paralyzed, but breathing, conscious, sentient – screaming inside. And next to her, she hears yet another impossibility – her own voice.

“Hi dad! Sorry, had it on vibrate. Yeah – I’m fine! Relaaaaax. Jesus. I’m literally heading back right now. Okay? See you soon. Love you!”

Through sheer immovable misery, Zoya cries quiet tears as the creature giggles next to her ear. She feels it pull her clothes off her body. Hears it talk to itself.

“Lemme just… get these on…”

And then hears its voice – her own voice – one last time, very close to her ear.

“Thanks for the jacket, sweetie. Smells good. Like you.”

The creature stands upright and stretches, turns and prances away with bouncing joy. Humming to itself. Its voice and footsteps dwindle to silence. Zoya tries to scream. To make any sound at all. The immensity of effort it takes her to move a finger or open her mouth is beyond anything she’s ever felt. And she lets out the loudest scream she can – a low, raspy, rattling whisper. Barely louder than the dry autumn leaves rustling in the gentle wind. She screams. And screams. Quieter and quieter, until her last breath is spent. And as she feels sanity slipping away, and the agony of losing her father, her friends and everyone she’s ever loved to this unholy abomination sits still and silent in its prison, incapable of release, Zoya feels something move. Under her broken, mangled arms and legs, what feels like long, coiling snakes – but too hard to be snakes – moving and slithering, wrapping around her, tightening, dragging her into the very soil. When they move across her face, she realizes what they are.

Roots.

The tree’s roots consume her, covering her and twisting themselves around her, until they are one and the same. And as she’s dragged beneath the earth, soul still yearning, the forest lightens. The pressing, abominable darkness dissipates. The night sky opens up to stars. Street lights shine through the trees, the sound of passing cars rumbling in the distance. The ground where Zoya was consumed, now covered in roots once more, looking immovable, centuries old. The forest sets itself free, the dense air dispelling, and it will remain free, until the next exchange must be made.

Deep beneath the earth, Zoya’s flesh and bone contorts and shatters and shreds and bleeds through soil, rock and rubble to meet the remnants of all those before her, joining them in a millennia-old, ghastly amalgamation of what was once human beings, spanning the entirety of the forest and beyond, now destined to yearn in silence to see the stars, forever more.