In the Deep, Dark Woods

I’m in the woods. Night has settled in properly now — not the soft, forgiving kind that tucks you in and calls it day, but the thick, suffocating sort that presses in on you from all sides, damp and unforgiving, like it’s already read the last page and it knows exactly how this ends. I’m searching for something. Don’t ask me what. I couldn’t tell you if I tried. Sanity? My dignity? That last lonely marble that rolled under the sofa sometime back in 2007 and never returned. It feels important, whatever it is. Urgent. The kind of thing you know you need, even if you can’t name it without sounding ridiculous. I’ve got a torch in my hand. It flickers slightly, which feels unhelpful given its sole responsibility. There are very few roles in this situation, and “be the light” ranks embarrassingly high among them. If you’re going to be unreliable, don’t be the light source. I’m not alone. There’s a man ahead of me, moving with quiet confidence, like the woods is one of his regular haunts — which, frankly, gives off strong dogging vibes. I don’t recognise him. Never seen him before in my life. But he’s got one of those faces — calm, kind, the sort you instinctively trust, which, historically speaking, is exactly how these situations unravel. I don’t know his name. So naturally, I nickname him Mr Shush. He doesn’t object. Mainly because every time I so much as inhale with curiosity, he raises a finger to his lips. “Shhh.” There’s something in his eyes when he does it. Not just caution. Warning. Don’t you dare make a sound. So I don’t. I swallow my questions whole and follow him deeper into the trees. Every twig that snaps underfoot feels like a gunshot. Every rustle — too deliberate. Too close. The kind of close that suggests something is keeping pace just out of sight, matching me step for step with unsettling patience. My torch catches glimpses of things that vanish when I try to focus. Shapes that look almost like people, until they don’t. Shadows that hesitate just a second too long. I lean closer to him, whispering despite myself. “Are we being followed?” He stops. Slowly turns. That finger again. “Shhh.” But this time, his eyes flick past me — over my shoulder. And linger. We keep moving. Faster now. There’s a tension in the air, like something’s caught our scent. The woods don’t feel empty anymore. They feel occupied. Claimed. Like we’ve wandered into a room where something was already happening — and we were not on the guest list. Then — An opening. A small clearing carved out of the darkness, moonlight spilling in like a spotlight we didn’t ask for. Mr Shush stops. “Here it is,” he whispers. Here what is? Before I can ask, he lifts his torch and points. A tree. One branch stretching out like an accusing finger. And hanging from it — A mailbag. Old. Worn. Colour leached thin with time. It sways gently, creaking as it moves, like it’s breathing — slow, patient… and far too comfortable being left in the dark. “I think this belongs to you,” he says. I blink. “Is that it?” I whisper, trying — and failing — not to sound underwhelmed. “This is what we’ve been searching for? A haunted mailbag?” He nods, solemn. “Look inside.” Of course he says that. The bag suddenly feels… different. Heavier. Weighted with something unseen. The handles creak again as it swings, like it’s taunting me — daring me to come closer. I step closer. Reach up. My hands are shaking now — just a subtle tremble, but impossible to hide. I unhook the strap from the branch. And — The scene snaps. No warning. No transition. Just — Tesco Express carpark. Because of course it is. Nothing says psychological reckoning quite like Tesco Express carpark at an ungodly hour. I’m in the back of a tiny Ford Fiesta, which feels like a betrayal of both space and dignity. And I am absolutely making out with someone I should not be making out with. Matthew. Childhood friend. I haven’t seen him in… what? Thirty years? Maybe longer. We were kids. Thick as thieves. Transformers, tree climbing, bike rides that felt like freedom. Scraped knees and questionable decisions. The golden age of not knowing any better. A memory swims up to the surface. We’re on a bed. Bouncing. Laughing. Daring each other — go on then, you won’t — until curiosity wins and we end up semi-naked, giggling at the sheer absurdity of it. I hadn’t seen someone naked before. Not properly. It was curiosity more than anything else. Poorly supervised. Ethically questionable, in hindsight. But innocent all the same. Then — My mum bursting through the door. “What the hell is going on up here?!” And me, in all my wide-eyed, absolutely no-idea-what-that-meant honesty: “Just playing doctors and nurses.” The look on her face. Shock. Horror. A flicker of “where did I go wrong?” Forever stitched into the fabric of my memory. And now here we are. Grown adults. Cramped into a Fiesta that smells faintly of fast food and morning-afters, sharing tongues like this is a perfectly acceptable Saturday morning etiquette. He’s a good kisser. Annoyingly good. I hate myself instantly for noticing. I am a married woman. I should be at home, being morally upright and appropriately affectionate with my husband — not… this. I pull back, breath uneven. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” I say. “This is wrong.” Hello, guilty conscience. Lovely to see you’ve decided to show up now. I reach for the door. Matthew grabs my wrist. Not aggressive. Just… firm. “Wait,” he says. And just like that — I’m back in the woods. The bag is in my hands. Heavier now. Or maybe I’ve just finally stopped pretending it isn’t. Mr Shush is gone. No footsteps. No goodbye. Just… vanished, like he was never mine to follow in the first place. The clearing feels tighter now. The trees closer. Watching. The bag shifts slightly in my grip. Waiting. I swallow. Slowly, carefully, I open it. Inside — Not letters. Not parcels. Not anything as straightforward as that. It’s full of moments. Not neatly stored or labelled — just crammed together, overlapping, bleeding into one another like they were never meant to be separate at all. They flicker faintly, like old film reels spliced together badly. Each one pulsing with that same uncomfortable, familiar weight. I reach in. My fingers brush against something warm. And suddenly — I’m holding it. Not physically. Not exactly. But I feel it. Every impulsive choice. Every half-buried memory. Every moment I brushed off as “nothing” — too small to matter, too awkward to examine, too inconvenient to carry properly — but never nothing at all. The childhood curiosity. The adult guilt. The versions of me I’d rather file under “miscellaneous” and never revisit. All of it. Neatly collected. Undelivered. Unopened. Until now. There’s no monster in the woods. No thing chasing me. No grand, external threat. Just this bag. And everything I’ve avoided carrying properly. The torch flickers again. I look up. The trees are still watching. But now it doesn’t feel like they’re hunting me. It feels like they’re waiting. Patient. Expectant. Witnesses, not predators. Like they’ve seen this all before. I glance back down at the bag in my hands. Then, reluctantly — I sling it over my shoulder. It fits. Too well. And somewhere, deep in the woods — I swear I hear it. Not footsteps. Not breathing. Just the faintest sound of something settling into place. A quiet, internal click. Like a lock turning. Or a truth finally being let in. I came out here looking for something. Turns out — It was never lost. Never misplaced. Never forgotten. Just waiting. Patient as the dark. Certain as memory. Just… unclaimed.