Her screams came from the meadow

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The family requested that the cherry-scented stick be lit a couple hours before their arrival, to soothe the slight whiff of varnish and paint that still lingered in the air.

As his dad parked into the driveway, Matthew couldn’t look away from the humble flame. It cut boldly through the night, like a lone star in a dead galaxy.

The light also reached all the way into Matthew’s eleven-year-old heart, filling it with the unmistakable warmth of hope and giddiness. It’d been three summers since he and his family had been able to set foot in Iris, their vacation cottage and once Matthew’s favorite place in the entire world.

And yet, the flame also made the boy nervous. It reminded him of the first time they had to escape the cabin, which was also the night when he thought he saw someone die.

Matthew’s mom, Sue, was well aware of her son’s unrest. The whole drive she kept bringing up memories of their good times at the place: stargazing, fishing and diving from the tallest jumping rock.

“This time I just might cannonball with you,” she said from the front seat with a playful smile.

Her efforts did not go to waste. Each of her words, and the memories they conjured, put Matthew at ease. So by the time they drove into the cabin, and Matthew spotted the serene glow of the candle, he felt somewhat excited to reunite with his beloved, cozy Iris—enough to at least oppose the unease that’d been building up for weeks. Matthew’s mom, however, was unsure of their location.

“Are we even in the right place?” Sue asked her husband, Arthur, who leaned in and wondered the same thing.

Their doubts were natural. Even prior to the evacuation—which took place during that dire summer evening three years before—they would recurrently get lost in the maze of woods. The community (just short of two hundred members) was sprinkled in tiny cabins like Iris, which were spread and camouflaged among the pine trees. It didn’t help that the homes and getaways were barely tethered by a gaunt dirt road, unkept and often cloaked in dead leaves and wild bushes.

The floods that ravaged the community only made this disorientation worse.

A nearby dam had overflown and allowed in tons upon tons of lake water. The torrent trampled houses and turned their backyards into ponds. Vivid flashes of the escape became engraved in Matthew’s young mind, haunting his dreams and the moments where his attention loosely wandered. Among them were the sounds of the collapsing neighborhood: waking up to the bumping thuds of his father’s ankles, rushing down the stairs with his sleeping son in arms. Their car, coughing and wheezing as its drowned engine failed to start. The splutter of their six feet, sinking and rising from the muddy stream as they ran to the nearest hill. More and more splutters joining theirs. The entirety of the small village pushing, screaming and wailing towards the elevation.

It was a near miracle that the calamity was only able to claim one casualty: Dora, who used to own the cabin next to Matthew’s. The boy, who back then was barely eight years old, still wasn’t ready to accept whether or not he’d seen her drown.

Dora was a very old and very short lady, perhaps half a foot taller than Matthew by the time water filled up her lungs. The night that he ran against the flood, something caught the rear of his eye.

He thought he’d seen someone, holding on for dear life to a measly bush. In the moment, Matthew didn’t make time to stop and make sure; he didn’t even tell his parents. But after reports of Dora’s death were confirmed, his memory started sharpening the details of that desperate shadow: one of her arms waving for help, her frightened expression, her mouth letting out screams he wasn’t able to hear.

More than all of the noises from that tragic night, it was Dora’s silent yells that rumbled in Matthew’s memory. With the same perseverance that their beloved cottage somehow remained standing after the flood.

But the layout of the village had changed entirely, and years of reconstruction gave Matthew’s parents a hard time trusting that the cabin they were staring at, even with that single candle in its window, was indeed theirs.

“I’m not sure,” replied Arthur, almost to himself. “This whole place looks so different.”

It sure does, thought Matthew, struggling to not give in to the fear of being back.

With barely eleven years he could feel it: the ominous stench of tragedy, lingering in the air. Nature had stretched its claws those three years ago, to remind them that she’d always been in charge. Now, as she slumbered, they were all on borrowed time. The lake waters had sunk to the ground and evaporated into the air, but something else remained. In the shadows. Standing as tall as the pine trees around the Honda minivan.

But unlike his parents, Matthew also sensed that this cabin, with the single candle by its window, was theirs. And as his father stepped out of the vehicle and kicked some dirt off of a crooked post, the boy's certainty became confirmed. The sign on the wooden stake did, indeed, read Iris.

Matthew was given the keys and asked to go ahead and turn on the lights inside. Listening to his steps crunch the ground on their way to the cabin, Matthew looked forward to getting inside, taking off his shoes and feeling the thick cushion of the floor’s carpeting.

The feet between him and the front door became inches. Only then did he notice the figure that stood next to the candle.

He stopped, unable to look back at the window.

There is no one inside, he felt the need to think. There can’t be.

Matthew also reminded himself, right then and there, that a dark forest has all kinds of branches and shapes. Ready to stimulate a young mind and conjure the sort of tall shadow that seemed to be spying on him. He took a deep breath, slid the keys into the lock and the door complied, easily.

But as the soles of his converse slammed into the hardwood floor, he stopped again. Instead of the comforting cushion of a large rug, he was welcomed by the creaking and ungiving rigidity of slabs of hickory. The place also smelled slightly awful: a blend of chemical fumes drabbed in some sort of fruity scent.

He couldn’t remember on what wall he’d find the light switch. He tapped around the entrance, only to touch more varnished wood. As he turned around to look, his eyes landed yet again on the candle, which was the culprit of that synthetic fruit aroma. Next to it was another door, which the boy knew led to the garage. For some reason, this door was also open, revealing nothing but a rectangle of pure blackness.

And Matthew could have sworn, once again, that in it was someone. Staring right at him.

He didn’t know whether it was his vision, scrambled by the shadows and his nerves, or whether the glint of the candle light was indeed bouncing off a pair of tiny pupils and the length of a nose.

It was so faint. So, so faint. But the boy couldn’t move a muscle.

He wanted to believe, more than anything, that this was all a figment of his imagination.

“Matt.”

The strained voice startled Matthew, and then made him feel safe. Big as his father was, the man was clearly struggling to haul in their two largest suitcases.

“Please go help Mom unpack the van.”

Arthur walked straight ahead and, somehow, found the lightswitch. Matthew didn’t waste a second and turned to the garage door. Now that the lights were on, he could tell that no one stood there.

Both Matt and his parents were struck at how new the cottage looked. Untouched and unfeeling, barely the prototype of a home. A couch, a TV set, four stools for the kitchen counter and a few coffee tables were all that decorated the anesthetized place. Gone were the pictures on the wall, the cabinet stacked with board games, Arthur’s favorite armchair.

The three bedrooms on the second floor just hosted their respective beds. However, a hefty pile of cardboard boxes was also stacked on the master bedroom, brimmed with whatever small thing had made it through the drowning. Matthew surveyed the pile from across the room, silently. Whatever little excitement he’d mustered during the ride to the cottage had already started to sour. He’d been gullible when he assumed that familiarity wouldn’t crumble under the weight of three years and all that lake water.

As his lower lip started to quiver, Sue hugged her boy from behind.

“We’ll make it feel nice and cozy again” she whispered to him. “It’ll be our little summer project.”

Her voice, especially when it spoke softly, was so comforting to Matthew. But her words rang less true than before.

“Mom… I don’t think I like being back” he confessed. “I… don’t think we should have even come here.”

“Matt, if that were the case then the cottage would have fallen down” she replied, gently turning him around so that their eyes could meet. “I promise: you are safe here.”

He trusted her like no one else. Not even his father’s word meant as much as his mother’s. Sue squeezed him, in the way kids pretend to hate but really depend on, and they returned downstairs.

As the family prepared dinner Matthew told them about the shadow he thought he saw next to the candle. Arthur laughed, claiming that he sometimes also felt creeped out by how quiet and still everything was around there.

“My imagination will create noises and movements just to keep me entertained,” he claimed.

Of course, his jokes only made his son feel unheard and silly. Something Matthew wouldn’t admit but that Sue picked up in his silence.

“Arthur, how about you take a look around while I finish dinner?” she asked calmly.

“What? Absolutely not Sue. Matt, I’m telling you: everything’s ok.”

Sue insisted, this time a little less calmly, and Arthur went to look for his flashlight. As he spent a couple of minutes checking both the inside and outside of the house, Sue poured her son a cup of iceless ginger ale.

“It’s normal that you are still a little jumpy around the place,” she confided in Matthew. “Your Dad knows you were only eight when the flood happened. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Matthew did feel embarrassed. But minutes later, when his parents served him a big heap of stovetop mac and cheese - as they did years before - and they watched Shrek for the seventeenth time, it all seemed to subside. His worries waned with each laugh and each bite.

Feeling relieved, Matthew took a moment to look around and take in the space for a second time. The furniture was sparse, and different, but it would do. He was sharing the space with those that mattered, and he was so thankful for it.

But that night, as he was brushing his teeth, it crossed his mind that he’d raise his head and once again see the shadow from the garage, standing behind him. Worse, he feared that the figure would reveal its identity, and that it would be none other than Dora. Soaked, angry and undead.

Sue didn’t make a fuss when her son asked her to make him company—just this one time—while he waited to fall asleep. A few minutes later, while his mom tenderly rubbed his back, the boy continued to wonder about Dora; whether her ghost now wandered the community and, if so, the appearance it now had in death. Hard as he tried not to, Matthew kept expecting a muddy blob to peek from his window, to scream whatever he believed Dora tried screaming at him the evening of her death.

He breathed deeply, and his mother stopped rubbing his back for a moment.

“Baby” she whispered, both kindly and sadly, “what happened to Dora wasn’t your fault. You have to keep reminding yourself of it.

Both Arthur and Sue had already told him so since the accident, many times over. They also questioned the likelihood that he’d actually seen the kind and elderly woman fight for her life, arguing that she’d been found way too far from her cabin.

Matthew was grateful to have such good spirited and loving parents, and that their vacation home survived the disaster. But more than that, he believed that he didn’t deserve any of it. And believing that on his own was as close to loneliness as Matthew had ever experienced.

As that first week unfolded, joy and the potential of normalcy became more recurrent. There were many new faces among the locals; but whether it be at the refurbished local diner or the enlivened country club, most of the residents were people Matthew missed dearly (even if he didn’t realize it until the instant he saw them again). His parent’s favorite neighbor, Christopher, even gifted their son a golden and sticky piece of honeycomb.

“This might be my best batch ever, but you’ll be the judge of that” he told young Matthew with a chuckle.

Even better was when Matthew saw a silver sedan drive into the cabin with the badminton net in its front yard. He’d been wondering for days whether the Prestons still owned the place. So when James stepped out of the vehicle, Matthew didn’t waste a moment to ask for permission to visit his childhood friend. Soon after he spent the whole afternoon at James’, catching up on three years of life and playing FIFA 64.

“There’s a barbeque at my gramp’s this Saturday,” James informed Matt as they strolled to a nearby swamp. “Mom told me to invite you and your parents.”

Matthew’s parents already knew about the cookout, as did many of the townsfolk. Earl (James’ grandpa) was renowned for his corn on the cob, and once a year he made sure his family’s dearest acquaintances enjoyed at least one of his buttered and salted goodies.

However, Sue and Arthur decided to make use of the time to go for a romantic hike. It’d been a while since they had a chance to be by themselves, and they guessed (correctly) that Matthew wouldn’t mind going to the cookout without them. He was, after all, feeling more at ease with each passing day.

Saturday was hot and humid, but many showed up early to the grandfather’s backyard. Shortly after being dropped off by his parents, Matthew found James and the two friends stepped away to head into a nearby forest to play. They knew exactly where they were headed.

They walked for a long time, going deeper and deeper inside rows of pine trees. Their march eventually started inclining, turning into more of a hike. Matt and James were moving towards the top of the only real hill in the vicinity. Three summers before the two of them fought against a turbulent current to reach the same spot. As did every single person who survived that evening’s flood.

Some part of Matthew’s instinct kept expecting to step on leftover puddles, and hear his weight squish the mud that was still soaked in the awful lake water. But the ground beneath his feet remained dry and firm, which made him very content.

At some point they arrived at a grassy clearing, very similar to a small meadow. By all accounts, it was very possibly the same place where the town once waited to be rescued. But Matthew couldn’t know for sure; he was too little back then, and also too scared to register such details.

There, they began throwing a baseball at each other. With each toss they widened the distance between them, just to make the game more difficult and exciting. They didn’t bring fielder gloves, so part of the fun was seeing who’d be first to give up in pain. Matthew admitted defeat once both his hands pulsed so badly that he thought his fingernails would burst.

A time-out was agreed upon, and the boys sat in the shade of the nearest tree, one of the many that outlined the re-entry to the forest that surrounded this miniature field. They chatted under that shade for a good while, until they eventually sat in silence. Enjoying the chirping of birds and the breeze of the forest. It’d been an ordinary vacation day; exactly what Matthew had once been used to.

Then James turned his distracted eyes to the meadow, and noticed something in the distance.

“Hey, who’s that?” he asked.

On the other side of the tiny field, coming out from the forest, someone walked towards them. A woman.

Matthew’s mom.

Her son got up to get a better look at her. She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand, and waved at them with the other. The kids waved back at her.

"Mom! Where’s dad?” Matthew yelled.

Mom didn’t reply.

She simply kept walking ahead, smiling. She was close enough for them to detail her squinted eyes, and her cheeks raised by that ceaseless grin.

Suddenly, Sue picked up the pace.

“What are you doing mom?”

She picked up the pace again. And when she was only a few meters away, she started to run. Her squinted eyes opened wide and her arms stretched towards the two friends. Never breaking that smile.

Matthew didn’t understand what was happening, or why Sue behaved so strangely. It wasn’t like his mother to try frightening him like this.

Which is precisely why he bolted, and James shortly after him. Without even turning around to check if Sue was at their tail.

They returned to the cookout in less than fifteen minutes, wheezing and wiping their drenched foreheads. Some of the adults noticed their agitation, and asked what they’d been up to for the last couple of hours.

“My mom…” Matthew heaved, “Where’s my mom? Is she behind us?”

She wasn’t. She also wasn’t at the party.

Nonetheless, James’ family and the other guests could tell that their fear was sincere. But they also argued that, if the boys had indeed seen Sue, she was likely “just playing”.

“She probably didn’t mean to scare you,” said one of the neighbors.

But Matthew knew that hadn’t been a game. Whatever reason his mom had to behave the way she did at the meadow, it had stripped him of all semblance of fun. Like a lung would collapse after being pierced by a bullet.

It was, in many ways, the same bewilderment he felt when staring at the dark void of the open garage door. When he swore to have sensed someone standing in its shadows, just a mere ten feet or so from him.

Matthew didn’t even care about grabbing a soda and a corn on the cob. He and James ran inside the grandfather’s house and locked themselves in a bedroom, waiting for the party to end. A few hours later, someone knocked at the door.

It was Matt’s parents, who’d just arrived and heard all about the kids' odd statements. Confused and alarmed, they sat next to the two boys and asked them for a detailed account of what they’d seen. More than anything, they wanted a clear description of whoever chased them.

“There’s no way it could have been Sue, or me,” Arthur assured them. “We were at least an hour away by car.”

But Matthew and James insisted that, without a doubt, it had been Matt’s mom who they’d seen in the meadow.

That conviction, of course, did little to convince Arthur, Sue or anyone else at the cookout. And Matthew noticed in his mom a flash of something she hadn’t betrayed before: annoyance. Frustration at his incessant fears of the rural community.

And still, perhaps out of precaution, Earl agreed to end the barbeque while there was still light outside, which was much earlier than on previous occasions. Matthew’s parents even informed the sheriff and the park ranger that his son had “possibly” seen a stranger to the community, wandering in the vicinity.

As the family walked back home, Matthew looked towards the top of the trees he’d just run through. The dying sun coated their tips with its final rays. It was a lovely sight, and yet a bitter taste showed at the back of his throat: he used to love walking in the woods, but now they scared him. He felt that nature wanted to cast him out of its loins, because it hated him. Hated him for leaving sweet Nora to die, and for pretending he could simply return after such cowardice.

He only wished his parents believed him. That they validated what he’d seen, instead of dismissing him like they had for three years in regards to witnessing Nora’s death, and his unbearable guilt about it.

Little did Matthew know how the forest was about to conclude his longing, when later that night, at around 3 am, their house phone rang.

The parents woke up, feeling confused by the time of the call. Matthew opened his eyes to the sound of his mother picking up.

“Hello?… Chris, hi… Is everything ok?”

Whatever Christopher said to her, it immediately jolted her sleepy, croony voice.

“No. We’ve been home all night, why?”

She listened to his reply, in a long, merciless silence. Matthew didn't know what was said, but that pause told him that it was no joke. The quick thumping of footsteps then rushed to his room.

His head had narrowly landed on the pillow when his mom came in and walked straight to his bed. Matthew pretended to be sleeping, but he was also holding his breath.

“No, he’s here. Safe and sound” she whispered, as her thin fingers softly brushed his hair.

Sue took a couple steps back to the door, where she held the rest of that brief phone conversation. Even with his eyes shut, Matthew could sense her stare, nailed to her son.

She hung up, and her husband walked to her side. They spoke in whispers, so Mathew wasn’t able to make out everything they said, except the urgency and worry in their voices. Before he knew it his dad got dressed and left the house in a hurry. His mom then secured all the doors and windows, and sat next to him in bed. Only then did he pretend to get up, and asked her what was going on.

“Your Dad went to help Christopher find someone who got lost in the forest. Don’t worry about it, go back to sleep.”

Even at that age, Matthew could tell his mom struggled to sound calm.

They stayed quiet for many long minutes. Unlike when Matt sat with James in the shade, this was a silence he didn’t dare to break, even if every fiber in his being wanted to. Sue continued to sit still, looking out the bedroom window, while Matthew kept his eyes on her. I am safe as long as she’s here, he thought. There’s nothing to worry about. Mom will remain by my side and this will turn out to be just another night at the cottage.

He told himself that over and over, as if chanting a desperate mantra. And after a few minutes, his eyelids did become heavier.

But as he began to drift back to sleep, he heard it.

Someone calling for him, from deep inside the forest.

“Matthew…”

The boy sat up and instinctively looked at his mother, who immediately held his hand. Just by looking at her face he knew it: she had also heard those serene screams, yelling his name.

“Matthew…”

That shouting, echoing through the woods like the cries of a whale, would roar in Matthew for the rest of his life. It would flood his soul with anguish, like the lake waters once flooded Iris. And the sounds of the past torrent - the thumps, the spluttering steps, the wails - would become overwhelmed by the calls of whatever roamed among the trees and through the gaunt dirt road.

Because Matthew recognized whose voice was that in the forest: his mom’s.

And the real Sue, who trembled as she hugged her son, knew it too: out there was someone, something, that sounded exactly like her. And it was looking for her boy.

“Matthew…”

The next morning they would escape Iris for the second and last time. Sue was mistaken: Matthew had never been safe. Like a candle that desperately tries to hide the stench of varnish and paint, her assurances were so wrong that they might as well have been lies. Both her and Arthur now stood corrected, but would never admit it to their son, who finally realized what dying Dora screamed the night he saw her losing to the flood.

“Matthew…”

Mother and son remained still, listening for hours to the distant screams. Knowing that the place they once cherished no longer welcomed them.

“Matthew…

Mathew…

Matthew…”