Hunting Gypsies

Hard rain was pouring down—thick, solid sheets that hid the world outside Ivan's car. Then, with a sickening crunch, his car slid off the road and crashed into a muddy field just shy of the edge of a dense black forest. When Ivan came to, the engine kept going, but the radio was now a cacophony of static and shattered songs, switching between them in an endless cycle, like a broken record.

His head throbbed painfully. Shaking hands probed a deep, bleeding gash on his forehead. His shoulder stung acutely, ribs burned with every breath, but thankfully, his legs appeared intact. Rain beat upon the car roof, thunder in the distance. He wiped misty condensation from the windows, attempting to find out what he'd hit—but all he could see was a huge muddy expanse that stretched out and out into darkness. Steam poured from the crushed hood, and an odd chemical odor filled the interior.

He was aware the fire would ignite quickly, sparks on the verge of reaching the spilled oil on the ground beneath the vehicle. Panic cut loose. Ivan rushed to take his duffle bag, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and a flashlight clutched in his hand—whatever he could grab. His boots sank into the mud as he worked to push himself out, the rain drenching him immediately. He glanced back at the car, and then his heart broke. A cow, trapped beneath the wreckage, lay struggling. She lifted her head weakly and gave a soft, pitiful moo.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

Never glancing back, he ran for the woods, mud on each step. The flames hissed behind him now, black smoke filling the air, a fire beast chasing after him. His lungs were burned with the acrid flavor of melting plastic and gasoline. Just as he made the shelter of trees, there was a blast in the field. The blast knocked him hard to the ground in the mud. Darkness closed around him totally.

Ivan woke up surrounded by giant pine trees. Rain had ceased, only drizzly drops falling from the trees. His whole body ached. Mud was all over his face as he attempted to sit and evaluate. His mind went blank — where did he find himself? His car was not present, the pasture having given way to a seemingly endless forest clearing. But then he noticed the earth littered with small white mushrooms, their rust-colored caps a perfect circle around him.

"Cortinarius caperatus," Ivan whispered, and his mind struggled to focus with the pain pulsating in his head. "Little gypsies." He had read about these mushrooms a thousand times before, but not like this — a circle around him, alive, a trap.

He smiled weakly, the irony not escaping him. 'Hunting gypsies,' they had said about these mushrooms. And now he was hunted.

He rummaged in his waterlogged pack: clean clothes, half a bottle of water, some provisions, and a wet blanket — not much, but enough to survive for a little while. He was solitary, lost, and every breath was torture.

As Ivan began to walk across the forest, the mushrooms started closing in, the forest getting darker around him. The world began to tip. A scream, blood-curdling, echoed from far deep within the trees. His head swirled, the pines and mushrooms blurring together. Then—eyes. Red, angry, glowing eyes.

He fell hard onto the ground.

The darkness enveloped him like a shroud. His wrists and ankles were bound, the ropes biting deep into his skin. Panic looked to consume him, but Ivan focused all his will and breathed in, slowly and deeply — the calming technique his mother had taught him all those years before.

"God damn it," he gasped, battling the ropes, which looked more like twisting roots or vines than cord.

Out of the darkness came a gentle buzzing, louder than before. It was nearer, it seemed, with a swarm of smogging red eyes. They flashed in the dark, like a swarm of angry fireflies. And then, a taller figure emerged — pale and beautiful, but with eyes that were no less red and piercing.

Her voice was gentle but cold:\ "Irodeasa. They call me the Queen. And you, Ivan. You may call me Death."

Behind her, tiny creatures with iridescent, colored wings — flying flowers in the dark — buzzed with anticipation. Tiny teeth flashed as they grinned. Beyond the terror, Ivan couldn't help but be entranced by their otherworldly beauty.

"Ready?" she asked.

Ivan swallowed hard. "Ready for what? Who are you? What do you want from me?"

She grinned, cold and sinister. "You'll see soon enough. They're coming to collect you."

The forest closed in, the "hunting gypsies" stirring as Ivan waited to face whatever terror awaited him.

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