Chapter Two: Call of the Forest

An intense burning pulled him awake, the sensation radiating from his left wrist and travelling up his arm as his every nerve screamed in agony. He groaned in pain, as he shot up in bed. The heat was so intense but looking down at his hand he saw nothing but a faint redness that encircled his wrist. The irritation seemed to be growing but he could find no cause. The pain grew, his wrist heating up another notch. He groaned again, biting down on his lip; he needed to find something to cool it down. 

Stumbling in the limited lighting he rushed to the bathroom. Flipping the cold tap to max he stuck the screaming appendage under the spray. Perhaps some bug buried itself in my skin during my hike earlier? He wondered as he waited for the cool water to fight the rising temperature of his wrist. After a minute of the pain continuing to intensify he looked down at the water. The skin had begun to bubble and blister, the water bubbling as it cascaded over the boiling flesh. Why wasn't it working?

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he continued to hold his lip between his teeth. The water didn't seem to be cooling the area, and the pressure against the splitting irritated skin was beginning to hurt too much. He struggled to breathe through the pain, watch as the dead burnt pieces of blisters peeled under the rush of water. His skin was peeling away, revealing blackened flesh that sizzled under the cold water. The new skin was even more sensitive; this time he could stop the cry that fell from his lips as he staggered back from the sink and feel to the tiled floor. 

His vision blurred, and his mind swam as he held the arm tightly to his chest. The pain was just too overpowering, eating away at all his other senses. He didn't hear his fathers concerned shouts as he tried to figure out why his son had shouted, nor did he see the worried expression he carried as he took in the sight of his son crying on the floor holding a soaking arm while the sink overflowed. 

The elder male treaded carefully over to the sink, turning off the water before slowly crouching down to his son. He finally noticed his father as the man gingerly tried to peel the wrist from his chest. He watched, unable to form even a single word in explanation, as his eyes widen in shock and confusion. For a breath they sat frozen as he felt the nerves in his wrist dying under the searing flame. His dads first aid training broke the spell, launcher the elder into action as he disinfected and wrapped the wound. 

Slowly the numbing agent in the Polysporin eased the pain to a manageable ache. His body felt like jelly, barely able to stand as his father rushed them to the emergency room. The world spun, and blurred as the doctors rushed around him, inspecting him. He was too tired, too sore to think properly, but it still hurt too much to sleep. 

"Are you sure he didn't do this to himself?" He faintly heard the doctor ask his father. Why would they ask that? He thought to himself as his father replied. They had given him something that made him feel heavy and even more sleepy than before. 

"It spells out a word, no random burn should do that. It looks like a branding." It was the last thing he heard before he floated away. The blacken charred flesh did in fact spell out something, but the doctor had been wrong, it wasn't a word – it was a name. 

Wynter

****

Nothing has changed, Alwyn thought to himself as a taxi sped down main street. The boardwalk looked exactly as it had the years prior, lit up by the twinkling Christmas decoration that hung from each lamp post. The general store still had the same bright red and white sign; the toy train display the same he used to gawk at as a kid; next door, Wendy's consignment, was outfitted with the same cluster of aging housewives, that had paused in there gossiping to yell at him for skipping school; Each of them held a green coffee cup from the dinner across the street, the same menu was still painted on the shops window. Alwyn smiled as the cabbie pulled up outside the blue and white sheriff's station. Throwing a twenty and a thanks at the driver he exited the vehicle wondering if the inside remained as untouched as the rest of town.

Perhaps a desk or two had been added, and the computers looked like they'd been upgraded recently but other than that the place looked exactly as Alwyn thought it would. He used to spend so much time running around the tables pretending he was a cop, while the deputies laughed at his terrible attempts of stealth. When he'd gotten earlier he'd spent more time in his dads office trying to convince the man to stop and eat, than he had pretending to be a spy. 

Besides the greying woman manning the front desk, the station was all dark. The computers sat dormant on the grey desks, the only light in the back coming from his father's office. The blinds letting slip only the briefest amount of light illuminate the shadowy space. Just like when he was young his father was holed up in the glass fish bowl of an office behind a pile of paperwork several coffee mugs littered about. Alwyn figured he had looked up from the work once today and had most likely forgotten to eat. Perhaps I should have stopped at the dinner and gotten him his favourite roast beef sandwich. He thought as he watched the workaholic type away at the dinosaur computer on his desk.

He gave a knock on the door to get his father's attention. The man looked up startled, glasses sliding down his nose at the movement. "Hey son, I thought you weren't coming in till this evening." 

"Yep, got in at seven." He replied smiling at his flustered father. The man looked about at the paper, ruffling a few things as he looked for the cell phone that had gotten buried hours ago. Sure, enough the phone collaborated Alwyn's story, it was almost seven thirty. "How about I give you thirty minutes to finish up then we can get something to eat." His father smiled in appreciation as his son moved back to the front desk.

Gladys Hemmings had been manning the evening desk and phone since Alwyn was a child. She may have gained and extra wrinkle or a new grey hair but in that entire time it had seemed as if the woman hadn't aged a day. Her voice still rang clear with an authoritative tone though he was certain she was well into her eighties. Thin, and her features full, even with her skin showing age, she was beyond beautiful. He remembered when Conner had been convinced the woman was an immortal being of the night. They stalked her for the latter part of a week before she chewed them out, threatening to arrest them, and have them serve out their sentences working for her. The threat in her voice, and of a night in jail had the two boys forgetting why the story had been so important to begin with. Her menacing aura from that day was muted as she created him with a knowing grin.

"Needs a few more minutes, does he?" She asked. An amused smile played at her full lips as he nodded. "Well then why don't you tell me what you've been up to in that city of yours, hm?"

Alwyn knows he's not the most talented at storytelling, but just as he remembers she treats him as though she were a blind mind receiving the world for the first time through his story. So, he tells the older woman all about his classes, spending extra time on the ones he enjoyed and the teachers he favoured; like his History of Holistic Remedies class last year – the teacher had been one of his youngest professors, tan with short styled brown hair, his blue eyes lit up as he lectured. His class always seemed to fly by in a blink, leaving Alwyn wishing that he could stay and listen to the teacher talk more. 

Gladys laughed when he told her about his red-haired barista. "Still looking at people out of you league," she snickered. Alwyn nodded, he'd had a crush on a similar girl back in high school, she had also ignored his existence. The night worker had sat through him gushing about the girl while his dad worked, probably hearing more about his crush than Connor had. 

He talked about the people, how they will plough right into you on the street if you don't pay attention, and what a bogus transit system they had in the city. He knew Gladys had been to the city, that she had spent her teen years there before returning to their small town. Still she listened to him, acting as though she were blind, her only link to the outside world in his stories. It was a look she had always given him, one that made him feel worthy of being listened to. So, he chattered on, and on, talking the old woman's ear off until a rough hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Let officer Hemmings get back to work, son." He didn't mention to his father that she had no work to get to, that nothing happened worth consequence in this town let alone after dark. No, he just smiled at the woman, giving her a parting wave as he let his father steer him out the door. "You hungry?" The sheriff asked as they pulled the cruiser away from the curb. 

"Starved," He responded with a smile. 

The only diner in town was a quaint place owned by the mayors wife. She had a thing for the colour green and the 1950's, so the place was painted an array of green tones with 50 styled tables and chairs. An old jukebox sat at the far end, a bright lime green monster with music ranging from 1920s to 1970s. The décor left something to be desired, but the food made up for it. Alwyn hadn't been able to find a single place in the city that made a tomato basil soup that could compete with theirs. Though the campus coffee came close to beating the brew served up here. 

The few patrons still lingering at the weather worn tables greeted them as they entered, talking them up as the duo waiting for their dinner to go. It was nice to see the familiar faces, and homey to hear their stories and jibes – the same ones that they had been telling since Alwyn was a kid. It was like time didn't exist here, life went on in an endless loop of families and familiarity – that's how his mom had explained it once. He had asked her what made her stay then, if everything was always the same surely if got boring. He understood now, it was the feeling of home, or warmth and ease that came with it, that made her stay; it made people gravitate back to the town even after they'd moved on, like Gladys, his dad, countless other, and – he knew without a doubt – he would to.

Warm food sitting on his lap he listened to his father tell him about the strange new pranks the teenagers had taken to. Reports of missing items had been flooding his office, which wasn't strange bored teens often snuck into places and stole things or vandalised property. What was strange about these is the manner in which they were found, and they were always found. Their most immediate neighbour, Ms. Halls, had three of her garden gnomes stolen, one ended up in the locked safe at the barber shop, another on the roof of Willows Garage, and the last in hanging by its foot in her front lawn tree. Pete the town butcher had had his favourite set of knives going missing, they had been found two day later in the exact centre of town stabbed in a circle around a shoe that belonged to the baker. Those were just a couple of the stories he'd been working on when Alwyn had arrived. No one and nothing had been harmed or broken yet, the police couldn't even figure out how most of things were taken or placed. There were never any signs of break in, or finger prints, and of course none of the young folk were talking. It was like his father was beating his head against a brick wall for all the headway they'd made in the case. Alwyn had heard of a similar rash of pranks when he was younger, his mother had just died so he and his father were a little distracted to follow the turn of events but from what he could remember the police never caught anyone, the trickster just randomly disappeared all the tricks stopping at once. 

He had faith his dad would catch them this time, but it also meant his father was extremely busy. After their dinner he had hidden himself away in the study to look over some of the files, and when Alwyn awoke the next morning his father was gone – a note on the countertop apologizing for the lack of time for catching up. The duo quickly fell into a similar pattern, Alwyn would take his afternoons to catch up on a few optional readings and assignments, then he'd walk over to the station and peel his dad out of the office. They would head to the dinner and eat, his father asking him about the city and school, and he would ask his father about his cases. Then at home they would go into their separate spaces and the cycle would repeat. 

By the third day Alwyn was done all his extra work and was clawing at the walls with cabin fever. He tried wandering the house, cleaning up where he could but it was just too much. The house was like a relic of his mother, a tomb of her memories. But the memories that whispered in the shadows were just as broken and faded as the wallpaper in the den. When his mother had been alive the house was always bright, light bouncing off the golden kitchen walls, and streaming down the halls giving life to an assortment of plants. The carpet had been lush and clean, feeling soft under foot. Now everything held a dingy grey feel, light barely glanced off the mustard walls, and only the stained circles in the wood tables let you know anything of life ever sat there. The carpet was worn down with tread, and darkened with stained, even his mother's favourite wallpaper was peeling. The place was a shell of the home it had once been, and it reminded Alwyn of his mother sickness. The way it had slowly stolen every bit of who she was, fading the light she radiated and leaving a confused bitter shell of a mother who was terrified of her own family and barely had the strength to stand. 

He could sit there, and stare at the walls listening to the faded echoes of his families laughter any longer. But where would he go? His only friend had scored himself a journalist gig within a year of them graduating and was currently somewhere in Europe writing for some National Geographic type magazine. There was only so much time his father would allow him to hang around the office till his presence would become too much of a hindrance. So, what could he do?

Outside the kitchen window he watched as the trees swayed and danced in the fall air. A familiar itch began to crawl under his skin. It was like the forest called to him, beckoned him to come outside, to play among its roots. As a child he'd been helpless to deny its call, wandering out almost every night. He'd go out when he should be sleeping, sneaking past his dreaming parents and out their small white gate. He'd gotten lost once, fallen asleep outside in the forest. His parents had been hysterical when they'd noticed him missing. He had dreamt that he had wondered into a magical clearing and played with a magnificent shifter person – one like in his mother's stories. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten home, but suddenly it was mid-afternoon and he was blinking against the sun hand on their gate, unsure if he was opening it or closing it. 

They'd put a lock on the outside of his bedroom door after that, he was only allowed in the forest when he was with his mother or father. And now he could feel that pull once more, and nothing was preventing him from following it. He smiled, grabbing a coat and shoes from the rack. A hike would be perfect to elevate his cabin fever, he checked his phone wondering if he should let his father know where he was going. Nah, I'll be back before he gets home. He dismissed the thought, tucking the device into his pocket along with his wallet and keys.