Out of the Woods

Itchy pine needles cover the clearing as I step over jagged rocks and thorny brambles, being mindful of my bare feet. I can tell by the low hanging sun in the sky, that it isn’t evening—not yet, anyway. My younger sister, Agnes, hums a cheery tune as she follows me, making sure to step directly in the footprints I leave behind in the dirt. The woods behind our house are the only interesting thing since we moved into this dingy, backwater town. Ma always said it will grow on us eventually, but I’m not ready to accept that. Agnes hated this place, too—even more than I did—but one day, something changed. I imagine one day running somewhere far away; I’ll leave everything behind and never look back. Sometimes, I even dream of ditching Agnes in the forest, like how she left me when she started liking this stupid town. I would take the train and go somewhere—anywhere, really—maybe even the coast because it’s been eighteen years and I’ve never seen the ocean. However, as quickly as the thought appears, it dissipates. What about ma? And Agnes? They’re all I have left. I still see pa sometimes in my dreams. We’re still a family living together in our cramped, rented studio apartment in the heart of the city. When I wake up, it’s cold and dark and Agnes is the only one there. As her older sister, I have to protect her. That’s all there is to it. 

Agnes beckons me over with a wave, claiming that she’s found something interesting. She crouches by a set of animal tracks. Upon closer inspection, they look humanoid, but there’s oddities, like the sole is too wide in some places and there appear to be claws in others. Agnes gazes at me with a wide grin. Pointing, she exclaims, “Do you think these belong to the Morphlings?” 

I refrain from rolling my eyes so far back they touch my skull. Of course, Agnes believes in those silly folklores; she’s always been a horror junkie. I never understood her obsession with this stuff. It was all the same to me—creepy. I avoided it whenever I could. Morphlings were an old urban legend—from what I could gather from the locals, it’s a creature that can mimic a person’s appearance, stalking and isolating them before eventually consuming them. Gross stuff. Frowning, I mock, “Yeah, right. Like I’d actually believe that.” 

“You never know,” she shrugs; then, with a mischievous smile, she adds, “I hope they’re real. Who knows—it could make your stay here a lot more interesting.” 

I roll my eyes for real this time. “Sure, Agnes. Whatever.” 

“Ha! Suit yourself.” 

Whipping out her phone in its pastel pink case, a sharp contrast to her more gruesome interests, she snaps a picture of the ground with a satisfied hum. Then she smiles as she stomps out the tracks with the sole of her sneakers, and even when I give her an inquisitive glance, she doesn’t elaborate. Standing up, she brushes stray twigs and dead leaves out of her miniskirt before racing off in the direction of the house. I trail after her with much less enthusiasm. The remnants of the afternoon sun bleed the darkening navy blue and indigo sky with red and orange. From the corner of my eye, the shadows loom menacingly behind me, encroaching on me with their wispy tendrils. 

A chill runs down my spine, and I quicken my pace until I’m safely inside the house. I shut the backyard door with a heavy slam, but I can’t help myself from peeking out the door hole to get one more look. Before I wash up for dinner, I make sure both locks are secure. 

Dinner is a quiet event. Ma eats while catching up on her work emails, so the clattering of silverware against china plates filling the silent space is agonizing. Usually, I talk to Agnes, but her seat remains empty—her food, growing cold—which is surprising, considering it’s shepherd’s pie, her favorite. Agnes always insists she loves it even though ma never cooks it right, so it’s always sad and soggy and bland. When I tried looking for her earlier, she wasn’t in any of the normal spots. She left me behind once again, and I wonder why I even bother trying. 

I spend the rest of my evening alone, as I have more often than not these past few weeks, and soon find myself tucking into bed. As I switch off the lamp, I don’t wonder where Agnes has gone, but when I close my eyes, I have terrifying visions of something lurking. 

As a few hours drag by, I have trouble falling asleep. Agnes hasn’t returned; I know because I haven’t felt her climbing into the tiny twin-sized bed beside me—yet another reason I hate this place. I reluctantly shrug off the covers, but when I open my eyes, the room is in disarray. Clothes are scattered everywhere and the window creaks open, letting in the howling wind. Muddy footprints cover the floor. On the desk is a hastily scribbled note; the handwriting is unmistakable—it’s Agnes. 

Meet at our spot, it reads. Against my better judgment, I brace myself and follow the footprints down the hall outside. 

The wind nips at my skin as I traverse the uneven path until I stumble upon the clearing. The dense leaves shroud the area from the bright moonlight, shading the person laying in the grass, and my heart drops to my stomach. 

“Oh my God—Agnes?” I race forward, almost reaching, but recoil immediately. 

It’s not Agnes. It’s me. Or, at least, a copy of me. Blood seeps from the wound on its neck, while Agnes steps out from behind the trees, a liquid looking suspiciously like blood covering her mouth. 

Despite my shaking legs, I say, “You’re not Agnes. Where is she?” 

She smiles, all crooked and sad and very Agnes-like. 

My heart sinks. It makes sense—the subtle changes, the absences; I may have lost Agnes long ago and never realized it. I think of our ma, half-asleep on the couch from working herself to the bone taking care of two ungrateful brats. How long is it until she realizes both her kids are no longer hers? Can she even tell?

However, to me, monster or not, that’s still Agnes. That’s my sister. I run over and hold her tight in an embrace. The liquid seeps into my shirt, sharp and cold, but I hold her as she clings to me. If only for a second, I manage to catch a glimpse of another with my face before she slips away under the cover of night. I squeeze Agnes tighter, and I can’t tell if the dampness that spreads over my shoulder is blood or tears. Whatever happens, they can’t take her from me again. Nobody has to know what happened tonight. We’re both going to get out of here, one way or another—together.

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Postmortem—

"Out of the Woods" was written as a flash fiction assignment for my Creative Writing: Short Story course taken during the fall semester of my undergrad back in 2023. At the time of submission, it was subjected to a group peer review with my classmates. On Google Docs, it's four pages long and 994 words, just six words shy of the maximum allotted word count. It was my first attempt at something vaguely horror adjacent and written in a different tone than my prior works.

It has since then been edited and revised with the intent to fix the clarity regarding motivation and characterization, totaling closer to 1.2k. I wanted to adjust how the protagonist is portrayed, since we view the story through her eyes.

More importantly, the unseen danger within the story, the skincrawlers, were still too similar in name to the Navajo culture's skinwalkers. Despite my attempt to come up with another name that would evoke the same feeling, it was far too similar that there was still that cultural association. It has since then been changed to Morphlings.

The original copy can be viewed and accessed via download below.

Out of the Woods - Flash Fiction.pdf

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