Jennings Creek

You don’t enter the forest alone.

It’s an unspoken rule. No one ever has to tell you not to, or remind you that it is a bad idea. You just know. You just don’t do it.

Not after the experiments.

Sometimes as a child I’d find myself standing at the town gate, staring through the rust-eroded bars and into the dismal forest fifty yards away. I’d heard the rumors; I’d heard the stories. No one ever walked into the forest alone and returned. One man nearly made it back to the gates but collapsed in a heap of sweat and blood before he could reach them. I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not they were lying to us about the sharks just to make sure no one ever left the city, like a conspiracy.

Even as a child I wondered about conspiracy.

Most children don’t even know what the word “conspiracy” means.

What I always found twistedly ironic was the name. I always thought Jennings Creek sounded lighthearted and inviting. But the forest is neither a creek nor did a man named Jennings found it. I don’t know where they got the name from. All I know is this: from the moment I’d first heard there were sharks that actually swam in the forest I was driven nearly mad by dreams and my own questions of whether or not the stories were true. As a child I hounded my mother for answers, but every time I even mentioned a word that sounded remotely like “shark” her face turned ghostly white. I learned to be quiet. I decided it would be a better idea to take matters into my own hands. 

When I was nine I tried to climb the city wall. I don’t think I’d ever regretted doing anything so much.

But that was nearly ten years ago.

*****

I can hear my mother humming to herself in her bedroom. I recognize the tune of the lullaby she used to sing to me when I was younger. She’s been humming that song more often of late. Half the time I’m almost certain she doesn’t realize it. I don’t know where her mind is anymore. 

I close my eyes and attempt to tune out my mother’s voice as I lace up my boots. My fingers seem shakier than usual – this task has taken me twice a long as it usually does – and I’m just slightly aware of a twisting foreboding in my stomach.

I suddenly feel a soft texture rubbing against my arm and I turn to find Sweet Pea trying to catch my shoelace. I quickly bat her away.

“Not now,” I mumble quietly.

My mother had insisted we call the stray kitten Sweet Pea the day I found her wandering our street as I walked home from my classes. I’d wanted to name her something a little less girlie at first, but the name has grown on me. It fits her.

“Don’t tell Mom where I’m going, okay?”

The cat merely answers by rubbing her cheek against my hand, purring loudly. It’s at times like these that I’m thankful I don’t have any human siblings. She won’t tell my mother anything.

She won’t tell her I’m going to Jennings Creek.

 I open my door silently, thankful that I’d been smart enough to oil the hinges before going to bed last night. I begin making my way down the hall, careful to step around the creaking floorboards I’d so carefully sought out over the past week, making sure I can successfully maneuver around them without a sound.

As I reach the top of the stairs I can still hear my mother humming, which is a good sign that I haven’t disturbed her. I’m not all that positive what she’s doing in there. A good forty-five seconds pass before I reach the bottom of the staircase. Then I make my way to the front door and unlock it slowly. I’d oiled its hinges as well. As soon as I’ve closed it behind me once I’m outside I release of sigh of relief.