The Possum's Anthology

Why The Woods Go Quiet

I was twelve when I first experienced it. My sister, Bess, and I were just my messing around in the forest behind our grandparents' cabin. We were climbing trees, throwing rocks into the creek—you know, normal kid stuff. My sister was 18 but she was a kid at heart.

We played around until the sun started to set. That's when it happened. Everything fell silent. When I say everything, I mean everything. There was no wind, no birdsong, not even the trilling of insects. It was like someone hit the mute button on the world.

Bess and I locked eyes with each other. Part of me wanted to say something. Anything. But every time I went to speak, my body wouldn't move. My tongue felt numb and stiff, and my lips were unwilling to part. It was like my body didn't want me to make a sound. Judging by the looks on my sister's face, she was feeling the same thing. Like if we made a noise, something terrible would happen.

I don't remember how long the silence lasted. I just remember a single bird daring to sing. The forest resumed its normal ambience. Like nothing weird happened at all.

Bess and I went home after that. We just laughed off the experience, and Bess said she'd look it up online to see if anyone else had this happen. Later that night, she came in my room and told me what she found out. "The forest goes silent when a predator is nearby."

As the years passed, her fun fact had faded a little from my memory. Until tonight.

Now, I'm sitting on my bed, the clock reading 3:30 am. My three normally-protective pit bulls are huddled beside me, staring out the window with their ears pressed flat against their heads, whining uncertainly. The cicadas and frogs aren't screaming like they normally do on a muggy southern night. My body won't let me do anything except stare out the window too.

Right at the rotting, taloned hand pressed against the glass.

There was a predator nearby.