11 Years Missing

Kapitel 1 Del 2

Groaning, she stirs and massages her throbbing head. Her left hand reaches for her soft blanket but instead grasps a handful of dry leaves.

Huh?

Her eyes snap open as she sits up but topples on her side, disoriented. Propping herself up with an elbow, she looks around. Her surroundings are dim and hazy, and rubbing her eyes assists her efforts to see clearer.

She is in the middle of the woods.

Getting up is difficult. She hangs onto the nearest tree branch and brushes off twigs, leaves and dirt with her free hand. She barely registers the strange silky smoothness of the material under her fingertips. She takes a step, then another and another, switching from tree to tree, stumbling over rotting branches and loose stones. Her sense of distance and balance is completely lopsided. Why am I so far from the ground?

"Helll—" She tries to call out for help but her throat contacts as if she's swallowed a handful of sand. All she can do is keep moving forward. By the time she catches sight of civilisation, the sun is almost up.

The familiarity of telephone wires running high above a strip of cleared land brings a sense of relief. Her balance steadying, she makes slow progress across the clearing and sees a row of shrubs up ahead.

Tears spring from her eyes. Enduring the exhaustion and an inexplicable feeling of homesickness, she approaches the familiar hedge. Then she hesitates, her brow furrowing. When did Pappa have time to trim the bushes? They seem lower than when she left.

Hazily dismissing the thought, she searches for the hole she crawled through earlier. But the foliage seemed to have closed itself overnight. Instead, she finds a less dense section near the end of the hedge. She'll have to crawl through this time, otherwise she'll have to enter her yard through the front gate.

She squats and tries to separate the branches. But they are stubborn. She goes on her hands and knees, bends low and instead uses her head to bore her way through the foliage. Twigs grab her hair and break off, hard ends poke into her top and scratch her back before she reaches the other side.

There is her backyard. She grips a handful of manicured lawn before getting to her feet, only to be met by a sizable vegetable garden. She stares at it, her mind not quite grasping what she sees. That wasn't there last night. Or did she miss it? But there's her favourite apple tree catching the first rays of morning, old and knotted, with the wooden swing hanging from its sturdy branches. And there is the burgundy red brickwork of her house and the back porch with the wide, wooden deck welcoming her.

Everything else becomes secondary as she smiles at the thought of safety and comfort. I am home!

She steps up on the porch to the back door and grabs the handle, expecting a give from the wedge propping the door. There is no give. She frowns and stares at the door handle that is now just above waist level. It's all wrong. Did Pappa find the wooden wedge and lock the door?