Off the Appalachian

Dorian swore as his backpack snagged on an overhanging thicket of brambles. He pulled at the bag's straps, hoping to dislodge it, but when he heard the sound of popping seams he paused, sighing. He unslung the bag from his back and began to work at the brambles by hand, thinking over his situation.

Something was not right. He had hiked more than half the Appalachian Trail over the past few years, and while certain parts had been more overgrown than others, he had never encountered a section like this.

All morning the trail had narrowed, encroached upon by weeds and creepers, until only a faint depression in the forest floor indicated its presence. Worse still, the trail markers, small guiding squares painted onto nearby trees, had been absent for miles. Had he not felt so sure of his sense of direction, he would have turned back hours ago.

Pulling out the last barb, Dorian turned his bag over and inspected the damage. Holes dotted most of the bag's material, and the straps that held his tent in place had begun to fray, pulled loose by the grabbing thorns. The stitching, however, was undamaged. He shucked the bag back onto his shoulders, pulling at the straps to readjust the weight. He started off once again.

An hour later, he stopped.

"This can't be right," he said.

It was past midday, and he had still not seen any sign he was heading in the right direction. Pride had driven him this far, but with each step the prospect of spending the night in the thickets loomed larger.

He chose a tree in the distance as a marker.

"If I don't see anything by then, I'll turn back."

He had not covered half of the distance to his marker when he spotted, up ahead, a gash in the tree line; a shining coin of light against the gloom of the canopy. He quickened his pace, feeling vindicated as he wondered why he had doubted himself.

Suddenly, he stiffened, the chill of gooseflesh running down his arms. He turned to his left, eyes wide and searching. His legs began to tremble. But, as he scanned the forest, he saw nothing out of place.

He became aware he was holding his breath and let it out in a long sigh, scolding himself for his skittishness. Still, the intensity of the sensation hung over him, inexplicable.

He moved towards the gash, looking over his shoulder once to assure himself he was not being followed.

When Dorian breached the parted trees, he was met with disappointment. He stood at the edge of a clearing, twenty yards wide and long. Opposite him was a rotting house. It's roof was tin; rusted and sunken-in where the supports underneath had rotted away. The walls were little more than wood planks affixed to beams. The gaps between the planks were filled with mud and newspaper.

Dorian believed the house had at one point been whitewashed, but age, and the elements, had soiled the bright white to a dismal gray, save for where the drainage from the roof above left long, orange streaks. A short series of steps led up to a porch and a wooden door. A rusted metal chimney jutted clumsily from the house's side, billowing white smoke. Dorian realized somebody was inside.

With this knowledge came a sudden awareness of his own isolation. He was at least eight miles from where he should be, or where anybody would look for him.

The thought made him uneasy. He had no reason to believe whoever was inside the house was a danger to him, but he also felt certain his presence would not be appreciated. He dreaded the idea of passing back through the ocean of shrubs, but he could not see a way forward and he had already lost a day's time. He could not afford more delays.