Its Grip is Getting Tighter

Written By: Nicholas Starr Kellogg

My name is Rubert, Rubert Bernie, and I’ve never been afraid of the woods. 

That is, I used to never be afraid of the woods, sorry, I’m doing my best. It’s been a while since putting my thoughts on paper. The task of writing has and will always be strenuous at best and with the lack of sleep I’ve been having and the fear that it’s instilled in my heart I don’t know how frantic or disillusioned this drabble may seem. 

I surely don’t want this to be perceived as the drabble from an insane man, an insane father. This is not that, it’s the truth, I swear it so. And when my wife arrives home from her shift, I’ll try my best to convince her we need to move the same as the reader.

When I was a little boy not yet turned ten, I’d bring my action figures into the woods and imagine them battling in faraway lands. 

When I was a teenager, I’d run in those same woods with my headphones in my ears and the volume turned fully up while pretending I was the lead singer and those crowds were cheering my name. 

When I was a younger man, not yet old enough to live without the support of my parents, but old and bold enough to seek out the opposite sex with instinctual ferocity, I’d bring those lucky ladies into the woods. Nothing creepy. A blanket, a picnic in the woods by a stream that was located somewhat close to my parent’s place, so I knew we’d have somewhere to go after the deed had been done. 

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always been comfortable in the woods. I’ve walked them my entire life and never felt insecure while dwelling within circumscribed boundaries of those wooden walls. That is, until yesterday. 

There’s a reservoir in my woods, and there are signs emblazoned with the words keep out, but they couldn’t stop me if they tried. I walk through these woods, wending my way around the bends and the natural conifers give me shade as I complete the ritual. I move indolently as if I have all the time in the world and that used to be the case before we had children. Rhyder was born in early fall, and I’d walk her in those woods almost every day to give her mother a break whenever our time seemed to have had the life squeezed from its neck. Next came Jane, my beautiful little girl whose skin was so pale it appeared angelic as she fell into the world and shined brightly. 

They are my girls. 

I am their father. 

And we walk in the woods every day the conniving weather permits it. 

We throw rocks in the streams as we roam. My girls will sometimes look up at the variegated clouds and tell me what their shapes aspire to be. Sometimes a storm will pass above, and we’ll hide under the trees, giggling joyfully and trying our best not to get wet but it wouldn’t be a big deal even if we had. I’m sure this all sounds like a hoot, and if I’m being honest, it’s made me smile while writing it and I’ve enjoyed the time spent doing so. 

I’m not going to enjoy the next part. 

I’ve decided to connect my fingers to my brain and divulge the reason my girls and I will not be going into the forest any longer. And if I see someone heading for the paths, I’ll yell at them to stay away. I’ve already considered getting flyers and stapling them on the trees. The trees … how does one know which ones are the bad ones? How does one know which life spreads like disease with pernicious abilities? The kinds of abilities that literally take root and attach themselves to small children walking wistfully amongst the shaded parts of the innocuous dirt paths. 

You see, the day started as most of our days do. My wife, bless her for the work she does keeping this family together. I mean it. My wife is a nurse, and she headed to work and it was time for me to show my worth by taking care of the children. In the spring, (The season it is now,) We usually do the majority of our walking in the woods. The summer bugs are still dwelling mostly underground and are few and far between. The heat and cold isn’t as temperamental as it will be starting next month, so my girls and I usually walk the trails between four and five times a week. I enjoy it, as I’ve said before I couldn’t for the longest time imagine not having that option. It feels like home. It is home. 

Anyway, we headed towards the trails and stopped at a little park on the way there. My oldest, sliding on her belly down the slide and ululating loudly like we weren’t in someone else’s neighborhood. I think that’s my favorite thing about children, ignorance, the preordained determination of fun that always seems to rule their bodies and direct them to places of the unknown. My daughter, Rhyder, always had a keen understanding of her body and an unsatiable appetite for exploring new territories. The girls played for a little bit longer before we traversed the downward trail and headed into the forest. We took our time— there were rocks that needed to be thrown at trees and logs that needed to be imagined as bridges over large chasms that the slightest misstep would lead to a deadly fall. 

My youngest, she followed her sister as if she were the sun. And I walked while watching longingly at the life I’ve helped bring into the world. I sometimes take that for granted, I can admit that in these words, but not usually with my tongue. And when I look to my right while I’m walking behind our little girl’s I can sometimes see Amy’s silhouette walking next to me. I know I should tell her, but I probably won’t. That’s my cross to bear. 

We moved at our normal leisurely pace until ending up where the journey usually ended. A little stream about a half mile into the woods. There are frogs in the summer, sometimes in the spring but it’d been too cold the night before for me to think we’d have any such luck. My oldest, standing on a large rock with an even bigger stick, pretending she was catching fish that were made of leaves. Jane held my hand and picked up tiny pebbles as she always does and tossed them into the stream. Allowing the mud to engulf her shoes and tempting fate as she stood extra close surely wondering how much slack her daddy would give her. We played for a while; nothing was out of place. It was a normal day, and it was even a blessed day because when I told my children it was time to go, they didn’t fuss. My youngest kept connected to my hand, and my oldest scouted different paths behind but stayed within my line of sight without wandering too far. 

Jane and I had made it to the clearing at the end of the path, and I patiently waited to see my oldest skipping down the trail behind us. She’d be holding a stick, or a flower, or a handful of rocks or anything that she’d try and bring inside much to her mother’s chagrin. But the seconds turned into minutes and I began getting worried. The grip in my hand tightened from Jane and I could sense she felt it too. 

We walked into the forest; I called Rhyder’s name loudly but there was no answer. Then, when we rounded the bend, I saw her standing on the edge of the timberline. 

“Dad!” She said, she didn’t sound like she was worried … she sounded like she was shocked about what was happening. “I’m stuck.” 

I shook my head. You see, all parents know not to fall into the trap of seriousness or concern when their young children claim to be stuck. They are usually full of shit, so I thought nothing of it and almost turned back towards the road with my youngest slightly infuriated. 

“Shake your arm!” I said, and I sounded abrasive. I needed to get home and make the girl’s dinner, and I had some work left over from earlier that was in desperate need of attention. “Shake it lose.”

I watched my little girl try. She tried hard, jumping up and down and twirling as though she were at Dance rather than the woods with her sister and old man. 

“Dad!” She said, “It’s grip is getting tighter.”

Its grip is getting tighter. Has anyone ever muttered such a scarier phrase?

The hair on the back of my neck erected and began to bite my skin. I picked up my youngest because that’s all I could think of doing. Even though she’d surely handicap me if I needed to fight. Its grip was getting tighter. I ran towards my daughter who was now on her knees still desperately trying to dislodge herself from some unforeseen foe. 

When I approached, I believed she was still only attached to a tree. I believed that she’d only misspoken and the sheer tenebrific connotation of my daughter’s statement was misaligned. But then, while holding Jane in one arm, close to my heart, and reaching my other arm down to touch the wrist that’d been snagged by the forest, I saw the wooden hand. 

It wasn’t a branch.

It wasn’t a root. 

It was a hand. 

The kind of hand that humans have, only it was made of wood. And before I ripped away at it, I looked to see what the wooden hand was attached to.

My eyes popped from my skull in sheer terror as I found the answer to the question I needed answered. A wooden face, glowering at me with a slavering façade. It had my little girl, and the grip was getting tighter. 

I rammed myself forward, using my free shoulder and throwing all my weight into the wooden man, sending him backwards and separating his arm slightly before bringing my knee down on it like I was creating a piece of firewood. The man didn’t scream. 

The arm of the man snapped, but the hand’s grip remained on my daughter’s wrist despite her being free. 

“Run!” I yelled and the three of us made our way towards the street while the forest came alive around us. Sticks snapped, leaves fell as though the entire forest was being shaken like a snow globe. There were high pitched squeals and slight inhuman clicks amongst the trees from highest peak to the lowest dirt. My daughter’s held onto me as I carried them both against my chest and we spilled out onto the sidewalk where we almost fell into a dog being walked by one of our neighbors. 

She looked at me, fear on her face and knelt beside the three of us, “Are you alright?” She asked as her dog barked incessantly into the woods at what’d been chasing us. 

“Fine.” I said, over my crying little girls, “We just got a little spooked, that’s all.” I didn’t want everyone in the neighborhood to think I was some lunatic. 

When we arrived back home, my youngest went to bed on my lap as I examined the hand on my oldest daughter’s arm. Its grip was tight, but I used a little knife to cut the fingers and remove it from her poor, punctured skin. She smiled when it was finally off and the two of us watched a movie— she’s too young to discuss what we witnessed out there in those woods. Hell, I don’t even know what we witnessed and I’m sure as shit going to have a hard time explaining it to Amy when she gets home from her shift. 

We will be moving though, I can guarantee you that. 

The wooden hand is sitting on my kitchen table and I’m awaiting my wife’s arrival because there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going to sleep tonight. I’ve been drinking bourbon, the good stuff, the kind of stuff one drinks at the end of the world because there isn’t a point not to. I hadn’t had a glass of it since Jane was born but I suppose this is as good of a time as any to start up once more.

I can’t help but stare into the backyard. 

The trees are moving unnaturally, and it appears they are closer to the back porch than normal. I hope they don’t have any hard feelings over the hand— and I sure hope they don’t know how to unlock doors. 

Nicholas Kellogg weaves chilling tales from his home in Connecticut, where he lives with his partner and balances fatherhood, with two toddlers under five and a full-time job. Early morning prior to work, he creates nightmares while many are still having them. Drawing inspiration from the eerie realities of everyday life while exploring the darkness beneath the ordinary.
He has recently signed a traditional publishing contract for his debut novel Green, with Wicked Tales, an Imprint of DAOwen Publications.
Nicholas Starr Kellogg - Author Website