Stalk the Moon

by Jessica Lynch

  And now he’s freaking out.

  I don’t like how nervous he’s making me. I hesitate before extending my hand out for him to sniff.

  “Hey, bud. It’s just me. What’s wrong?”

  Dudley bumps his head against my hand. Despite the way he keeps on hissing intermittently, I can feel the soft rumble of his purr underneath. He isn’t turning on me, which is good, but something has definitely spooked him. He keeps jerking his head toward the mirror. The hissing grows louder.

  I have an idea. I tiptoe around him, careful not to startle him. Wrapping my blanket around me, I lean down and lift up his bed. It won’t kill me to sleep on the couch. If Dudley hates the mirror so much, I’ll deal with it in the morning. My first priority is to calm him down.

  “C’mon, Dud. Let’s go to the kitchen. Maybe a can of tuna will make you feel better.”

  My Dudley is a smart one. He knows the word tuna. His triangle-shaped ears perk up and I decide that I have his attention. Straightening up, I rub my fingers together as a gesture for him to come.

  I don’t know what went wrong. Dudley takes a few uneasy steps toward me before hissing again, his ears flat against his head. He lifts his front paw and bats in the direction of my new mirror again, as if he’s trying to box the back of my reflection now.

  I start to turn around to check what’s spooked him this time when, out of nowhere, Dudley charges.

  He darts right at me, his bulk ramming into my ankle and throwing me off the balance I usually prize. My arms spin like pinwheels as I try desperately to right myself. I already know I’m fighting a losing battle. Dudley is twenty pounds of solid muscle—I refuse to call him fat if he’s only hefty—and I top a hundred and ten pounds if I’m lucky.

  Balance, schmalance. I totally jinxed myself before with the slippers. Shout out ‘timber’ because I’m going down. I just hope Dud skids out of the way in time so I don’t land on him.

  My last thought before I drop is for my mirror. I can’t control my fall. I try twisting but there’s no way I’m not going to hit the glass first.

  I really, really hope I don’t smash it. I don’t think I can take seven years bad luck.

  4

  I never hit. I mean, not exactly. No smash, though I’m definitely falling somewhere.

  The mirror glass isn’t glass—it’s friggin’ water or something, I don’t know. I slip right through it, tumbling forward.

  It’s like I’m falling forever even if the logical part of my brain tells me it’s only seconds since Dudley knocked me into the mirror. Or through it. Maybe. I’m kind of fuzzy on that point.

  Before I can scream, I land on my hands and knees, letting out a soft “ooph” when I hit. I immediately roll onto my back, my chest heaving as I suck in my breath.

  The air is heavy, filled with musk and moisture. Damp grass pinches my bare arms and my calves. A canopy of tree leaves stretches high over my head. Through the gaps between eerily thin branches, the night sky is purple and glitters with thousands of twinkling stars.

  Holy shit.

  I’m outside. And not just outside—I’m in the woods. How is that possible? There aren’t any woods within ten miles of my condo and something tells me these are real woods. The industrial stink of my nice, safe, recognizable New Jersey suburb has been replaced by something crisp and fresh and a tad bit… muddy?

  Okay. If I haven’t managed to fall behind my home—the stink of day-old garbage and roasted garlic is too noticeable to miss—then that leaves one question: Where the hell am I?

  Lying on my back, lost and confused and utterly helpless… it isn’t the smartest move. With a grunt, I pull myself to my feet, wiping my hands against each other and then knocking stray blades of grass from my stained knees.

  I do a double-take when I see my knees.

  I’m still wearing my nightgown and nothing else. Okay. That hasn't changed. My feet are bare. Cold mud squelches between my toes when I wiggle them. I jump and land in a pile of moss. I wipe my feet, though it’s pointless. Patches of dirt and puddles of mud surround me.

  Hey, at least there isn’t any snow.

  I shake my head. There’s no denying this is happening. I think back to the last thing I remember. My cat was acting strangely and then I tripped on him. I fell through the mirror. Did he follow me?

  I click my tongue. “Dudley? Dud, buddy?” I snap my fingers. The sound echoes in the empty forest. “Hey. I got tuna.”

  Nothing. That should’ve worked, too.

  I don’t know if I’m relieved or not that Dud’s not here. I doubt I’d be able to hold onto my stray cat out in the woods. Still, I would’ve liked the company.

  I turn around slowly, taking it all in. My nightgown flares out behind me as I spin. I’m definitely alone. Not to mention stranded in a forest that smells of musk and mud, with a chill breeze that reminds me I'm dressed for bed. Dandelions dot the patchy grass, bravely trying to stake their claim. Wide, arching branches shield the sky, allowing a small trickle of moonlight in for me to see by.

  Something shimmers and I freeze.

  Okay. Now, what was that?

  I know it might be reckless. That doesn’t stop me. I draw up close to the shimmering shape. It’s a square, roughly the size of my iPad. It ripples like a pond does after you throw a lucky penny in. But that’s not what catches my attention. The gloomy forest is made up of dark earthy colors: black, brown, mossy green. The pale pink definitely sticks out.

  My room. My walls are that color. Squinting, I lean in and make out some details. The white blob on the floor is my new blanket. My bed is there, except it’s on the wrong side. So is my desk. In the wrong corner, sitting on my dresser, I see Dudley lazily licking his paw and grooming his torn ear. It’s the opposite ear.

  Duh. Of course, everything is reversed. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that I’m peeking into my bedroom through the other side of that damn mirror. And if bumping into the mirror brought me here, this has to be my ticket back.

  My fingers pause when only an inch separates them from the wavering pink square. A shiver runs up my spine. All of my senses are suddenly on alert. Coming from my left, I hear the snapping of twigs and the trampling of scattered debris that litters the floor of this forest.

  Someone is coming.

  My heart starts to pound. I tune it out, tensing as I listen closely. No. Not someone. Something. There are far too many legs for it to belong to a person.

  I could’ve touched the hazy window that shows me my bedroom. Dud is right there. Home is right there. Only a couple of inches away. I could have gone home and then everything would’ve changed. But I’ll never know if it would’ve worked because I don’t reach for it.

  Instead, I turn around.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe.

  Legs. Big legs. Too many legs. Claws. Pointy claws. Poison.

  Okay then.

  I look this big ass, monster-looking thing in its very hungry eyes for a single second, strangle my scream, and take off like a fucking shot. I’m gone. It doesn’t matter that I’m barefoot. Sticks and pebbles, acorns and rocks—they all poke and cut my flesh and, holy shit, please don’t let me be leaving a blood trail for that creature to follow.

  I crash through the forest, running as fast as I can. I’m not going for grace—this is all about speed. I dodge trees, slip on damp patches of grass, and nearly face-plant when I land awkwardly in a rabbit hole. I’m so focused on running away without turning to look behind me, I’m not watching where I’m going. I ignore the slight twinge in my ankle. I refuse to be monster chow. I right myself, shake it off, and pour on the rest of my energy.

  The trees start to thin out. Finally, some luck. The space makes it easier for me to navigate—only that means the monster has some advantage now, too. It’s catching up. I know it is. Okay. Running’s out. I need a new plan.

  I reach a wide clearing and stop, my hands bracing my knees as I hunch over, panting. Sweat slicks most of my hair to my forehead and my nec
k. The rest of it is tangled in one big, dark knot. My heart’s hammering inside my chest. The stitch in my side is so sharp, I feel like I’ve been stabbed.

  My breath comes out in a rough wheeze. It’s loud as hell, and I can still hear that thing coming after me.

  My feet are on fire. The instep on my right foot throbs so bad, I know it’s got to be worse than a tiny nick or bruise. A branch must’ve snagged my nightgown because there’s a tear in one of the cap sleeves and a long scratch down my arm. The stitch in my side reminds me how out of shape I am. God, it hurts to breathe.

  Okay. One pain at a time. I can’t do anything for my feet, but I put my hand on my side and begin to rub.

  Two seconds later, when my poor brain catches up to the messages my eyes are sending it, I do another double-take. Then I blink once, twice, and stare at my arm. I know I’m pale, and my white nightgown isn’t doing me any favors, but this is really, really weird.

  A faint silver aura clings to my skin. Holy shit. I’m glowing.

  I stretch my other arm out, wiggling my fingers. They leave an incandescent trail against the blackness of night where I move them. As I stare in disbelief, my skin glows even brighter.

  Seriously?

  Well, there goes Plan A. Hiding is definitely out.

  Now if only I had a Plan B.

  I don’t waste time worrying about my newfound sparkle. I decide it’s some kind of refraction, maybe moonlight bouncing off of the trees, bathing me in this weird glow. It has to be because I don’t have any other explanation. I'm still working on trying to figure out how I ended up out in the woods in the first place.

  And that isn't even the biggest worry I have. Nope. That crazy thing chasing me is.

  One problem at a time. First: escape the monster. Unfortunately, that’s going to be pretty hard now that I’m glowing like a damn beacon for it.

  On the really slim chance I survive that thing and actually make it back home, I’m smashing the mirror first chance I get. Swear you’ll use it, he said. Ha! Seven years bad luck would be worth it.

  My mind is racing. I’m bouncing on the tips of my battered feet, adrenaline rushing through me, not quite sure what I’m going to do. That thing is getting closer. I know it. And I know I can’t outrun it.

  I only got one quick horrified glance at the creature before my flight instinct kicked in. It’s enough. I know what it’s supposed to be. It’s a friggin’ scorpion. So what if I’m a Jersey girl who’s never gone south of Delaware? I know what a scorpion looks like and that thing, with its eight legs and a pointed stinger on its curved tail, is a scorpion.

  But it’s not a normal scorpion. Oh, no. Of course not. If I had shoes on, I could stomp flat a regular-sized scorpion. There aren’t boots big enough for the sucker I saw. Five feet long, three feet wide and tall enough to come up to my belly button, this creepy bastard is a giant scorpion.

  Okay. I think I’ve got a backup plan. At least, I hope so.

  Later on, when the adrenaline worked its way out of my system and my sanity finally returned, I still didn’t know where I came up with my plan. I acted on pure instinct.

  Lunging forward, I grab a fallen branch sticking out of the slick grass. It’s about a foot and a half long, thick and sturdy. The branch is split in two at the end, like a fondue fork. As a weapon, it’s the best I got.

  Spinning around, I face off against the monster as it bursts into the clearing. It hisses and rears back when it realizes that its prey has grown a spine and is playing at being a predator.

  It won’t stay still for long. I get a better look at the creature while I can.

  The giant scorpion is a dark brownish red everywhere except its eyes, which are black, beady, and the size of an apple. A pair of claws come up from its front half; they’re even darker, more discolored, like they’ve been dipped in blood and left to dry.

  I really hope that’s not what happened.

  Its back half is even more dangerous. The stinger, terrifying. There’s enough venom in a regular scorpion’s stinger to take out a man twice my size. Considering the stinger on this monster is as long as my arm, I know I have to stay away.

  The length of the branch is as near to that thing as I’m willing to get. If the scorpion gets too close, I’ll have to attack whether I want to or not.

  And I definitely do not.

  I hold my breath. The scorpion lifts its tail high, aiming its stinger. Or maybe it’s just showing it off. Yes, yes. Nice stinger. Now keep it the hell away from me.

  It doesn’t listen. How inconsiderate.

  Like that, the spell is broken. Its watery black eyes burn a vivid ruby red as it comes after me again. It doesn’t know what to expect from me, so its initial approach is cautious. It has only eight legs—though it seems like more—and it moves each one separately, forward and then back again, as if gauging if it really wants to come at me.

  I lean forward, dancing on my tippytoes. I have to be ready to go as soon as the monster decides to make its move. Taking off too early guarantees it will chase me. I need to be able to defend myself.

  Snapping its claws in warning, the scorpion lumbers forward. I know from earlier that it can go much faster than that. It’s hesitating now. Something has thrown it off guard.

  Maybe it’s how I’m glowing like I’m my own personal nightlight. If I hadn’t already used up my “holy shit” quota, I might be a little more worried about the whole glowing thing.

  Oh, well. No time for that now.

  Jumping to the side and out of its reach, I jab my branch at the scorpion as it passes me. The plates protecting the scorpion’s sides and back are like armor. I hardly hit it when the wood snaps, leaving me with a pointed stick and no clue what to do with it.

  Okay. So that’s not going to work. Like running, stabbing is also out.

  The scorpion takes offense to me trying to run it through with my branch. All I did was tap its side before it awkwardly wheels around and charges right back at me.

  It knows better now. I’m not a threat. I’m a snack.

  There’s no going back. The monster is big and ungainly, but it’s also fast. As long as I keep diving out of its way, I might be able to beat it. If it comes down to a race, I’m toast. I could never outrun it. My only chance is to keep it off balance and pray I figure out some other way to take this thing down.

  Opening its maw wide, the giant scorpion lets out a hiss that puts Dud’s to shame. I fall back on my hands, watching in disgust as its mouth stretches big enough to allow something pointed and dripping green slime to slip out.

  Come on. Really? The bastard has pincers coming out of its mouth, too?

  The front end is even worse than the back. I can’t approach either side. Great. I guess that leaves me with two options: I can go under it or over it.

  Taking a deep breath as I quickly get back to my feet, I realize I can do both.

  Until I hit sixteen, my mom insisted I take gymnastics lessons up to four times a week. Considering how tiny I am, I have the right body frame for the sport, but none of the discipline necessary to succeed and I quit junior year. Ten years later, I tap into my rusty skills and pray like hell that I still have it.

  The scorpion charges at me again. Pumping my arms and legs while holding my stick tightly against my side, I run at the monster. When it’s close enough that I feel its hot breath on me, I jump like I’m doing a vault. I put as much power into it as I can, tucking my body in, knees to the chest, as I flip over the scorpion.

  I know right away that it’s too much. I land too low and, with an ooph, I fall on my ass. Ouch. Wincing, I scramble back to my feet as the scorpion realizes I’m not in front of it any longer.

  Its heavy body is bulky. The scorpion maneuvers awkwardly as it fights to turn around and come at me again.

  Over? Check. Now I’m going under.

  I time it perfectly, breaking into a run before the monster fully changes direction. As big and scary as it is, the scorpion’s not stupid. It’s lea
rning. It lifts its head, snapping its pincers, waiting for me to flip over it again.

  Yes. The way it’s reaching up makes it easier for me to launch myself feet first at the gap between its belly and the dirt.

  Rocks bite into my upper arm. Dirt rubs my bare skin like sandpaper as I slide right beneath the scorpion. My head thuds against the ground hard before I get that I need to lift my neck up. I hold my stick like it’s a sword and hope like hell this works.

  It does. The stick slices right through the scorpion’s vulnerable underbelly. Its blood is thick, black, and hot. I know that because it sprays all over me as I roll out from under the creature, dragging my stick with me.

  Rich, inky black spots dot my hands and my arms. It smears down the front of my nightgown as I roll roughly one more time before landing flat on my stomach, my nose in a patch of scratchy grass.

  My head is spinning, my whole body aching, but I can’t stop. I jump back to my feet. My face feels damp. I wipe my palm against my forehead, leaving dark grey streaks of scorpion blood against my skin.

  I’m panting. My shoulder burns from a particularly rough tumble. The rest of me has gone numb. I’m running on pure adrenaline, my every thought devoted to my prey. I let out a loud curse, squeezing my stick so tightly it nearly snaps. Damn it! It’s still coming for me. I’ve proven I won’t go down easy. Why won’t it leave me alone?

  Like a broken down car, the scorpion is leaving a dark, oily trail behind it as it stumbles purposely toward me. So I didn’t kill it. At least I slowed it down a little.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news?

  Even slower, it’s still faster than me.

  I narrow my eyes, pouring all of my focus into the hunt. I have no choice. It’s that thing or me. I can do this.

  Okay. The armor plates protect most of its body. I doubt it’s going to let me get another clear shot at its underside so going for the belly isn’t going to work.