Lost in the Never Woods

by Aiden Thomas

  Wendy was left alone in her backyard, feeling like someone had ripped a hole in her gut. She couldn’t tell Jordan what was going on. She wouldn’t believe Wendy, and even if she did, Wendy would just be dragging Jordan into danger. Who was to say the shadow wouldn’t try to use Jordan against her? She hated herself for hurting her best friend like that, but she was also mad at Jordan for making her feel so guilty. Right now, the most important thing was to protect Jordan, and that included protecting her from herself.

  Wendy stomped across the yard to the back door. She went inside and slammed the sliding glass door behind her. When she turned, she saw someone standing by the sink and jumped so hard that she stumbled back.

  Mrs. Darling was standing there, dressed in her scrubs with two glasses in her hands.

  “Mom, hi,” Wendy said, breathing a heavy sigh. She paused. How long had she been there? Had she seen her and Peter coming out of the woods? Or her fight with Jordan? “When did you get home?”

  Mrs. Darling gave her a small smile as she reached up to put the glasses away in the cupboard. “Just a few minutes ago. Your father is upstairs taking a shower,” she said, drying her hands off on a tea towel. She looked past Wendy into the backyard. She smoothed her hands down the front of her shirt. “I saw that you and Jordan were talking, so I thought I shouldn’t bother you.” Her delicate eyebrows lifted. “It looked like a pretty heated discussion,” she said. The inflection in her voice posed it as a question.

  “We were fighting,” Wendy said. Frustration dug its way back under her skin.

  The corners of Mrs. Darling’s lips pulled down into a frown. “You guys don’t usually fight. That’s not normal for you two…”

  Wendy’s mom was right, of course. The biggest arguments she and Jordan usually got into were about what movie they were going to watch on Friday nights. “A lot of things aren’t normal these days,” she muttered.

  This was the closest Wendy had come to asking her mother for advice in what seemed like ages. She hardly knew how to ask anymore, and it was clear that Mrs. Darling wasn’t sure how to give it. She fiddled with the tea towel, twisting a corner around her finger. “I’m sure it’ll blow over. Maybe you two just need some time to cool off?”

  Wendy sighed. “Probably.” Though she wasn’t sure she believed that. Maybe she just needed to keep Jordan at a distance until this was all over with. For Jordan’s own sake.

  Mrs. Darling pressed her lips together. Wendy thought maybe she had something else that she wanted to say. But she just sighed and tucked a lock of stray hair behind her ear. “I was going to make grilled cheese and tomato soup,” she said. “How does that sound?”

  Wendy blinked. “Really?”

  Mrs. Darling nodded in reply.

  Usually, Wendy did all of the cooking in the house. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had cooked anything, besides reheating leftovers. Even if it was grilled cheese made with processed yellow squares, white bread, and condensed soup, it still felt … oddly domestic. “That sounds great, Mom.”

  “Great.” Mrs. Darling turned to the cupboards and pulled out a can of tomato soup. “You should probably change into some dry clothes before we eat,” she said, cutting a knowing look to Wendy.

  She looked down at herself. She was still soaked. A small puddle of water had gathered beneath her shoes.

  * * *

  A couple hours later, Wendy headed up to her room for the night, smelling of soap and with a belly full of deliciously greasy cheese. Mr. Darling had taken his dinner in his study, claiming he had work to make up after starting late today. As she and Mrs. Darling ate at the dining room table, the sound of clinking glass came from behind the door.

  Wendy’s mother liked to read while she ate dinner, with her small, square-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Tonight’s pick was The Turn of the Screw. She’d only looked up to say good night when Wendy announced she was going to bed early.

  Once in her room, Wendy threw herself onto her bed. Lying on her back, she stared up at the fairy lights. She wondered if Jordan had texted her. She dug her phone out of her pocket, but there was nothing.

  What did she expect? An apology? It wasn’t like Jordan had anything to apologize for. As much as Wendy hated to admit it, everything Jordan had accused her of was right. She was the one suddenly acting weird, and she was taking her frustrations out on Jordan. She tossed her phone onto the nightstand.

  Wendy’s mind wandered to Peter. She wondered if he was okay, secluded in the woods with the shadow gaining power with each passing moment. She grew worried, thinking about him alone in that dingy hunting shack. Maybe she should have asked him to stay. The thought made her shift uneasily. That would be awkward. Where would he sleep without her parents knowing? In her truck? That didn’t seem much better. Clearly the shadow had no problems with lurking around her driveway.

  Either way, there was nothing she could do about it tonight. She and Peter hadn’t had time to arrange a place and time to meet tomorrow because Jordan showed up, so, once again, she’d have to just wait and hope.

  Wendy’s mind kept cycling through worrying about Jordan, then Peter, then the shadow, then the missing kids, then back to Jordan, then over to Peter again.

  She needed a distraction. She dug a book out of her backpack and tried to read, but every time she’d start a sentence, her mind would wander and she would forget what she had just read and have to start the sentence all over again. After reading the same sentence five times, Wendy gave up.

  When she put the book on her nightstand, her fingers itched, twitching toward the drawer. She hesitated for a second before pulling it open and taking out the acorn. Lying back, she rolled the acorn in her palm. The longer she played with it, the warmer it seemed to get in her hand. It reminded her of how she felt when she was around Peter. It was comforting.

  That gave her an idea.

  Wendy went to her closet, got on her hands and knees, and started digging through the stack of boxes in the far corner behind her shoes. It took her a few minutes of opening lids and rifling through contents until she found what she was looking for.

  She pulled out a yellow plastic pencil box. Inside were old jewelry-making supplies that Wendy had used to make necklaces and bracelets when she was younger, most of which she only ever gave her mom and Jordan. Inside were small beads and pieces of yarn in different colors. There were spare toggles and barrel clasps, and various jump rings. She took out a silver one and a long piece of leather cord.

  Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Wendy used the supplies to fashion the acorn and leather cord into a necklace. When she put it around her neck, the acorn hung in the center of her chest, long enough to safely tuck under her shirt.

  Wendy leaned back against her pillows. Exhaustion weighed her body down, from her sore feet to the prickle of a sunburn on her forehead. The weight of the acorn felt reassuring. The warmth from where it lay against her skin seemed to radiate through her. Wendy sighed and closed her eyes. What was it about the acorn that made her feel so much more at ease? At least now she would be able to carry it around with her, and that seemed to soothe her worries enough for her to fall asleep.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Acorn

  Wendy was in Neverland. To her left, the trees at the edge of the jungle grew thick and lush. Tucked against them were a couple of crudely made huts, fashioned from branches and huge palm fronds nearly as big as she was. Above, craggy, pitched mountains reached into the clear blue sky. Waterfalls poured over cliffs, nothing but thin silver ribbons in the distance. To her left, white sandy beach kissed the vast, empty, crystal blue ocean. Small birds in vibrant neon shades chased the rolling waves in and out, digging up seashells and singing.

  Wendy sat in the sand, back in the body of her twelve-year-old self. She wore the same white leggings and she was sewing a patch into the knee with thread and a needle. The patch itself was made from a strip of thick green leaf.

  And there, just in front of
her—

  “John, you have to share the white!”

  “I’m not done with it yet! ’Sides, you’ll just spill it again.”

  “No I won’t!”

  Before her sat Michael and John. Just the way she remembered them, before they went missing in the woods.

  Michael had the same curly mess of light brown hair. Leaves were tangled in the downy locks. His face was round, his cheeks full. He had their father’s upturned nose. Michael, wearing nothing but his khaki pants torn into shorts, struggled to grab a cup of white paint that John held out of his reach.

  John sat cross-legged, with his usual carefully poised posture. He ignored Michael and continued painting with his index finger on a piece of burlap. His glasses perched on the very end of his nose as he made each stroke with careful deliberation. He still had his white button-down shirt on, though it was far worse for wear, and his dark hair was parted to the side.

  Wendy wanted to cry out, to throw herself onto her brothers and hug them but, in this memory, she had no control of her body. She could feel sobs bucking in her chest, but no sound came out. In a frenzy, her eyes flew back and forth between their faces, trying to drink in every detail, willing them to just look at her so she could see their eyes again.

  If this was a dream, it was a very cruel one.

  “Stop fighting, you two,” said Wendy’s voice from her own mouth. “There’s plenty of paint to go around. Michael, why don’t you use blue from the berries you gathered?” There was an assortment of thick liquids in small bowls fashioned from coconuts in blue, green, white, yellow, and black.

  “Because I want white!” With the last word, he lunged for John’s arm, only to have his older brother pull it away at the last second.

  Michael tumbled over.

  Wendy heard herself sigh. “You guys are making a mess of yourselves.” Indeed, there were splatters of different-colored paint on the burlap and surrounding sand. Wendy noticed a glob of red on Michael’s chest that trickled down to his bellybutton. As he laughed, John turned, and there was some on his neck, too, just below his ear. Wendy frowned.

  The crashing of leaves in the branches above caused Wendy to look up. Peter was flying—actually flying. Well, sort of. He seemed to be losing his balance and was descending at a rapid speed. He hit the ground hard on his feet, causing him to stumble forward, kicking up sand, but he recovered before he could fall.

  Wendy stood up and ran over to his side. “Peter! Are you okay?” she heard herself ask.

  No! Go back to John and Michael! She wanted to see them—she needed to see them longer than just a fleeting glance.

  “I’m fine,” Peter said, but worry was etched into his young features. He glanced in the direction of Michael and John, who she could still hear bickering behind her, before turning back to Wendy. “I got you something,” Peter said. He made a face, the one people do when they’re trying to smile, trying to reassure, but it just doesn’t sit right.

  He took her hand and placed an acorn in her palm.

  It had to be her acorn—the one that had been clasped in her hand when the park ranger discovered her in the woods, the one she hid in her jewelry box.

  The one she had fallen asleep wearing around her neck.

  Wendy cupped it gently in her small hands.

  “The fairies helped me pick it out,” Peter went on. Pink bloomed in his freckled cheeks. “It’s so that you won’t forget about me…”

  “Forget about you?” Wendy laughed. “Why would I forget about you? I’m not going anywhere!”

  Peter looked down at his bare feet.

  “Wen-dyyy,” Michael whined behind her. “I don’t feel so good.”

  Wendy turned to look at her brothers, but before she could see their faces again, shadows crashed over Wendy, flooding her vision, and plunging everything into darkness.

  * * *

  Wendy sat bolt upright in bed. Morning sun streamed in through the window. Shuddering breaths shook her body as she tried to gulp down air. She buried her face in her palms and tried to calm herself down. Her cheeks were slick with tears. A miserable pain ached through her, a pit of longing that felt like it would swallow her whole.

  John and Michael.

  She’d seen her brothers—or, at least, a memory of them. A memory that had been taken from her years ago. That had been just a big, gaping hole in her memory. This was the second time she’d remembered something from their stay in Neverland together. It was so vivid. She could smell the ocean, taste the salty air, and feel the warm sand between her toes.

  Why were her memories coming back now? Was it because of Peter? The shadow?

  Her brothers were right there. She needed to see them again. She needed to get them back. The memories felt like they were taunting her, holding her brothers hostage, just out of reach.

  If she and Peter could just find the shadow, find her brothers and the other missing kids, she could finally get John and Michael back. Everything would be okay.

  Wendy’s hand clutched the acorn hanging from her neck. It was warm to the touch. It almost felt like it was buzzing, like a hive full of bees, but very faint.

  Peter had given it to her. That was why she had held on to it so desperately, and that must have been why she had kept it for all those years. Somehow, something inside her remembered what it meant.

  Wendy frowned and tried to replay everything that had happened in her dream. Peter had looked so guilty when Wendy said she wasn’t going anywhere. Did he know, then, that something was wrong? That he would have to take her back? At what point did the shadow take her brothers, making it impossible for them to go with her?

  It’s so you won’t forget about me.

  Wendy pressed her hand to her mouth, the words repeating themselves in her head as she stared at the acorn.

  The last time Wendy had gotten one of her memories back, she had fallen asleep with the acorn in her hand. She turned it between her fingers. Was this the key? Was the acorn the secret to getting her memories back?

  She needed to find Peter and ask him.

  After a quick shower, Wendy pulled on a pair of jean shorts and a loose-fitting white tank top to combat the heat. This time, she put on a pair of old running shoes in case she and Peter ventured back into the woods. If she was going to stumble around through trees, roots, and creeks, she needed to be in the right shoes for it. The trek yesterday had left blisters on her heels and toes.

  Wendy threw her bag over her shoulder and leapt down the stairs two at a time. When she reached the ground floor, she walked into the living room and found her parents sitting on the couch next to each other, watching the TV.

  “Morning,” Wendy greeted them as she crossed the living room, trying to rub the exhaustion from her eyes.

  Her mother jumped and turned to face Wendy. One of her delicate hands was pressed to her collarbone. Her eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Her father remained still, facing forward. He gripped a mug of coffee, his knuckles white.

  There was a heaviness in the air that slowed her down. When she stepped closer, it felt like moving through quicksand. Her heartbeat thudded through her veins.

  “Mom? Dad? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Mrs. Darling said nothing but gestured toward the TV.

  Wendy looked up and shock hurtled through her chest.

  The news was on. The female anchor sat at her desk. A picture of two boys floated on the screen next to her. The older boy sat behind the younger. They were dressed in red, white, and blue. Small American flags were in their hands. Their smiles were wide and excited, sitting in their backyard for the annual Memorial Day BBQ. Wendy knew, because she had been there.

  They were the spitting image of their father.

  JOEL DAVIES, AGE 10 AND MATTHEW DAVIES, AGE 7, was written on the red marquee below their photo. The boys next door had gone missing.

  Wendy thought of quiet Mr. Davies who always seemed to look out for her. She remembered him and his wife talking to the detectives just th
e other day. Mr. Davies had looked so worried and frightened, and now his sons had been taken from him.

  A sudden wave of nausea made Wendy lightheaded. Everything around her swayed like she was on a boat. She gripped the back of the couch to keep her balance.

  Again, the missing children were connected to Wendy. They were her neighbors, boys she watched regularly, especially over the summer.

  The anchorwoman continued speaking: “The boys’ father, Donald Davies, said his sons were playing in their backyard yesterday evening when he saw them picked up by a young man who then ran into the woods behind their house. Mr. Davies said he tried to pursue but was unable to keep up. Although he wasn’t able to get a physical description of the kidnapper, police are setting up a special unit to—”

  It was silent as all three continued to stare at the TV. But they really didn’t need to. Wendy knew her parents were thinking the same thing she was: The Davies boys were the same exact ages as John and Michael when they went missing. Her brothers were friends with Joel and Matthew and had known Mr. and Mrs. Davies their entire lives. And they had gone missing in the woods behind their house, just like John and Michael had.

  For her parents, it must have been like watching the news from five years ago all over again.

  For Wendy, it was like waking up in a nightmare.

  The shadow had done this on purpose. Peter was right. It was goading her, trying to hurt her, trying to make her angry. And it was working.

  “Police have set up headquarters at the northern point of the woods. They will begin searching the woods for the Davies children, as well as the other missing children and signs of the kidnapper.”

  A map appeared on the screen with a dot indicating where the police were starting their search. It was almost directly on the other side of the woods from Wendy’s house.

  “The search-and-rescue units will be starting north and working their way south. The police have recommended that anyone living on the outskirts of the woods lock their doors and windows when they aren’t home, and keep their children under constant supervision. Anyone willing to volunteer to help with search efforts is encouraged to call…”