Lost in the Never Woods

by Aiden Thomas

  She leapt from bed, ran into the hall, and stopped at the top of the stairs, perched on her tiptoes. Where did he go? Wendy’s heart raced and she struggled to form a coherent plan. She was about to run down the stairs, to see if maybe—hopefully—he’d just gone to the kitchen for a drink of water, when she heard a soft noise behind her.

  Wendy spun around. She expected the shadow to be standing there, waiting for her, but the hallway was empty. Just the locked door to her old room. She heard the noise again. This time, she could tell it was coming from behind the door. Again, she glanced around. The sound of her own breathing felt deafening in the quiet hallway.

  Slowly, she stepped closer. Anticipation tingled in her fingers, like she was breaking a sacred, unspoken rule. Carefully, she leaned her ear against the door.

  There were voices coming from the other side. The quiet murmurings from the woods. The same whispers that had followed her when she was chasing Alex, the same ones she heard coming from the tree. They were on the other side of the door, whispering to her. They grew louder, clearer.

  Wendy pressed her ear to the doorjamb. For a long moment, there was only silence. Had she been imagining it? Maybe she was just—

  Wendy.

  The voice hissed right into her ear with such sudden nearness, Wendy leapt back. Her breath caught in her throat and a thrill ran up her spine. Hope swirled in her chest, dangerous and sharp. Wendy’s eyebrows tipped as she pressed her fingers lightly to the cold wood. If she could just open the door, she could hear what the voices were saying, she could understand them.

  Her mother’s voice floated down the hall. Wendy jumped. She glanced in the direction of her parents’ room before turning back to the locked door.

  The voices behind the door had gone silent.

  Wendy’s hand fell back to her side. The hope drained out of her, all the way to her bare toes. Embarrassment flared on her neck. She turned her back to the bedroom door and shook her head at herself. She rubbed her nose on the back of her hand. She really needed to get a grip.

  Again, her mother’s faint voice tickled her ears.

  Wendy crept down the hallway to her parents’ room. The door was cracked open and she could clearly hear her mother speaking.

  “Are you all right, my darlings?” she gently cooed. Wendy’s grip on the doorframe tightened. Her mother was just talking in her sleep again. “You aren’t hurt?”

  “Of course not, Mommy.”

  Wendy froze. Her heart lodged in her throat.

  She knew that voice. That was her brother Michael, so soft and always on the verge of laughter. She could hear the smile in his voice.

  “I would never let anything happen to Michael, you know that.” And that was John. His voice was distinct. He always sounded much older than he was, like he was impersonating their father’s timbre, always speaking in absolutes. Wendy could picture him pushing his glasses up on his nose by nudging the lower corner with a knuckle.

  It was John and Michael. They were just on the other side of the door. They were here, they had come back.

  Wendy pushed the door open silently, fingers trembling, eyes wide.

  But what she saw didn’t make sense.

  Her mother lay in bed, her eyes closed. Her brow puckered and her lips were parted. The edges pulled down in a way that made her look like she was in pain.

  And there, perched on the dresser next to her mother’s side, was Peter.

  He sat cross-legged, looking down at Mrs. Darling with his hands in his lap. The moonlight coming in the window glanced off the side of his face in silvery silhouette. His head was bowed, as if in prayer, and his eyelids drooped. The shadows caught the heaviness of his brow, painting the circles under his eyes an even darker shade of blue. His thumb massaged the center of his palm.

  “Are you frightened?” Mrs. Darling said.

  Peter’s lips parted, his tongue wet his bottom lip, and John’s voice flowed out. “Not at all. Try not to worry about us,” he said.

  “Yes, we’ve got each other.” Peter spoke with Michael’s voice. “We’re safe.”

  Safe.

  Wendy felt as though the world had disappeared beneath her feet. She couldn’t understand what she was seeing. Her fingers dug into the wall to balance herself.

  Her mother’s face began to relax. “I miss you both so much…”

  “We miss you, too, Mommy,” Peter said in Michael’s voice.

  “We think about you all the time,” he added in John’s.

  A small smile began to form on Mrs. Darling’s lips. “I love you so much, my sweet boys…” She rolled onto her side and pulled her pillow close.

  Peter sat there silently for a moment. There was something about the way he looked at her mother that made Wendy ache. He shouldered her grief like it was his own. Propping his elbows on his knees, Peter buried his face in his hands, pushing his fingers through his hair. He looked so small. Young and exhausted.

  Wendy stepped carefully into the room. “Peter?” she whispered.

  Startled, he looked up. The moonlight gave his surprised face a ghostly pallor. Streaks glistened on his cheeks. Peter jumped down from the dresser, quickly wiping the heel of his hand across his eyes.

  For a long moment, Wendy didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t make sense of what she had just seen, or maybe she just didn’t want to. Hope had been ripped from her so quickly, she was still reeling. “What are you doing?” Wendy finally asked, wrapping her arms tightly around her middle.

  Peter lowered his head. He flicked a glance back at Mrs. Darling before meeting Wendy’s confused stare. His shoulders rolled in an uncertain shrug. “Trying to help,” he said. His voice was low and hollow. Resigned.

  Wendy’s brow furrowed and she gave a small, confused shake of her head.

  He stepped closer and spoke quietly, so as to not wake up her mother. “I … after I brought you back, sometimes I would come and check on you. You know, to make sure my shadow hadn’t found you…” He rubbed the back of his neck. If the light were on, would she see him blushing? “One night, I heard your mom talking in her sleep. I thought … I thought that if I could speak to her with their voices, try to reassure her, she wouldn’t be in so much pain?” His brilliant blue eyes searched hers.

  Wendy thought back to when she had first come back home, after Peter left her in the woods and she had been released from the hospital. She remembered how she’d thought she heard her mother talking to her brothers. She’d felt that same rush in her stomach, the desperate sense of relief.

  “That was you?” she asked.

  Peter’s eyes fell to the floor and he nodded. His mouth twisted into a grimace and a crease formed between his eyebrows. Everything about his posture looked like he was bracing himself.

  Wendy pressed her fingers to her lips. Even then, Peter had been trying to look out for her, and her mother. He was always trying to take care of people, to ease their suffering and bring them happiness, whatever way he could.

  “How do you manage it?” Wendy asked with a small shake of her head. “How do you take all of that on yourself?” She stepped closer, closing the space between them.

  Peter stilled. “My magic used to make it easier,” he told her, still looking at the floor. “It takes more of a toll now…”

  “If you’re busy taking care of everyone else, who takes care of you?” Wendy asked.

  Peter finally looked up at her, surprised.

  She didn’t think he had an answer.

  Wendy reached out, lightly touching the skin just below the corner of his jaw.

  A sigh smoothed out the tense lines in his face. He tilted his head, pressing his cheek into her palm, his skin soft and warm.

  How many times had he gone through this? How many people had he helped? What terrible things had he witnessed? What had he sacrificed to protect others?

  Wendy motioned for him to follow her. She led him back into her room and closed the door with a quiet click behind them. Wendy sat on her bed
but Peter went back to his sleeping bag on the floor.

  “Do you have a choice?” she asked. Her voice seemed loud in the dimly lit room.

  “No—but it’s not a burden,” he told her as he lay out, clasping his hands on his ribs and staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t expect you to understand. There’s some things that just don’t have a cut-and-dried explanation.” He paused to consider his words. “It’s what I exist for,” he said after some thought. “I’ll do whatever I need to stop my shadow and save those kids, to keep other kids safe.”

  Wendy didn’t know what to say. Peter took care of people, from the way he interacted with Alex at the hospital or Cassidy across the street, to soothing her mother with John and Michael’s voices in her sleep. He found lost children, took away their fear, and gave them a home in Neverland.

  Peter rolled onto his side, hands twisting the pillow under his head.

  What was it like to be him? To prioritize everyone else’s happiness, to bring other people joy, even if it meant suffering himself?

  Wendy rolled over and inched to the edge of her mattress. She couldn’t see him, but she reached a hand down and felt his shoulder. She brushed her fingertips along his arm until they found his hand. Her fingers hooked around his and she gave them a gentle squeeze.

  For a moment she lay there, holding her breath. Then Peter tightened his hand around hers. The acorn around her neck pulsed bright.

  When she woke up the next morning, her hand was empty.

  * * *

  Her sleeping bag was rolled up tight, but the straps were put on the wrong way, making it lopsided. This was clearly the handiwork of Peter, so she didn’t worry about where he was. He probably just woke up early and—judging by the fact that no parent had barged in demanding what she was doing with a boy in the house—snuck out without her mother or father seeing.

  On her way down to the kitchen, she saw that the door to her parents’ room was closed. When she got downstairs, Mrs. Darling stood at the stove cooking eggs.

  On the counter sat a stack of toast, a bottle of orange juice, and a bowl of fruit. Wendy’s jaw went slack.

  “You’re cooking breakfast?” This was a rare thing that only happened on birthdays, and even then, it was Wendy who did the cooking. Usually, breakfast consisted of cereal or a granola bar.

  Mrs. Darling looked at her from over her shoulder. “Good morning,” she said with a smile. An actual smile, not one of those fake ones she usually forced. “I woke up and decided that eggs and toast sounded like a good idea. They were supposed to be fried eggs.” She frowned down at the pan. “But I broke the yolks, so I sort of just”—she twirled the spatula—“turned them into scrambled eggs.”

  Wendy crossed the kitchen and openly stared at her mother. Her hair was down. Wendy never saw her mother with her hair down. It was always in a knot at the top of her head, even after she had just taken a shower. But here it was, down! It was a warm, light brown that pooled in loose ringlets to the middle of her back.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Wendy asked, a small laugh escaping her.

  “I feel fine,” Mrs. Darling said. She gave Wendy another smile at she stirred the eggs again. “I feel really good, actually. I slept so well last night. I hardly remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.”

  Peter.

  Wendy snatched a piece of toast and took a huge bite. With a big yawn, Wendy slumped into a chair at the small dining table and watched her mother as she cooked. How strange it was to see her like this, so conventional and domestic. It was unsettling, but more … surprising, even a bit nice. There was a weird buzz in Wendy’s head that she couldn’t quite define, something like a rush of excitement and a soothing warmth.

  Wendy shook her head and took another large bite of toast. Her mother cooking breakfast really shouldn’t make her feel so sentimental, but here she was, looking away to ease the squeezing feeling in her chest.

  Unfortunately, the television was the closest point of distraction. And, again, the news was on. The same pictures of Benjamin Lane, Ashley Ford, Alex Forestay, and now Joel and Matthew Davies were grouped together over footage of volunteers and officers trekking through the woods.

  The large bite of toast in her mouth was dry and stuck in Wendy’s throat as she tried to swallow. She stared at the images, letting them wash her with guilt. She needed to do something. She needed to get them back. It wasn’t just her brothers who were relying on her. If Wendy failed, there were dozens of people whose lives would be destroyed. Not just the missing kids, but their friends and especially their families. Wendy would not have wished the unrelenting suffering and gradual destruction of losing a loved one—of not knowing what became of them, helpless to get them back—on her worst enemy.

  She didn’t want others to go through what had been done to her family. It was because of Wendy that her family had been pulled apart, that her parents had lost their sons and been haunted by it for the past several years. She wouldn’t be the reason that loss and suffering spread to others. She would fix what had happened. She would find her brothers, and the other missing children, and she would bring them back. Failure was not an option.

  The television screen went black. Wendy blinked up at her mother as she set the remote on the table, and then a plate of burned eggs in front of Wendy. Her eyes stung as she watched her mother sit in the chair beside her. The small, sad smile had returned.

  With effort, she swallowed down the toast, but it did little to relieve the tightness in her throat. “I just wish I could help—I wish I could remember.” The words were strained, toppling from Wendy’s mouth before she could think better of it.

  The smallest flinch crossed her mother’s delicate features.

  Wendy swallowed hard again. “If I could remember what happened, I could help, we could find John and Michael—” Her voice wouldn’t let her continue as the tremor in her chest stirred.

  Wendy’s mother let out a gentle sigh, a soft melodic sound, like the start of a lullaby. “Oh, darling,” she said, her eyebrows tipped with worry.

  Wendy sucked in her lips between her teeth. How ridiculous was she? To be ruining a good morning with an outburst like that? Heat flared in her cheeks. She was embarrassed to be acting like this in front of her mother, who probably thought Wendy was on the verge of another mental breakdown. It wasn’t fair of her to be even more of a burden with everything else that was going on.

  “The mind is a complicated thing,” Mrs. Darling said, considering her words as she spoke. “Sometimes it acts on its own, and quite often it controls us against our will. And I think, sometimes…” she said as she reached out and tucked a bit of Wendy’s short hair behind her ear. The light brush of her cold fingertips against Wendy’s cheek was fleeting but electric. “It takes us away, maybe not when we want it, but when we need it.”

  Wendy thought of her mother sleeping, of the dreams and nightmares her mind used to pull her through at night. Of what happened in her subconscious that made her talk in her sleep, and then of Peter, coaxing her through the worst of it. How her mother’s pained expression had relaxed into one of peace.

  Wendy sniffled noisily as she dragged the back of her hand across her nose.

  Her mother’s hands had retreated back to her lap. “You should eat before it gets cold,” she told Wendy after a long pause.

  Taking a large bite of burned eggs was the only response Wendy could come up with. It was bitter, but not terrible. She wouldn’t mind eating a bit of charred food every meal if her mother made it.

  “Your father got home just a couple of hours ago,” Mrs. Darling continued. “He’s upstairs sleeping, so let’s try not to wake him up while we’re cleaning.”

  “Cleaning?” Wendy repeated through a mouthful of food.

  “Yes, cleaning. You don’t have any plans today, right?”

  “Uhh,” Wendy stalled. She couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough that didn’t involve Peter.

  “Good, then you’re free to help,”
Mrs. Darling said, plopping a mound of scrambled eggs onto a plate for herself. “You can start with the laundry while I clean up the kitchen, and then we can both work on the living room.”

  Wendy sat down heavily at the table. “Greeeat,” she muttered. Since when did her mother care about cleaning? Usually it was Wendy who picked up around the house. Sure, not a lot of chores had gotten done lately, but she had a good reason for it. Of course, now her mother wanted to get involved.

  Meeting up with Peter would have to wait until she’d cleaned enough to satisfy her mother or Mrs. Darling went to work. Wendy looked down at her hand. Waiting to be able to see him again was not going to be fun. She had a feeling the day was going to drag on.

  And drag on it did.

  When she went to throw a load of laundry in the washing machine, she saw that Peter’s clothes were gone. She checked the dryer and it was also empty. Well, at least he wasn’t out walking around in her shirt and gym shorts that didn’t fit him, but did that mean he’d left in wet clothes?

  Wendy tossed out all the old magazines her mom had brought home from work to read, put abandoned mugs in the dishwasher, and wiped down the top of the TV and entertainment unit.

  “Could you clean out the garbage from your father’s study?” Mrs. Darling asked as she washed her hands clean of dust in the kitchen sink.

  Wendy glanced at the closed door. “Uh…” Really? She wanted Wendy to go into the study? “Sure,” Wendy said hesitantly. She got a garbage bag and paused at the door. She had never been explicitly forbidden from going inside, but it was always off limits, another unspoken rule of the house. It was her father’s cave, where he’d go to hibernate away from his family and the real world with a bottle of scotch.

  Wendy pushed the door open and stepped inside. It was a lot cleaner than she’d expected. Two of the walls were painted emerald green and the others were completely filled with shelves of books, but not the good kind of books that Wendy and her mother liked to read. They were old, tattered things with peeling covers, or newer paperbacks about accounting. There was even a particularly archaic set of encyclopedias. Wendy was pretty certain they didn’t make those anymore.