Lingering Haze (The Elusive Strain Book 1)

by James Berardinelli

  By the light of the celestial interloper, the forest became ghostly. The lack of noise made it unnerving. Even though the temperatures remained moderate - a fact for which I was grateful - my flesh broke out in goose pimples and I shivered involuntarily. Was this normal for wherever I was, or was there something wrong here? Answering that question might go a long way toward determining my prognosis for long-term survival.

  At some point, despite my physical discomfort, I dozed off. When I opened my eyes, the moon had ascended to a point nearly directly overhead and another orb was cresting the horizon. The second source of illumination made it easier to see my surroundings - less like night and more like a dark, overcast day. If motivated, I could have resumed my travels, but I was still too tired and sore to start off and, being unfamiliar with the terrain, I felt it was best to wait until daylight. The moonlight was weak enough that it would be easy to misstep. If I became injured, especially if it was serious, I would stand no chance. No companions, no doctors, no food, no clothes, no help... that was the reality of my situation. The best way to combat it was to exercise an overabundance of caution. Not necessarily a strong suit for someone as impulsive as me but I had no choice.

  Sleep eventually returned but it was neither restful nor revitalizing – just a way to pass the long, dead minutes and hours. When I awoke in the eerie, quasi-twilight provided by the twin moons, I was bathed in sweat and shivering. Dimly recalled horrific images from a nightmare flitted through my consciousness - ugly things fueled by a malignant power that sought to pull me under the ground and devour me. When I started into wakefulness with a cry, those imaginings vanished but the fear and revulsion remained. Somehow, even unremembered, that nightmare had been more substantial than my memories of my other life, as if the dream had emerged not from the depths of my subconscious but from something altogether more concrete.

  Then, out of the corner of one eye, I saw it… movement. No more than a half-glimpse and, when I turned to look at the spot, there was nothing. I blinked several times in rapid succession to clear my vision but, no matter how hard I strained, everything was still as if in a frozen tableau. No breeze to rustle branches or tease leaves along the ground. It must have been a trick of the faint, fickle light or an afterimage of the nightmare. And yet… those explanations sounded like rationalizations. Part of my mind was sure I had seen movement, and movement meant I wasn’t alone.

  After that, sleep proved elusive. Every time I closed my eyes, I sensed something out there, watching me - silent and still in its vigilance. It could have been my imagination - the things I had experienced in the past day were enough to drive even the most sane, stable person past the point of breaking. Or it could be that my new land wasn’t as empty as I had previously suspected - except, in this case, there was reason to believe that isolation might be preferable. How I knew this, I don’t know. But whatever was out there, if there was anything, it wasn’t merely aloof, it was malign. Survival might have just gotten more complicated.

  Chapter Two: A Stalking

  It took forever for morning to arrive. The night crawled by at a pace I could only describe as painful and my inability to shut down my thinking made it more torturous. I found myself wishing I had learned the skill of meditation at some point during my 18 years but I’d viewed that capability, like other “useless proficiencies” (mathematics, for example), as better left to those with an inclination. Why bother, after all, with something boring that I’d never use in “the real world?”

  The real world. In my circumstances, what did that even mean? Stop thinking, start acting - that would have to be my catechism going forward. One decision I had made during the long night was to choose life. I’m not sure what that meant but I wasn’t going to lie down, close my eyes, and give up. I didn’t understand my situation but I could forge ahead. I could be in the moment. Maybe everything else would eventually be made clear. Maybe I’d wake up in a hospital bed somewhere. Or maybe, body and soul, I was here. Acting like it was the latter wouldn’t adversely affect me if it was the former.

  Struggling to my feet, I took stock of how I felt this morning. My body ached from having spent the night lying on a patch of cold, slightly damp moss and, although my skin’s redness had abated, I still felt a little sunburned. Thanks to my nearly all-day trek yesterday, my leg muscles hurt. No doubt doctors would claim I had overexerted myself but it’s not as if I had much choice in the matter. My foot was sore around the thorn’s entry wound and there was some redness. It was probably infected but, like the gnawing in the pit of my stomach, I had to push it aside. I would likely die of something else before sepsis killed me. Time to get moving.

  The terrors of the night - the sense of being watched, the phantom movement half-seen in the moonlight - abated with the sun’s rising. By the light of day, I felt almost ashamed of my fear. Here I was, 18 years of age, and afraid of the dark. People normally didn’t like the night because of what it hid. Here, there was nothing to hide except trees and shrubs, and those didn’t change from hour to hour regardless of whether the sun was in the sky or not.

  It hadn’t gotten as cool during the darkness as I had expected - I guess the humidity had helped to hold the heat - and it was already warming up by the time I re-started my journey. The sky wasn’t the cerulean it had been yesterday. White clouds dotted a washed-out blue. I didn’t see signs of imminent bad weather, but what did I know? Even in my “old” life, I hadn’t paid attention to the forecasts. And if a storm came, there wasn’t much I could do except hunker down and ride it out. One benefit of being naked was that it didn’t matter if I got wet. In fact, as dirty as I felt, I might welcome it.

  I had been traveling less than an hour when the feeling came back. It wasn’t as strong as it had been during the night, but it was unmistakable. I was being observed. No matter how closely I scanned the nearby terrain, I couldn’t see anything untoward. The air was becalmed so nothing was moving. Silence ruled the day as completely as it had ruled the night; I was the only source of noise. Now I knew what people meant when they referred to a “sixth sense.” This was something I hadn’t experienced before arriving here but it was as if I knew something was out there without seeing it. And it didn’t feel friendly. If there was a malignant entity out there, was it too much to hope there might also be a benign one?

  I resisted the impulse to increase my pace. Unless I could see it, unless I knew its precise location, there was no point in running. To do so would tire me out and expose me to possible injury. Better to continue at a slow, steady pace, paying more attention to the ground ahead than looking for phantoms in the trees.

  I searched around until I found a smooth, thick stick. Its primary utility would be to help with walking over rough terrain but it could double as a weapon if necessary. It bolstered my confidence to have something stout in my hands. At five feet long and perhaps two inches in diameter (my height but not my width), it was a good size. Bigger and smaller options abounded - the forest floor was littered with twigs and branches - but this one was “just right.” I thought of the Goldilocks fairy tale and, as I did, a memory awakened of me as a little girl lying in a warm, plush bed while someone read it to me.

  The next hour or so of my hike was fraught with tension. None of my regular senses detected anything unusual - no movement, no sound, no strange smells. I was on constant edge, however. A part of me recognized how irrational my fear was but I couldn’t shake the perception that I was under scrutiny, at best being studied, at worst being stalked. Several times, I stopped suddenly, crouched down, and waited in complete stillness for many minutes, scanning around me and straining my ears. Nothing. Then came the throbbing.

  It happened during one of these quick pauses. The ground here was muddy with the shade of an unusually large tree having prevented the sun from baking it. My toes sank just beneath the surface, relishing the cool mushiness and, although my eyes and ears were treated to the same nothingness that had greeted them at every previous attempt to surprise
a lurker, my feet detected a thrumming - a brief but undeniable vibration that was almost painful in its intensity. I started and, in a moment of panic, considered whether I could climb the tree, but the feeling was gone as suddenly as it had come. I had no idea whether it was connected with whatever was out there but it had been sufficiently unsettling to cause me to worry about the safety of the ground. Maybe this was how people who lived in earthquake-prone areas felt - a thing that should be immutable suddenly lost its solidity. If you couldn’t trust the earth, what could you trust?

  The rest of the morning - or at least the period it took for the sun to reach its highest point in the sky - passed without incident. I was tired, hot, and drained when I stopped for a “noon” rest. I was also desperately thirsty but, although water had been plentiful yesterday in the wake of the storm that had preceded my arrival, today was a different matter. My lips were parched and my throat sore. It was difficult manufacturing enough spit to keep the inside of my mouth moist. My pee came out in yellow dribbles instead of clear streams. My stomach continued to rumble its unhappiness with the lack of anything solid.

  While I was sitting at the base of a tree wondering whether I was more likely to die of hunger, thirst, or an infected foot, I heard the noise. At first, I thought it was a breeze rustling the leaves… except the air was as still as it had been all morning and the sound didn’t abate after a few seconds. It remained constant - a gentle whisper that promised something. I didn’t know what it represented but was enough to pique my curiosity and compel me back to my feet. My energy level might have been low - the byproduct of too little to eat, a restless night’s sleep, and a hot day without water - but hope lived in my breast.

  I followed the sound, or at least wandered in the direction from which it seemed to be coming. My wariness of my surroundings was momentarily forgotten, set aside by my excitement at the possibility of something new. Based on directions determined by the sun’s position, I was headed toward the southeast - a change from my previous course, which had been northeasterly. It didn’t matter. One direction was as good as any other as long as it took me somewhere.

  I figured out what it was before I saw it. What had sounded at first like a distant droning resolved itself into the rush of water as I drew nearer. The forest thinned just short of the river, giving way to a rock-strewn, gently sloping bank. This was no mere stream or brook like I had previously encountered. This was a raging torrent - at least a hundred feet from side to side with a swiftly flowing current. It was impossible to determine how deep it was at the center and I wasn’t eager to find out. I didn’t have a particular fear of drowning but it was far too dangerous to attempt a crossing, especially without a partner. Still, the water was shallow and gentle close to the edge. That offered the possibility not only of slaking my thirst but allowing me to wash away some of the dirt and sweat that had accumulated since my last “bath.”

  After spending several long minutes cooling in the shallows, I decided to follow the river upstream. My shaky understanding of geography indicated that the best chance of finding a settlement would be close to water. A river like this would provide not only sustenance for people and animals but a means to irrigate crops and a method of transportation. Like my recollection of “Goldilocks”, these were shards of knowledge gleaned from a memory that had less difficulty summoning up facts and trivia than personal remembrances. I wondered why that was. How could I know that Columbus had sailed the Atlantic in 1492 yet not recall the name of the street where I lived or, for that matter, what my house looked like? How could I know that the first president of the United States had been George Washington yet not know whether I had brothers or sisters and, if I did, what their names were? It was beyond frustrating.

  For a while, as I ambled alongside the river on the thin strip of beach separating the bank from the forest, I was able to put aside my misgivings about this place. The roar of the current, engorged by recent rainfall, was as pleasant to my ears as the sweetest music. It not only drove back the silence but caused me to wonder how much of my fear was borne of paranoia and loneliness. After all, who wouldn’t be unbalanced after enduring an experience like mine?

  The respite wasn’t destined to last, however. Even the river’s reassuring primal power couldn’t hold back the sense of being watched. It crept up on me as I followed the waterway’s northern progression, taking little time to reassert itself with the same force it had earlier exerted. It emanated from the forest; my right side, the side bordered by the river, was unthreatening. Could I escape it by crossing? Was it worth the risk? Gazing across the hundred feet of water, I saw only more trees. But what lay on the other side wasn’t a source of great concern; the churning maelstrom in the middle of the channel was what worried me. Was I a strong enough swimmer to avoid being caught up in that?

  After walking for another hour, I decided to rest. Although I didn’t feel comfortable in the forest, I temporarily left the beach area because it was cooler under the trees. Although my thirst had been assuaged, not having eaten was keeping my energy level low. I was sleepy, weary, achy, and stretched thin with anxiety. I didn’t know how much longer I was going to be able to keep up this pace. Right now, all I wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. But the ground here was too rough and I didn’t want to waste the light. Although, once darkness fell, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep - not with some invisible presence out there biding its time.

  I sat under a tree with my back against its smooth exterior. It felt like glass - a sensation foreign to my experience of bark. I gazed unblinkingly at the greenery around me, willing my eyes to catch a glimpse of what I thought I had seen during the night, but there was nothing. I no longer doubted that there was something out there but I didn’t know whether or not it was corporeal. It could have been a ghost or spirit of the forest. Could something with no body do more than unnerve me? I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

  Closing my eyes offered a non-visual perspective of my surroundings. It was almost as if I could reach out with my other senses to the nearby environs. I heard and felt the potency of the river, rushing along less than a hundred feet away. The stolid silence of the forest was equally forceful, a testimony to the enduring power of nature. And the watcher was there as well, more easily detected with my vision removed. It observed me but didn’t desire that I reciprocate.

  Tentatively, without understanding what I was doing, I reached out for it with my mind. It flinched away and, for the briefest of moments, it was gone. It soon returned, however, but this time I sensed that it was more reticent, almost as if it hadn’t expected me to do what I had done and was wary that I might try again. I might have if I had understood what I had done but the instinct that had led me to act was no longer there and I couldn’t replicate the deed.

  I think I may have dozed off - not for a long while but long enough for me to feel groggy and sluggish when I stumbled to my feet. A quick dip in the shallows refreshed me enough to resume my trek. When twilight approached, I faced the unenviable decision of where to camp for the night. I could stay on the beach but I doubted I’d get any shut-eye lying naked on a bed of uneven, sometimes jagged rocks. The forest provided softer ground but moving under the canopy multiplied my unease. Eventually, acknowledging the necessity of getting some sleep, I opted to establish my resting place on the forest’s fringes.

  The closer the sun drew to disappearing beneath the horizon, the higher my dread climbed. As best I remembered, darkness wasn’t one of my phobias. Night had always been a soothing time, a winding down of the day. The absence of light wasn’t something to be feared. Sure, some animals slept during the day and prowled at night but I didn’t live in a place where that was a concern. But here, where there were no flashlights or lanterns, and something was out there…I had never been more scared.

  The period between sunset and moonrise was agonizing. With no light or way of making it, I was blind. This time of absolute blackness lasted only a couple of hours but it seemed to ta
ke forever. My ability to hear noise from the forest was defeated by the gurgling and churning of the river. I didn’t even try to sleep. I sat with my back against a tree and my stick clutched in white-knuckled hands. The presence was all around me but it wasn’t growing in strength. Something was holding it back. The more attuned I became to it, the more I could read things about it. I couldn’t pinpoint its location but it was in the forest, not on the beach, and it wasn’t dangerously close. It reeked of carrion and wrongness - not to my physical nose but to some analogous sense in my mind.

  Once again, I recognized the influence of a “sixth sense.” That elusive and contested quality, often mentioned in books about the paranormal in the world I came from, might be tangible here. I didn’t understand it but like seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting, and smelling, some of its applications came naturally to me. Without it, I probably wouldn’t be aware that I wasn’t alone. I wondered if that might be better.

  Moonrise made the forest more eerie but less frightening. Exhaustion-fueled sleep eventually claimed me and, in its bosom, I suffered through a string of nightmares. Visions of twisted, inhuman creatures troubled my mind and I woke frequently, crying and whimpering. By the late middle of the night, with both moons overhead, I gave up and rose to a sitting position, wincing against the protests of an aching body. It didn’t take long for even an apparently smooth patch of ground to feel like a bed of nails.