Need

by Carrie Jones

  Everything inside of me just crashes, all my internal organs fall, but it’s not the hollowed-out pain that I’m used to these last few months. No. It’s the same kind of pain that I felt right when my dad died: sharp, piercing, all over.

  “I’ll be back,” he yells and then he is gone, rushing into the trees, swallowed up by the density of the forest, by the darkness.

  I shut his door and shiver. The sun has started to set.

  “Go in the house, Zara!” he yells one more time. I can’t see him, but his voice comes to me, faint and far away. “Go in the house.”

  So I do.

  Autophobia

  fear of being alone

  I know I should try to spend the next hour inside Betty’s house doing chores and not worring about things, but it doesn’t work out. Dread makes its home in my sternum. Just kind of nestles there. What if Nick goes missing, like Jay Dahlberg or the Beardsley boy?

  Why hadn’t I asked about this?

  It is all too horrible to think about.

  I put some mashed potatoes in the oven to warm and start on a letter about Vadivel and Valarmathi Jasikaran in Sri Lanka. They have been in jail a long time and not been charged. Valar-mathi had surgery before she was arrested. She could be dying. They are trapped there, uncharged, in jail, probably tortured and alone.

  I simmer and start to write. My fingers clutch the pen so tightly that the wound on my hand throbs, but I don’t care. It’s nothing compared to what the Jasikarans are going through, what Jay Dahlberg might be going through. What Nick might be . . . No. He’s fine.

  I still don’t know how people could do this to each other. How can we survive knowing that we do these things? How can we not help?

  Nick is out there in the woods alone.

  And I am in here doing what? Writing a letter.

  I need a plan.

  Okay. If these things are really pixies there’s got to be a way to fight them, right?

  I log on. It takes forever because Betty has dial-up. I swear to God. But finally I get on and I type in “fight pixies” in the search engine. All the gaming sites come up. It’s not until page eight that I find something that looks legit.

  I scroll past the explanation that pixies are not Tinker Bell, but dangerous, very dangerous, and do not attempt to contact them on your own. I snort. Then I find what I’m looking for:

  The only thing that can defeat pixies is iron. Iron can be found in steel. It is essential for the composition of railroad ties, skyscrapers, and cars. Pixies will avoid iron at all costs.

  So that’s probably why they’re here. Most of the houses are made of wood, framed with two-by-fours, not steel. There are no skyscrapers anywhere, just trees. There aren’t even that many cars because there are hardly any people.

  I can’t wait to tell Nick, but first I have to find him.

  Okay. Iron is the basic component of steel.

  My eyes scan the room and latch on to the woodstove, made of cast iron. It’s not like I can haul that around. But I can take the fireplace poker thing that we use to turn the logs.

  Trying to be quick, I call the ambulance house and ask for Betty, but she is out on a run in Trenton, where a logging truck has smashed into a minivan.

  “She’ll be tied up some good for a long time,” Josie tells me.

  “Okay. Just ask her to call me. It’s Zara.”

  “ ’Course it is, dear. I’ll give her the message.”

  So that leaves me home, alone, with all my million questions and absolutely zero answers.

  I walk outside again and stand on the porch, listening. No birds sing or even twitter. The wind howls and rustles through the tree branches. A pine cone drops onto our roof and rolls down by my feet, making me jump. My hand clutches the poker.

  “Wimp,” I mutter.

  I march over to Nick’s MINI and put my injured hand on his door handle, pulling it open. It smells so much like him. I touch the steering wheel with my fingers. Something inside me shudders again, and not in a good way. I don’t want him to be in danger. I pull my hand away from the steering wheel. It stings. The lines do make the rune for protection. How weird. I turn around in a circle so I can see all around me. A prickly feeling creeps through my hand and up my arm, marching toward my heart.

  “Nick?” I whisper.

  I push the hair out of my face. The wind whips it back. I grab an elastic band off my wrist and yank my hair back into a ponytail. The sun has almost set behind the trees. It casts an orange glow, a last stand against the night.

  “Nick?” I say louder.

  No answer.

  I try it even louder.

  “Nick? You out there?”

  That’s when I hear it, the angry howl of some kind of dog. I freeze.

  And then I hear something even worse. From the edge of the forest comes a hoarse whisper that is not Nick’s voice, but I recognize it. I heard it last night when I went running.

  “Zara,” it says. “Come to me.”

  Phonophobia

  fear of noises or voices

  I take a step toward the voice, just one step. “Nick?”

  “Zara . . .”

  I stop and look around. The clouds darken with the setting sun, turning into something somber and full of potential dangers. The trees lean with the wind, the younger ones almost bending. I wrap my arms around my own trunk, trying to make the spidery feeling go away.

  “Zara . . .”

  “Nick, is that you?”

  No answer.

  “Who are you?” I yell.

  “Come to me.”

  “Tell me who you are!”

  “Zara . . .”

  I stomp my foot down. “Look. This is crazy. Tell me who you are and I’ll come, okay? But I’ve got to tell you that if you’ve hurt Nick—or if you are Nick gone psycho—I am not going to be happy.”

  My words dangle like a warning in the cold air. My insides warm up like I am on fire. Anger will do that to you.

  “Zara . . .”

  “Enough with calling my name!” I scream, raging now. “It’s ridiculous.”

  I storm into the woods then, not thinking about it, just powered by rage, ready to beat someone up, even though I’ve never beat anyone up before. Friedrich Nietzsche says, “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.”

  I race maybe fifty feet into the trees and then I stop, feet skidding on the hard surface. I am doing exactly what everyone has been telling me not to do, what I’m not supposed to do, exactly what I had promised Nick that I wouldn’t do. I almost scream.

  I am so angry at myself, angry at the voice, angry at Nick. My hand clutches the poker.

  The voice whispers out from behind me. “Almost there, Zara.

  Don’t stop now.”

  I whirl around. I can’t see anyone standing among the trunks.

  “Where are you?” I demand.

  No answer.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know.” The voice comes from my right this time. I pivot. It doesn’t sound like Nick. The voice is older, slicker.

  “How do you know my name?” I ask, listening hard.

  “I’ve always known your name, princess.”

  Zara means princess. Right. I don’t care what my name means. I rush toward where I think the voice is coming from, flying over stones and pinecones and tree roots.

  “Where are you?”

  Nothing breaks the endless tree trunks, no swath of cloth, no eyes, no hair. Trees are all I see. Trees. Trees. Trees. I pivot, looking for the house, which should be to my right, but it’s not there. Just trees. Damn, it’s dark in the woods.

  Fear grips my stomach, only this time it isn’t just fear for Nick. It’s fear for me, too. I can’t be lost. I can’t be lost that quickly.

  “Where are you?”

  “This way.” The voice comes from my left this time. I bomb after it, darting through the trees, going farther and farther into the increasing darkness. It is alm
ost night.

  “Did you take Nick? Because I swear to God, I’ll kick your ass if you took Nick.”

  I blast into a small clearing. A circle of small spruce trees stands as sentinels. Snow begins to fall from the sky. I stop, standing there alone in the middle of the circle as the snow comes down, faster and faster.

  “You’re trying to get me lost,” I say. My fists clench. I release them. I won’t show him I’m afraid. I won’t be afraid. “You’re really annoying me!”

  There is no answer.

  “I am not imagining you!”

  Still no answer.

  My head pounds. There is a name for this, this fear of a voice. But I can’t remember it. Damn.

  Phobophobia, fear of phobias.

  Phonophobia, fear of noises or voices.

  Photoaugliaphobia, fear of glaring lights.

  Photophobia, fear of light.

  That’s the one. And what’s the next fear, alphabetically?

  Phronemophobia, fear of thinking.

  I am not afraid of thinking. Thinking calms me down. I search the periphery of the trees, looking, looking.

  Where am I?

  I am in the woods.

  Where is Nick?

  I have no idea. Not taken. He can’t be taken.

  Where is the voice?

  I check my pocket for my cell phone. It’s still in my cross-country bag. I shake my head because, really, how could I be doing this? I am probably following the voice of some psycho pixie serial killer into dark woods worthy of a Stephen King novel, and I did not bring my cell phone.

  A noise escapes my lips—guttural, panicked, pathetic. I swallow, straighten. That is not how I am going to be. I am not going to die a wimp while waiting for the killer to get me.

  The snow plasters itself to the spruce trees. It touches my hair, coats my jacket and my pants, presses itself into my sneakers. It comes down so quickly it’s already covering the ground, which means there will be footprints to follow or for someone else to follow.

  “Zara,” the voice comes again. “Come to me.”

  I shake my head. I’ve already been totally irrational. I’m not going to make it worse. “No.”

  I brush the snow off my face.

  “This way.”

  I cover my ears and refuse to move.

  “I’m lost. You made me lost,” I say, my voice weak, “and that is a super jerky thing to do.”

  Then I hear it: amused laughter, and beneath that laughter something else, the howl.

  Of a wolf?

  It is a dog. It has to be a dog because I cannot handle a wolf right now.

  I listen again. Maybe those old books I read back in fourth grade are right. Where German shepherds and Saint Bernards always rescued people in dire circumstances. Maybe a nice doggie has come to rescue me from whoever or whatever is in the woods. Maybe he’ll even have a barrel of beer under his neck. I don’t care. I’ll even take a werewolf right now. I’ll take anything.

  Hope is a crazy thing. It will make you believe.

  I rush toward the dog’s howling noise, searching for some friendly fur, maybe some drooling jowls. The howl seems closer, coming from behind me. I plow toward it, ignoring the snow and how it covers the ground, hiding the tree roots and rocks, making every footfall a danger.

  Stopping, I suck in my breath. I have no idea where I am. My head is spinning from my minor concussion.

  Breathe in, Zara.

  Breathe out, Zara.

  List the phobias.

  I can’t. I can’t think of any.

  Breathe in.

  Mrs. Nix!

  She said to put your coat on inside out to avoid getting lost. Sure, she’s a flake and it’s a stupid superstition, but I am willing to do it. Right now, I am willing to do anything.

  I yank off my jacket and turn it inside out. Then I pull off my sweatshirt and flip it around too. The arms feel all weird and bunched up.

  “Can’t make it worse,” I mutter to the trees and start running again.

  I’m not sure how long I run through the woods. I run blind, bumping past trees, hair snagging on low branches, feet somehow managing to keep me upright, my headache throbbing against my skin.

  I can hear the dog.

  I follow it, getting closer and closer, until bang—just like that—I’ve escaped the woods. I’m out on my own front lawn.

  I pump my fist in the air. I’d kiss the ground if it wasn’t so damn snowy. I did it. I did it. I did it!

  Yay for me!

  Yay for dogs!

  I do a little victory dance worthy of any NFL running back. Uh-huh.

  Then I look around. The front porch light is still on. Grandma Betty’s truck is still missing and the MINI is still parked in the driveway covered in snow. No footprints disturb anything.

  Heart sinking, I swallow and glance behind me for signs of the man who belongs to the voice that knew my name.

  Just woods.

  “Nick?”

  His name echoes out into the snow-filled air like a worried question. I trudge through the snow, one step, another. My running shoes have soaked through. I didn’t notice until now. I shove my worries about frozen toes out of my mind. Why isn’t Nick back yet?

  “Nick?”

  I sense something to my right and turn, fists up, ready to kick, to punch, to pummel, to run. But it’s not the psycho guy. There, coming from behind Nick’s MINI, is the largest freaking dog I have ever seen. It’s leaner than a Saint Bernard, but taller and more muscled. Its brown fur looks like a wolf’s, but wolves aren’t that big. Are they? No. They are not.

  Maybe this is the dog who led me home, my rescue dog.

  I reach out my hand and it turns to look at me head on. Its eyes are beautiful, shining deep and dark from its snow-plastered fur.

  “Doggy?” I say. “Here, sweetie. Do you know where Nick is?”

  That’s when I see it, there in its shoulder: an arrow, lodged and stuck. Blood has seeped out and dripped down the dog’s fur, clotting a bit where the arrow entered. Who the hell would shoot a dog with an arrow? Rage sweeps through me and I grit my teeth, trying to shove it down and away. Then the dog whimpers and all that rage turns into something else.

  “Oh, honey,” I say and rush toward him, not thinking about how big he is or that he is probably a wolf. I flop to my knees in the snow in front of him.

  “Does it hurt?”

  The dog/wolf sniffs my hand. I scratch his muzzle and peer into his eyes. I am totally in love with this doggy. He does the dog equivalent of a shrug with his front shoulders, but the pain of the arrow must be too great because then he lets out a long, hard groan. The poor thing.

  My cold fingers stroke beneath his chin. He’s warm under there.

  “We have to get you out of the cold,” I say, standing up and hitting my leg, hoping he’ll understand. “Come.”

  I start walking slowly toward the house, checking over my shoulder to see if the dog/wolf has taken some obedience classes somewhere and is following me. It could happen. Right?

  I hit my chest and say it again, “Come.”

  With a strong, graceful swoop of his head he stares up at me. His eyes meet my eyes. I am not sure what I see there. Something feral? Something strong? Something very intelligent? Oh God . . .

  “I just want to take care of you,” I say softly. I shelter my fingers inside my sleeves. The cold and the snow has numbed them. “Please, come with me in the house. I’ll take out your arrow. Get you warm. Please. Let me save you.”

  My eyes take in the dog, then stray to look at the rapidly falling snow, and Nick’s car. My voice catches in my throat. Again.

  “And then I can call my gram, and go out again and look for Nick, the guy who owns the MINI,” I explain.

  The dog cocks his head when I say Nick’s name.

  Hope foolishly crashes into my heart. “Did you see him? Did you see Nick?”

  The dog doesn’t go all Lassie, but his tail moves weakly, almost like he is tryin
g to wag it but can’t quite commit. Of course, the dog doesn’t answer. I am really losing it. It’s like I do believe in weres and pixies. It’s like something deep inside of me, something in that deep-down part has always believed in weres and pixies and that belief has finally struggled out even though I’ve tried to smash it down.

  Pointing at the door, I say , “Inside. Now.”

  The dog flattens his ears against his head. His muscles twitch and then he jumps, straight past me and onto the porch in one bound. He whimpers when his front paws touch the porch floor. I cannot figure it out. The dog must have jumped at least thirty feet. How can that be possible? I struggle up the stairs and tentatively place my hand on the top of the dog’s head.

  “Okay, sweetie,” I tell him, shouldering the front door open. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

  The house is warm and inviting and the dog seems horribly out of place, standing by the front door, dripping in the cold. I yank off my wet shoes and grab a blanket off the couch, throwing it over him.

  “Okay,” I say, walking backward, hands out, trying to make a plan. “You warm up. Okay? I’m going to call a vet.”

  I grab the phone and the phone book in the other room and bring it back to where the dog has slumped down on the floor by the front door. I sit down next to him. He puts his head on my lap. I lean down and kiss his nose. It is black and dry. He shivers.

  “Oh, doggy, it’s going to be okay,” I murmur as I flip through the phone book. There is only one veterinarian listed, but it has an emergency number. I dial it.

  An annoying tone comes through my phone. “Your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

  I hang up. Actually, I smash the phone down because I take my anger out on inanimate objects. Which is better than taking it out on people, right?

  I pull in a breath and try to calm down and think. Okay, so I must have dialed the wrong number. I do that sometimes, flip the numbers around. I try again and get the same damn recording.

  “Your call cannot be completed as dialed,” the computerized voice tells me in a condescending way. How can something that’s not alive be condescending? I have no clue. But it is.

  The dog whimpers as I hang up again. I forget about the phone and examine the arrow that’s sticking out of his sweet doggy self. It’s made of some sort of black wood and has green leaves etched on its thin shaft. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t stuck into flesh and muscle.