I may never grow accustomed to waking every morning to a clear blue sky and towering trees outside my window. Everyday I’ve found myself leaning into the rows of pillows on my bed, staring out into the forest. Then I happen to spot the time on my phone and realize thirty minutes to an hour have passed of me simply admiring the view. I alway laugh.

But today feels a bit different. I wake up and enjoy the view, but when I walk down the steps into the living room I get a chill; one that has me rubbing at my shoulders before looking out to the lake. There’s this strange sensation...like I’m not alone. Except everywhere I observe it’s empty save for me. There’s no sounds to think otherwise either, nothing but the natural noise of wind rustling through trees and birds singing in the morning sun so I shrug it off.

On the way into town for groceries, I end up passing the very tourist attraction that Dr. Driscall gave me a pamphlet for. While waiting at a red light, I spot a few tourists walking around the shop that looks like it was plucked out of a fairy tale.

The cabin is made of stained wood with deep green moss and leaves creeping up the sides of the exterior as if to return it to the forest. There’s a lamp post with a hanging basket of flowers, long veins cascading in the wind, and some chalk drawings by kids of what they think Forest Folk look like on the sidewalks. Somehow the sight has me pulling into the parking lot and stepping out of the car. There are people heading around back for the wagon ride but I don’t follow, although something tells me I inevitably will.

The doors have wooden handles that are twisted like vines. The glass paneling is colored and misshapen. Pushing open those doors, I find the gift shop to the left with an arrangement of shirts, mugs, paintings, you name it and the store has it. There are mostly kids running around, picking up stones or wands to play with. To the right is a museum of sorts with the supposed “evidence” of Forest Folk.

I remember looking through it as a kid. Nana and Pap brought me here a lot. We’d dig through the books and look at the supposed footprints or pictures for hours. They’d tell me stories of magical creatures in the forest that tended to the fields and the flowers and the river. I’d listen in awe, wishing desperately to meet one.

Every year I came back and every year it was the same yet it excited me every time. Even now, not much has changed. There are a few new pictures, blurry ones shown on the TV screen mounted to the wall, but the photos are nothing more than shadows running through the tree’s, probably a bear or a deer. That doesn’t matter though because those who visit are already believers so their eyes see what they wish to see, and they wish to believe so they do.

There’s a large mural on the back wall of the building that I find myself admiring. It’s beautifully done with a painting of towering trees and deep brush like that of our surroundings, except the landscape is littered with Forest Folk, or what people believe them to look like. Some are popping out of bushes or hiding in trees, but there’s one very prominent figure sitting on a rock by the stream smack dab in the center of the mural.

The Forest Folk is a woman with long silver hair flowing as beautiful as the river. She’s elegant, sitting with her feet in the water and hands against the rock while she leans back. About the only thing everyone agrees on are the long ears that stretch far back behind their heads. Flowers are blooming in her hair and vines wrapping around her limbs, forming clothes to cover her. Her skin is smooth like porcelain, a cool off gray. There are quite a few people admiring the mural, one little girl even exclaims how pretty the “forest lady” is.

I can’t help but to smile because, as a kid, I said the same thing.

“Edwin.”

“What?” I hum, turning to search for the owner of the voice, but there’s no one there. No one but a child now stares at me like I’m mad. I smile sheepishly when he walks away.

Odd, I swear I heard my name. I shrug it off. I think I’ve had enough fairy tales and hocus pocus for the day. I came into town to get groceries after all, not walk through a building made to con gullible people out of their money.

I hop into my car and head off, not bothering to look back at the odd museum. Grocery shopping was meant to be simple, and I suppose it is, but a familiar face in the aisles does have me hesitating; Henry Faever.

Henry was the local sheriff during the time of my grandparents murder. His furrowed brow says more than words ever could, not that he gives any. He retreats and disappears down another aisle. I consider going after him, but am unsure of what to say or if there is anything to say. He retired without ever solving their case, which I don’t hold against him, but it’s obvious he worries about it.

After their deaths I heard from Henry a lot. He was the one who found me at the house after all. Even remembering what happened afterwards is hard. Everyone said Henry found me sitting by my grandparents with a blank expression. My face was pale and I wasn’t responding, didn’t respond for at least a week. Then suddenly I was awake and alert like it never happened. Mom had to relive it all when explaining the situation. I remember her voice, that shaking horror mixed with relief, and her hiccuped cries. I hated that she had to repeat the story for me. The whole town was in an uproar. Everyone was trying to do whatever they could to solve the mystery, but there was no evidence. The trail went cold. Eventually Henry stopped calling. I always knew it had more to do with his guilt for not finding their killer than not caring.

I don’t see him again before leaving with my groceries. Damn, I’ve barely done anything today and I’m already exhausted. I think someone deserves a cat nap! Which I get ready to take only after I return home and put away the groceries, only I don’t end up taking that nap just yet because I hear it again.

“Edwin.”

Same voice, but there’s no one here. I check the whole bloody house, looking in closets and under beds like a kid in search of presents before Christmas because I freaking know that someone said my name.

“Hello?” I call into the house even after I’ve searched the whole thing from top to bottom. If I expect a response then I’m disappointed because I never get one. Groaning, I rub my ears. “You’re just hearing things, Win. You’re not used to it being so quiet.”

Which I would have believed if it wasn’t my name that I heard whispered to me, like a soft call carried by the wind. And the voice felt so close, like it was right behind me breathing down my neck. I should feel scared thinking like that but somehow...I don’t. Great, am I the guy in the horror movie that dies first because he’s too macho to be scared by anything?

“Whatever, I’m laying down. If there’s someone here, at least let me finish my nap first!” I shout, chuckling to myself while I ascend the stairs. I start humming as I do, changing into a pair of sweats once in my room then jumping into bed.

I don’t know what the song is that’s suddenly stuck in my head. There’s no words, just a simple tune, a comforting melody that puts me right to sleep.