Tarian Sawyer.
Saturday, 1st November.
Next day.
Downsville Valley, New York.
Midnight.
The woods are dark.
The moon glows high, sharp and silver against the endless black night.
The forest looms around me, cold, alive, breathing shadows through the tall corpses of trees.
Night creatures stir, their cries slicing through the wind as I run.
I’m running fast.
I don’t know what I’m running from.
I only know I’m breathless.
Terrified.
And that something dreadful is behind me.
It calls my name.
It moves in whispers, in shadows that stretch like smoke, reaching for me.
My pulse pounds, the sound of it too loud in my ears.
The ground blurs under me as I look back and that’s when I trip.
I crash face first into the earth, tasting dirt and blood.
I push up, gasping, and glance at what snagged me.
A mandrake root.
The name slides into my mind uninvited.
Mandrake.
I shouldn’t know that.
I’ve never studied herbs or witchcraft, but right now, I know this plant.
Its shape, its use, its danger.
“It’s in your blood.” A feminine voice whispers, carried in the wind.
It’s familiar.
“Knowledge of roots and herbs… knowledge of spirits and darkness…”
My gaze darts through the trees, searching for the voice.
Nothing.
Just shadows.
Then a growl, deep and guttural, comes.
The shadows move again, writhing.
Dark tendrils creep along the forest floor, reaching for me.
I scramble to my feet, but I can’t move.
The mandrake root coils around my ankles, my wrists, tight, constricting, alive.
“NO…Let me go!”
I fight.
I pull.
But the more I struggle, the tighter the roots bind me.
The roots twist like snakes, winding up my legs, trapping me against the ground.
And then the shadows descend.
The tentacles slide toward me, black and fluid, curling around my body.
They invade me, pressing through my skin, into my veins, my chest, my lungs, until all I feel is cold.
“Ahh!”
My scream tears through the night, but it’s swallowed whole.
The darkness devours everything; my body, my voice, until only my soul remains, trembling in the void.
“Tarian… Tarian…”
I jolt awake.
My eyes wide.
My pulse slamming through my throat.
I’m drenched in sweat, gasping, clawing at air as if the shadows are still there.
“Tarian, it was only a nightmare.”
Viola’s voice, soft, careful.
My wife.
She sits up beside me, her hand resting gently on my shoulder.
Human warmth.
Reality that I need at the moment.
I inhale, shakily.
Then I exhale.
My body trembles as I drag my hands down my face.
Sweat trickles down my spine.
The dream, no, the vision, still pulses behind my eyelids.
The roots.
The voice.
Finally, the low hum of the air conditioner filters through the silence, grounding me.
Viola’s breathing evens out behind me as well.
“Why are you here?” I manage to ask her, my voice hoarse.
She frowns.
“What do you mean, why am I here?
I’m your wife.
Where else should I be?”
I look at her, truly look, and something tightens in my chest.
“You know what I mean, Viola.
This marriage wasn’t what I wanted.
It was what my parents wanted.
So I could have kids.
And since…”
I stop.
The color drains from her face.
“And since what?” She snaps, her voice breaking.
“Since I haven’t given you children, wasn’t that what you were going to say?”
Guilt punches through me.
I lower my eyes.
“I’m not the giver of children, Tarian.”
She rises from the bed, the sheets falling from her shoulders.
The soft light slides across her bare skin flawless, beautiful.
Any other man would want her.
But not me.
Not ever.
“If I could, I would have given you children,” she whispers, voice cracking.
“We’ve tried everything.
Every test, every treatment.
Nothing works.
But I still hope.
Maybe if you’d just… love me.
Maybe then something would change.
Two cannot work unless they agree.”
Her words collapse into sobs.
Quiet, broken sobs that slice through me like glass.
I hate this part of myself, the part that can’t give her what she needs.
The part that only knows how to feel guilt and emptiness.
My mind drifts back to that day.
When it all began.
Dad had sat across from me, his voice firm.
“We’ve found you a wife.”
“What?
Dad, I can find my own wife,” I’d argued.
He’d lifted a brow, calm, immovable.
“Your mother disagrees.
If she waits for you to fall in love, we’ll die before we see grandchildren.”
I’d laughed, disbelieving.
“I’m twenty two.
You’ve got plenty of time before you meet your maker.”
He’d looked away then.
Something in his eyes, fear, guilt, something unspoken.
“No one can determine these things.
Just indulge us, Tarian.
You’ll like her.
Viola Cooper.
Her father owns one of the biggest restaurant chains in the country.
You’ll make fine sons.”
Sons?
That word had stayed with me.
Heavy.
Final.
I hadn’t argued again.
His tone had told me not to.
Now, Viola’s quiet sobs pull me back to the present.
Her body trembles, small and fragile, and guilt twists deeper in my gut.
“I’m sorry we were forced into this,” I say softly.
“If you want, I’ll have a lawyer draft the divorce papers.
I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
I stand, grabbing my shirt from the chair.
But her voice stops me cold.
“You’d want that, wouldn’t you?”
I freeze, my back to her.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Because it would end both our suffering.”
I walk out, leaving her sobs behind me.
The sound echoes down the hallway long after I close the door.
But as I stand there, alone in the dim light, the whisper from my dream creeps back into my mind, soft, cold, certain.
‘It’s in your blood… Knowledge of roots and herbs… Knowledge of spirits and darkness…’
I rub my hands together, trying to shake off the chill.
But it’s no use.
Because deep down, I can still feel the roots.
Still feel them crawling beneath my skin.
Still feel the shadows.