The Statues in the Woods

My doctor has often inquired as to the fate of Isaac Harris, always to the same results.  For the year that I have been in his service, this he has set himself to this plight. His continued efforts to unearth what he calls "the truth" from my "fragile" (as he says it) cerebrum have only tempered my scorn for the man. Most call him kind, but I see him as an odious man, ignorant of the hidden truths in this world. Still, he presses-on even now, and asks me to retell the story of Isaac Harris. 1

New England bears host to a wide expansion of wooded forest of which the local men have named, "Warrwick heights." It is an isolated forest of towering pines and fallen oaks that has served the Harris family for hundreds of years as home and as provider. The Harris family, as I have always known them, were an curious assortment of peoples, all, as my doctor would name them, "fragile." It was the youthful, bright Isaac Harris that I had met upon an excursion to London as a university student. I, being quite taken by the interest in New England architecture of which we shared, quickly befriended him and came to know that he was the only surviving heir of the Harris estate. He invited me to this establishment, and, with the coming of the end of the school term, we set-off to return to our native American soil and to his home high in the mountain forests of Warrwick Heights.2

Harris' estate was a dark establishment in a sea of forest, completely obscured by trees from all sides unless one were to come close to it. Despite its depressing darkness, it gave-off the only aura of warm homeliness in the forest. It was the only light of humanity in this God-forsaken wooded plateau. After a long, grueling journey, Isaac Harris and I retired immediately, postponing the forest exploration until the following day.3

He took me to a clearing in the forest. Clearing is a light term, however. It was a slight break in the trees where the sun was barely visible, dripping golden rays of honey stained green into the arena. The cold trees cleared into a small expanse of flat, rocky land covered in dead and dying pine needles. The trees were particularly blackened in this area, despite the apparent sunlight filtering green through the tree leaves above. I felt that if I were to reach-out and touch the bark of one of these, it would immediately crumble into ash. This, however, was among the least remarkable traits of this particular clearing...4

Harris and I beheld before us a handful of rocky, rough statues of humanoid disposition. They stood just over human height with gnarled faces and twisted form. There were six of them, each different from the other in appearance. There was a slim dragon, and beyond this, a hunched man-beast. Nearby was a werewolf statue, snarling behind a look of rage, fanged maw opened and waiting. But, of all these five, the most unnerving was the bust of a darkling. It was a seven foot tall statue of a daemon of the dark ages' portrayal. It was huddled over, crouching, almost, to the ground, its tight thigh muscles contracted, ready to attack. Its marble wings, covered in hundreds of years of moss and grime, were thrown about its back, shrouding it from the sunlight. Its long arms ended in large hands and massive claws. It bore a gnarled expression on its face, its lower jaw, jutting-out and twisting into an evil smirk. Although it was made of rock, it awoken within me an uneasiness, as if I felt that coming into close quarters with it would awaken the daemon within the rock. We left the area somberly and with utmost quiet so as not to disturb the rocks from their hundred year slumber.5

That night found us sitting in the parlor, chatting about school and about women, and about anything possible so as to drive the disturbed images of the statues from our consciousness. We had nearly succeeded in this when we heard an abrupt crash originating from the forest along the north end of the establishment’s garden. We rushed to the scene of the problem just in time to see a beshadowed beast retreating under cover of forest into the trees from whence it came. Before us were the crashed remains of the garden's wooden entryway arch.6

"Wolves," Harris pointed-out, "they always are a nuisance here." He brought me into the estate armory and grabbed a rifle so that we could dispose of the creature. "Follow me," he said, already disappearing into the trees. I rushed to follow him, it not being long before we stopped to re-catch the trail our prey had left behind.7

After some short discussion, we greed on the creature's direction, and headed-off at a brisk pace.8

After a few minutes, we caught sight of the creature lumbering into the dark clearing, obscured by the trees, but easily distinguishable from their shadowy forms.9

Harris slowly reached into his pocket and drew-out a single brass bullet to insert into his rifle. He loaded his gun with the utmost care, making sure to keep his eyes on his prey all along as if it would vanish if he took his sight off for the merest fraction of a second.10

After what seemed like an eternity, he drew his rifle up, aimed carefully, and fired.11

We both heard the familiar "thock" of the bullet as it hit home, but, to our dismay, the creature cried-out as it caught sight of us. It roared in rage and charged, dark and scornfully.12

Harris' eyes widened, but he reacted without thinking, drawing another bullet from his pocket and preparing to load it. "Run!" He said as he struggled with the bullet.13

I turned and sprinted away from this horror, slipping and sliding over wettened rocks and pine needles. I listened for the shot, for the sound of Harris firing the second bullet sure to kill the beast. I stopped running as I realized, to my utter terror, that no such shot had occurred.14

I turned back to find that the spot had been vacated by both the creature and Harris. There before me was the gun, bloody and unloaded with the live round still resting on the soft bed of pine needles around it. I grabbed the weapon and loaded it, giving heed to a path of blood on the ground in my pursuit of the creature. 15

I did not realize that I was passing familiar grounds, and all the better, for nature's greatest mercy of all is the human incapacity of bringing together unrelated (yet related) bits of knowledge. 16

I pursued the abomination still until I arrived in a recognizable area. I slowed down to a walk. The rocky gravel crunched underfoot as I approached the group of statues. The moon was peering through the treetops, shedding silvery light upon the clearing, although sparsely. The sight of the statues shimmered into view, each just as terrifying as before, if not more-so under the layers of darkness laid-down by the night. I turned my attention to the daemon statue and cried-out with a start. 17

Here, in a mangled mass of flesh was the corpus of Isaac Harris, still bearing a look of terror. Crimson life poured from his open wounds. And there, embedded in daemon’s rocky marble surface, glistening in the light of the dwindling moonlight was Harris' bullet.18