by Émélie Beaudry
My husband has seen something, out in the woods. I know he has, though he will not tell me.
He first saw it a week ago, when gathering firewood. When he came back he was shaken; his eyes wild, his brow beaded with sweat.
I asked him what had happened. He told me everything was fine.
He went out the next day, as usual. When he came back, he was worse. His hair stuck out at odd angles. His arms were covered in scratches. He wiped his brow and left behind a streak of blood.
I asked him what had happened. He told me everything was fine.
On the third day, he did not return until late. He stumbled through the door, soaked in sweat. His face was pale, and blood soaked his cheeks like tear tracks. He boarded up the entrance behind him and sat at the table. I served him his dinner, and watched him eat like a man half-starved.
I asked him what had happened. He told me everything was fine.
The next night, he did not return. I thought about going out to look for him, but the sun had long since set, and I know better than to go out looking in the dark. I sat alone at the table and ate my dinner. I slept fitfully.
In the morning, I awoke more tired than when I had gone to bed. I prepared myself for the journey into the woods, to find my husband. I feared the worst; I wasn’t sure how long it would take to find him, or what state he would be in when I did. I packed some first aid supplies, and some food, and hoped it would be enough. I marched myself to the door, took down the boards, and swung it open—and there was my husband.
He stood in the doorway, and I was suddenly reminded of how much taller he was than I.
I was struck by how normal he looked. His hair was tidy, his clothes were clean. His eyes were bright and sharp, though strangely wide, and two shades too light. He smiled at me, and though his cheeks had a healthy flush, they seemed to strain with the motion. I asked him where he had been all night. He asked if he could come inside. He wanted to sit by a warm fire and have a home-cooked meal. I told him that I had been worried about him. He stared at me, his pale eyes looking me over. I felt myself squirm under his gaze.
He told me he was sorry. That he didn’t mean to frighten me. His tone was flat and stilted, but I believed him. He’d gotten lost in the woods before.
Something prickled at my skin, but I smiled up at him, and told him to come in.
As he passed through the doorway, I asked him what had happened. He told me everything was fine.