This story is called, When I Wake Up in the Woods by World Architect, 91.
When I wake up in the woods, I close the curtains.
I fumble with the fabric.
I don't have to look outside to know if the shadows on the wall didn't give it away the smell of mold and rot wood.
My fingertips have gone cold.
As usual, I cup my hands to my mouth, blow and try again.
Doing my best not to look out of the window.
Today, I get the curtains shut after only a couple of tries, but it doesn't help.
Shutting out the world never helps.
I know what's out there.
I do my best to ignore it as I get dressed for work.
My hands shake, trying to pull on my jacket.
On days like this, it feels like the cold comes from my bones.
All I want is my bed.
A warm drink with a little kick and a pile of blankets to help me sleep the fright away.
But I know it wouldn't matter.
Nothing ever really does.
On the cold days, I pull my jacket tight around my shoulders, tuck my laptop under my arm and make my way downstairs.
I hesitate for a moment at the front door before cracking it open, just enough to see the dark outside.
Most of the houses are dark by now.
The only sources of light belong to a streetlight at the end of my block, a few houses down, and my porch light.
I don't see them.
My feet scuff against the pavement.
I wipe the rain off my shoes as I enter.
The work at the hotel is menial and tedious, but it's solitary, which I like.
The overnight shift is generally quiet, and if I work hard enough to get through my tasks, I usually have a few hours to write.
I think I like the imagination of it all, to be able to inhabit in some way a grander world.
Seeing some part of my pain spilled into a character and watching them overcome it.
Tonight, the load is light.
Traffic tends to slow down between the end of summer break and the beginning of Thanksgiving.
It only takes me two hours before I'm propped up at the front desk with my laptop screen staring at me.
Words come slowly tonight.
My focus drifts.
I crinkle my nose.
I haven't been able to shake the stench from my clothes.
I've been waking up in the woods more frequently lately.
Though I'm not sure why, it's the same every time.
Cold fingertips.
A dirt road penetrating a dark forest in a man half obscured by shadows.
I called the cops once.
After they came out, they told me not to call about it again.
I'm not sure what else to do, so I ignore it as much as I can.
It's getting harder.
I think I might buy a gun.
The old lobby doors squeak open.
A man stumbles out towards the elevators and notices me.
Fainting conversations with drunks in the dead of night was my least favorite part of the job.
He braces himself on my desk and thinks himself funny to ring the bell.
Liquor stains his breath.
Sometimes lonely people look for me to stave off the night.
I force a smile onto my lips.
He asks me if I like my job, if the solitude bothers me.
I ask him where he's from, why he's here, how long he's staying, the usual.
Oh, I've been here two days, leaving in the morning.
He says, I think I like it though.
The weather's nice.
I chuckle.
He curses as he remembers the hour and resumes his stumble towards the elevator.
Have a good night.
Stay dry, I say.
He turns around and looks at me for a moment before snorting a brief laugh.
Silence fills the lobby again, save for the occasional clicking of my keyboard.
I try to ignore the goosebumps running up my arms.
I still can't shake the cold.
I look outside past the doors, thirsty for daylight.
Still dark.
I think I'm probably only halfway through my shift.
I resist a glance at the time on the computer.
The work goes faster if I don't look.
A while later, I hear the lobby door squeal again.
Two people make for a busy night.
I sigh and begin my rehearsed lines.
Welcome to the, I trail off, not seeing anyone in the lobby.
I look around and call out.
No response.
The doors are still open.
The stench of rod and mold gets stronger.
I walk over and peer at the carpet to look for something the sensor might be picking up.
Nothing.
I fiddle with the door for a bit to force it close and turn my back to my desk.
A few steps later, I hear the door squeak open again.
I turn around.
Still nothing.
Kids, this happens from time to time.
Restless children and inattentive parents.
I yell out some vague thread about calling the cops.
Generally, the idea of police is enough to make rambunctious children move along.
The doors close.
I stand and wait for a while.
Listening for anything that might indicate my trouble is over.
Footsteps.
Laughing.
But I hear nothing.
I have a thought to turn my back and pretend to walk away.
Sure enough, I hear the doors open again.
I wheel around.
I walk away.
The doors open again.
I wheel around.
My lips loaded with chast.
Still nothing.
Driven by impulse, I storm outside yelling more empty threats.
My feet scuff against dirt.
I stumble to stop, nearly colliding with a tree.
The tree is sturdy and tall.
A green moss creeps its way up the trunk, leading to long outspread branches.
I recognize it immediately, but I don't want to.
I gather myself stepping back to gain a wider view.
More trees.
As far as I can see from the light, the parking lot is gone, replaced by dirt and wood.
I spin back around and clamber back into the lobby.
The door shut, but it does little to ease my mind.
I stand on the carpet, trying to convince myself it isn't real.
Everyone tells me it's not real.
The police, my neighbors, my friends, everyone.
No forest appears in their backyard at night.
No man welcomes them with an outstretched arm.
The man.
I think for the first time.
Where is the man?
He has to be here.
He's always here.
Every time the spidery shadows of the tree branches dance on my walls,
and I muster my courage to look, he's there.
There.
Standing at the end of that long dirt road.
I don't dare look for him, but I can't look away either.
I've been dealing with the woods showing up outside my house for years,
but it's never showed up anywhere else, and I've certainly never been this close before.
I don't know how long I stand there before a voice rings out.
My boss, Aaron, is standing in front of me.
I once hit the sunlight that floods in.
I look past her to the outside.
The woods are gone.
Are you okay?
She asks again.
What time is it?
I don't say anything as I try to regain my bearings.
She walks off.
I'm able to maintain enough sense to follow her.
Key cards are piled up onto the desk.
How did anyone walk past me without realizing?
A few people are scattered about the room where we serve breakfast.
Aaron flicks on the lights, apologizes, and assures them breakfast will be out soon.
We walk back into the room.
I brace myself as I watch Aaron spin around.
You could at least turn on the lights, she says.
Is there a reason you didn't answer your phone?
Aaron, I'm sorry I didn't.
I stammer for words.
I think maybe I was sleepwalking.
Sleepwalking, she says, nodding.
She sends me home.
I think I'm lucky to still have a job.
Getting home after work is a relief.
I've never craved a mattress so badly.
Nevertheless, I take the time to check and make sure the woods are gone from my backyard like I always do.
They've never survived the night before, but they've never shown up at my work either.
So I check anyway.
No woods, no road, no man with an outstretched arm.
I throw my stuff on the kitchen table and shuffle towards my bedroom.
As I struggle to drift and to sleep, a single thought follows me.
Where was the man?
Six days pass and the woods do not reappear.
Even so, I haven't been sleeping well.
I don't go into my bedroom anymore.
When I do, I fixate on my walls, waiting for the shadows.
I've been trying to sleep on my couch, but I've found it's the same down there.
Maybe it's worse.
Last night I resorted to the bathtub.
I find myself going to the kitchen to look out the windows.
I don't trust the absence of my tormentor.
Sometimes when I gaze hard, my own reflection startles me.
Work has also been nearly impossible.
Walking into the lobbies hard enough, yet alone getting anything done.
I'm dragging the rest of the crew down.
I've had to leave early twice over the last week, which is quite a hassle considering the time of night.
Erin demanded I take a leave of absence.
Mercy on her part, I could use the break.
I can hear the rain pattern my roof.
I've lived here for years now, and until now the perpetual rain hasn't bothered me.
But lately I'm finding myself desperate for some sun.
Today I find it especially miserable.
I try not to look out the windows as I pack.
My parents live in Arizona.
Plenty of sun there.
I don't know how long I'll be gone.
I can't really afford to miss much work.
I'm not sure Erin will let me come back anyway.
The drive is long, but I don't mind.
It only takes a couple hours before I'm out of the rain and the persistent clouds.
The afternoon heat bakes me.
Hot air fills my lungs.
I leave the window down and the breeze flows over me.
I let a smile into my cheeks.
The first one in a week.
The hours meander by and the sun begins to dip.
And I consider finding a place to stop for the night.
A while later I pass a sign for Highway 39 that sits adjacent to a narrow green sign
that tells me I'm about nine miles out from a town named Jordan.
I never like taking the interstate if I can help it.
Most of history and charm left in the United States is buried in the old roads and towns that industry forgot.
The sun is nearly set by time and I have the thought that I should have arrived in Jordan by now.
I haven't been paying much attention to the clock.
I like to savor the moments where my life doesn't twist around those wretched digital numbers.
Still, it was only nine miles away when I saw the sign.
Thirty minutes at most if I drove it a crawl.
I don't think I could have missed it.
There hasn't been much to see in the barren desert land.
I think for a moment to turn my car around when a familiar smell greets me.
Rot.
Instinct takes me as I slam the brakes.
The car screeches to a stop.
My white knuckles clamp the wheel.
The road bends out of sight behind a small hill, but I already know what's behind it.
Wiry shadows poke the road as I roll the car forward.
I know what I'm about to see, but I have to see it anyway.
Trees.
More than I can count.
Tall, lush trees with thick trees.
Tall, lush trees with thick foliage that shades the highway.
Green moss climbs their trunks.
They are the kind of trees that don't belong in the desert.
The kind of trees that I left behind in my backyard with the rain.
I don't care if everyone tells me they aren't real.
The police, my neighbors, my friends, they aren't here.
I am.
And they can't see what I see now.
They can't see the moss and the shadows and the wood.
They can't feel the cold.
They can't smell the rot.
They're not real.
I slow the car to a stop and turn around.
The ground crunches beneath me.
I don't know the roads well.
I don't know any detours or routes to reconnect with the highway or where else I might go.
But none of that matters.
I'll go somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
I wheel the car around and freeze.
More trees sprawl out before me.
Not just beside the road, but on it.
I look in my mirrors and out the windows and it's the same in every direction.
They're not real.
I flick on my head like a flash.
I flick on my headlights and decide to try and make my way back.
The road gets louder and uneven beneath my tires, obscured by the shadows.
Small divots and rocks start to appear on the road and beside it.
I drive slowly, winding my car between the trees that have enroached upon the road.
Not real.
I'm saying it out loud now.
The crunching beneath my tires gets louder.
Dust and dirt spit into the air behind me.
I turn my brights on, I think for a second I see something move out of the light.
But it's gone before I can turn my head.
The trees press in closer against the road.
I can hear the branches and bushes scrape my car.
Not real.
The condition of the road deteriorates beneath me.
My headlights bounce around the area.
Trees come in and out of view.
It's only because I'm forced to drive slowly to weave around the obstacles that I don't crash into the fallen tree blocking the road.
I hit the brakes hard.
My tires struggle to grip the road, but stops a few inches in front of the log.
I step out onto the road.
When I open my door, the smell of rot assaults my senses.
Strong enough now to nearly make me gag.
Dirt scuffs beneath my feet.
Not real.
I try to study my hands as I approach the log.
One methodical step at a time.
My breath is shallow and rapid.
I can feel my pulse throb in my throat.
I stop in front of the log and try to appear at my surroundings, but it's too dark to see.
The woods are silent.
Except for the gentle hum of my engine idling behind me.
I wipe my hands on my jeans a few times and muster my courage.
I bend down and place a single hand on the log.
Wet moss glides between my fingers.
Beneath it, the distinct firm and sharp texture of bark pushes into my palm.
Real.
I'm going to end this episode with a short story.
World Architect 91 is an amazing writer and I had a blast narrating this story.
If you have a story that you've written that you would like me to narrate, you can send it to me at scrypool@outlook.com.
You can also follow me on YouTube at youtube.com/@thescrying pool.
and on your favorite podcasting platforms like Apple Podcast and Spotify.
Thank you for listening.
Sweet dreams.