Red Wood

I found a room.

In that room, there was a feather, a quill, and a sleeping bearded dragon. The lizard rested on a grey, wet stone. Beneath the stone was a beautiful, hardwood-finished floor—cherry oak. As I leaned on the wall to steady myself, I noticed very small lettering carved into it. I would’ve missed it otherwise. I felt the embossed text and read:

“The lizard is dead, but it excretes.”

There was a signature beneath the inscription, though I could barely make it out. Looked like Win Philips.

I examined the bearded dragon more closely. Its color was vivid—beautiful, like most bearded dragons. No sign of aging. No evidence of death. Whatever was keeping it so well-preserved was a mystery. It seemed more frozen than dead. I moved on.

The quill in the center of the small wooden room had clearly been used—and used hard. The feather was warped and twisted, the tip frayed. Cracks ran from the nib up through the neck and into the plume. Someone with a very firm, unforgiving grip had left their mark.

I wondered if someone had discarded their curious trash here, or if they'd simply forgotten it. Either way, I was moving on.

I had rented this small redwood room from a woman named Darlene. Darlene is allergic to bees but remains the most passionate bee advocate this side of the Hudson River. She’s moving to California to live among them. She didn’t say where or how—she didn’t like questions, so I didn’t ask.

“Very red, very clean. Previous occupant had a collection of cast iron pans and hung portraits of old, sad women on the wall. Strange man, but made excellent guacamole,” Darlene said while spitting sunflower seeds onto a de-felted pool table in her backyard.

“What’s bringing you this way? You working in the city? Excited at the prospect of spending three years of your life sitting in traffic? I hope you like listening to radio,” she added, in a tone I didn’t care for.

“Just pleasure, Darlene. Grew up here—wanted to come back and relive it before I kick it,” I replied. She seemed more concerned with her sunflower seeds than my answers.

“I think I’m going to head out now. Lots of stuff to move.” Darlene stood and stared. That’s when I noticed the throned-crown necklace she wore. In the center, a dark jewel of some kind.

“I’m going to tell you a secret… I had a dream about you,” she said. “I remember your face, and I remember what you did. If I find that dream to be true, you’ll see me. All of your dreams will become nightmares—ghoulish, unsettling nightmares. If you feel a wicked way rising inside you, come see me. Darlene knows it.” She held out her necklace.

“I’ve burned in these thoughts, and I’ve stayed with them. You must as well. This place isn’t how you remember it. The soul turns in place. You’re not a kid. You’re not safe.”

I returned to my small room and spread out the twin-sized mattress I’d found on the side of the road. I shut the blinds and fell asleep.

A man spoke to me then. Asked for my forgiveness and crossed both his fingers. He told me I’d find a suitcase of old thimbles and was to bring them to him as soon as I did. He never gave me a location, time, place, or anything remotely logical.

He wore a grey-blue suit and a red tie. Handsome—he spoke like a 1940s Hollywood star. At one point, a phone rang. He held up a finger and walked to a phone hanging on the wall. When he returned, he said:

“Whatever she told you, you can’t trust. Not a word, whimper, sigh, plea, or request.”

Then he walked away in a fit. The room was dark. Moonlight slipped through the curtains, casting parallel lines across his face. He looked angry. Maybe scared.

“When you wake up,” he said, “leave immediately. Darlene is some kind of escapee. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She shouldn’t have made it this far. How could they let this happen?”

All his words.

Then he asked me to kill her. Said I’d be saving lives. Said she was the daughter of a monster—and she couldn’t be allowed to live.

I woke up in the redwood room. I opened the door and found myself somewhere unfamiliar—surrounded by tall trees and a dark grey sky. My stomach turned. A cold sensation ran down my lower back. I reached to touch it.

A pistol. Newly polished. Heavy. Intimidating.

There was a sound—like cracking wood in a fire. Snapping, popping, crackling. It intensified, echoing through the forest around me. My blood pressure spiked. I could hear my heartbeat in my earlobes.

Then—silence.

From behind the trees, a creature emerged. It wore a white mask with red-painted lips and a long, sharp nose. Its body was a grotesque mix of fur and flesh. The stench was so vivid it burned my eyes.

It moved strangely. I watched through tears sliding down my cheeks.

The sound returned, louder, clearer. It drowned out the world.

The creature seemed pleased. Excited.

I raised the gun.

A familiar voice whispered:

“Not in these redwoods, dear.”

I was knocked to the ground, covered in slime and scales. I felt frozen—terrified.

I awoke in the red room.

I couldn’t move. I smelled ammonia.

Someone was coming.

The door opened. I saw myself. Another me, looking around the room curiously. Then he walked toward the wall. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.

He placed his hand against the wall and slid down, stopping just above my head.

“The lizard is dead, but it excretes.”