Beyond the Brook

Ever since he could remember - he had wandered through the woods, down the overgrown paths, weaving in between the towering pines, over old stone walls that had once stood between family feuds -  shuffling through the dried, fragile leaves that littered the ground, down to the moss covered bridge that hung over the ever trickling brook. Once there, he'd sit, legs dangling over the edge, just hanging there, above the water that churned below him, bubbling and gurgling up at him, as if it was trying to carry a conversation, with the current always getting in the way.

He'd slide his hands over the lush moss - Mother Nature's carpet, soft under his touch, but full of life. He was looking for the perfect stone. Flat. Smooth. Circular. It never took long to find one, but when he did, he'd run his fingers over it, feeling for imperfections, judging its weight. When he was satisfied, he'd hurl it with all his might, up the stream, watching it skip across the glass-like water until it lost momentum and dove beneath the surface.

Growing up, he had always heard a rumor that beyond the bridge, lived a man in a dark suit. He was always meticulously dressed, tie pulled close to his neck, suit perfectly tailored, top hat positioned perfectly upon his head. People had claimed to have seen him, lingering in the woods, amongst the trees, just standing there, staring out to the other side of the bridge. Some said it was just a rumor, others swore it was the devil, horns hidden under the tall hat, waiting for someone to be foolish enough to cross the bridge into his territory.

These stories never bothered him. He didn't believe in them. For all the years he had come down to the bridge, he had never seen or heard of the man. Until today - when an applause began to his left after a good throw.

There he stood, as perfect as he had ever been described. Tall, gaunt, mustache curled around his lip, smiling - revealing elongated canines. His suit was pristine. Not a wrinkle to be found. A loose thread to pull. A darker black than the boy had ever seen - like an abyss that surrounded the man, able to suck one in. He made one simple offer - that from his side of the bridge, one could get a better angle to throw a stone. The boy should come over, give it a try.

But the boy knew better. He could see that the patch of moss the Man was standing on had turned brown and shriveled up, curling onto itself, like a slug that had come in contact with salt - withered and dry. It made him nervous that he couldn't see the Man's hands, tucked away behind his back. His imagination ran wild - picturing long gnarled fingers, punctuated with filed nails - claws. How they'd wrap around his shoulders the moment he stepped across the bridge, pulling him deeper into the woods. It scared him and he wasn't even sure if the man that stood before him was real.

Before his mind wandered any further, the boy was on his feet, dashing back towards his house, disregarding the path that he had taken to get to his bridge. He swore he could hear footsteps behind him, loud, crashing through the forest, leaves crunching. Every muscle in his body told him not to look and he didn't. He just kept running forward, until his lungs couldn't take it anymore.

Turning around, expecting the man to be there, ready to pounce, he saw absolutely nothing, but the lush green of the forest. His soul eased. He was safe.

But he swore, off in the distance, he could hear the distinct sound of stones skipping off water, accompanied by a low cackle.