Fable of Happiness

Kassen

I HAD BEEN DIGGING AGAIN.

I looked at my hands, grimacing at the dirt under my nails, the mud on my arms, and the soil scattered across my single bed.

Damn it.

It had been a while since that happened. Years since I’d managed to unlock the multiple locks on the dormitory door and sneak outside while sleepwalking. To move under the moonlight. To slip between shadows, bare and silent, before falling to my knees in the dirt.

I glanced past my dirty hands, squinting at the window.

It was slightly open.

Jumping from my bed, I rushed to it. I grabbed the wrought iron frame, clenching the old-fashioned latch.

Why is this open?

Who?

How?

My eyes darted around the room, sweeping over empty beds, scanning bare walls, and peering into dark corners.

I froze and held my breath, waiting to hear an intruder cough or speak. My skin prickled, and if I’d been blessed with fur instead of mere flesh, I would’ve bristled with a warning.

Just like it’d been years since I’d been digging in the night, it’d also been a while since I was young enough to fantasize. To pretend I was a different creature—any creature—other than what I was. I’d read every single book in this godforsaken place three times over. I’d devoured economics, cooking, horticulture, and mechanics. I’d indulged in thrillers, sagas, and even romance, but my favorite genre was fantasy.

It was the only thing that could pull me from my reality and place me in another’s skin. The magic of a written word could transform me into a wolf or a giant or a sorcerer so wicked that his hands were stained with a millennium of blood instead of dirt.

There’s no one here.

In the past, I wouldn’t have believed myself.

These days, I’d learned to trust my instincts.

Slowly, I relaxed.

The room was empty. Just me, a few cockroaches, and the resident raccoons who’d made a home in the attic above.

But why is the window open?

Pushing it further, I looked down at the roof of the ten-car garage. At the small overhang where the bottom level spread out wider than the second story above.

There, on the dusty metal, were footprints.

My footprints.

My shoulders sagged in relief.

I hadn’t gone out the door. I’d used the window. The trap I’d set to alert me if anyone tried to break in had been disarmed. The string attached to the ladle that would crash to the floor had been simply ripped off the handle and set aside.

It should probably worry me that I could do something like that when I had no memory of where else I’d been, but this was an old habit.

A habit I thought I’d outgrown.

Where did I go?

Find out.

Nodding, even though I didn’t really want to know where I’d gone last night, I left the dormitory. I moved naked with my back still prickling with warning, crept down the narrow servant stairs, cut through the kitchen, and burst out the back door.

Sparrows flew off with offended squawks. Vines shook, dropping a few leaves onto my shoulders as I ducked under the overgrown arch that led to the woods and away from the chef garden.

It was warmer than usual today. Muggy and heavy, living up to the stifling summer so far. The ground was dry after being damp from the thunderstorm only a few days ago, and a couple of fallen leaves rested beside dusty indents of my journey last night.

I was good at tracking. I’d hunted for years. I’d read game books and learned how to preserve caught meat.

It was strange to be tracking my own footprints, but I did it because I needed to know.

Needed to see if I’d regressed.

My hands clenched into fists as I followed the trail into the forest. It wasn’t too far from the house. I’d needed it to be close enough back then, but now, it seemed as if darkness had claimed it as its own.

Nothing grew here. No grasses, no berries, no trees.

A blank scar in the dirt.

A blank scar with nail marks on the edge and handfuls of fresh earth piled on top.

I stepped back.

Damn it.

Grabbing my hair, I pulled at the roots, wishing I could tear out the memories that kept swarming inside me.

Why had I come here?

What was I trying to do last night?

The answer to that question almost made me throw up all over my recent claw marks.

A flurry of birds suddenly took flight behind me. Squawking indignantly, their wings creating a fluttering noise of feathers. They bolted from the treetops surrounding my ravine.

I spun around in panic.

Had they been scared because of me? Because they sensed my rising fear?

They squawked again, circling over the top of the cliff where I’d never ventured. They hovered and dived, investigating something I couldn’t see before taking off in a choreographed cloud.

Something’s out there.

Self-preservation surged through me.

Rage and hate sent a violent claim for my valley down my legs.

No one else was welcome here.

Ever.

I broke into a run, back the way I came, stopping abruptly by the cliff to look up, up, up the craggy ravine that both imprisoned and protected me, through the crisscrossed branches that blocked out the sky, to the swaying treetops beyond.

I waited for another flock to spook.

My eyes darted in the new sunlight, searching for whatever had made them take off. I’d lived here long enough to read the forest, and birds didn’t suddenly perform a mass exodus unless a predator was nearby.

Was it the bear from last summer?

The coyote that I’d snared and then let go?

I strained to hear. I listened for far longer than usual because something felt off. Something wasn’t quite right.

Nothing.

Silence. Just the chatter of birds, the rustle of leaves, the soft hum of insects.

No other hint that anything stalked me from above.

No enemy to hunt.

I was alone, like always.

I gave it a few more minutes before I turned back to the house. I tried to ease into my morning run routine, but a sense of dread was creeping over me, chilling my bare skin. It was like icy fingers tracing down my spine, sinking their claws into my flesh.

There was something out there.

There was something inside me.

No place felt safe.