Carrie Jones - Need

I walk outside again and stand on the porch, listening. No birds sing or even twitter. The wind howls and rustles through the tree branches. A pine cone drops onto our roof and rolls down by my feet, making me jump. My hand clutches the poker.

"Wimp," I mutter.

I march over to Nick's MINI and put my injured hand on his door handle, pulling it open. It smells so much like him. I touch the steering wheel with my fingers. Something inside me shudders again, and not in a good way. I don't want him to be in danger. I pull my hand away from the steering wheel. It stings. The lines do make the rune for protection. How weird. I turn around in a circle so I can see all around me. A prickly feeling creeps through my hand and up my arm, marching toward my heart.

"Nick?" I whisper.

I push the hair out of my face. The wind whips it back. I grab an elastic band off my wrist and yank my hair back into a ponytail. The sun has almost set behind the trees. It casts an orange glow, a last stand against the night.

"Nick?" I say louder.

No answer.

I try it even louder.

"Mick? You out there?"

That's when I hear it, the angry howl of some kind of dog. I freeze.

And then I hear something even worse. From the edge of the forest comes a hoarse whisper that is not Nick's voice, but I recognize it. I heard it last night when I went running.

"Zara," it says. "Come to me."

I take a step toward the voice, just one step. "Nick?"

"Zara…"

I stop and look around. The clouds darken with the setting sun, turning into something somber and full of potential dangers. The trees lean with the wind, the younger ones almost bending. I wrap my arms around my own trunk, trying to make the spidery feeling go away.

"Zara…"

"Nick, is that you?"

No answer.

"Who are you?" I yell.

"Come to me."

"Tell me who you are!"

"Zara…"

I stomp my foot down. "Look. This is crazy. Tell me who you are and I'll come, okay? But I've got to tell you that if you've hurt Nick-or if you are Nick gone psycho-I am not going to be happy."

My words dangle like a warning in the cold air. My insides warm up like I am on fire. Anger will do that to you.

"Zara…"

"Enough with calling my name!" I scream, raging now. "It's ridiculous."

I storm into the woods then, not thinking about it, just powered by rage, ready to beat someone up, even though I've never beat anyone up before. Friedrich Nietzsche says, "He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster."

I race maybe fifty feet into the trees and then I stop, feet skidding on the hard surface. I am doing exactly what everyone has been telling me not to do, what I'm not supposed to do, exactly what I had promised Nick that I wouldn't do. I almost scream.

I am so angry at myself, angry at the voice, angry at Nick. My hand clutches the poker.

The voice whispers out from behind me. "Almost there, Zara.

Don't stop now."

I whirl around. I can't see anyone standing among the trunks.

"Where are you?" I demand.

No answer.

"Who are you?"

"You know." The voice comes from my right this time. I pivot. It doesn't sound like Nick. The voice is older, slicker.

"How do you know my name?" I ask, listening hard.

"I've always known your name, princess."

Zara means princess. Right. I don't care what my name means. I rush toward where I think the voice is coming from, flying over stones and pinecones and tree roots.

"Where are you?"

Nothing breaks the endless tree trunks, no swath of cloth, no eyes, no hair. Trees are all I see. Trees.

Trees. Trees. I pivot, looking for the house, which should be to my right, but it's not there. Just trees.

Damn, it's dark in the woods.

Fear grips my stomach, only this time it isn't just fear for Nick. It's fear for me, too. I can't be lost I can't be lost that quickly.

"Where are you?"

"This way." The voice comes from my left this time. I bomb after it, darting through the trees, going farther and farther into the increasing darkness. It is almost night.

"Did you take Nick? Because I swear to God, I'll kick your ass if you took Nick."

I blast into a small clearing. A circle of small spruce trees stands as sentinels. Snow begins to fall from the sky. I stop, standing there alone in the middle of the circle as the snow comes down, faster and faster.

"You're trying to get me lost," I say. My fists clench. I release them. I won't show him I'm afraid. I won't be afraid. "You're really annoying me!"

There is no answer.

"I am not imagining you!"

Still no answer.

My head pounds. There is a name for this, this fear of a voice. But I can't remember it. Damn.

Phobophobia, fear of phobias.

Phonophobia, fear of noises or voices.

Photoaugliaphobia, fear of glaring lights.

Photophobia, fear of light.

That's the one. And what's the next fear, alphabetically?

Phronemophobia, fear of thinking.

I am not afraid of thinking. Thinking calms me down. I search the periphery of the trees, looking, looking.

Where am I?

I am in the woods.

Where is Wick?

I have no idea. Not taken. He can't be taken.

Where is the voice?

I check my pocket for my cell phone. It's still in my cross-country bag. I shake my head because, really, how could I be doing this? I am probably following the voice of some psycho pixie serial killer into dark woods worthy of a Stephen King novel, and Idid not bring my cell phone.

A noise escapes my lips-guttural, panicked, pathetic. I swallow, straighten. That is not how I am going to be. I am not going to die a wimp while waiting for the killer to get me.

The snow plasters itself to the spruce trees. It touches my hair, coats my jacket and my pants, presses itself into my sneakers. It comes down so quickly it's already covering the ground, which means there will be footprints to follow or for someone else to follow.

"Zara," the voice comes again. "Come to me."

I shake my head. I've already been totally irrational. I'm not going to make it worse. "No."

I brush the snow off my face.

"This way."

I cover my ears and refuse to move.

"I'm lost. You made me lost," I say, my voice weak, "and that is a super jerky thing to do."

Then I hear it: amused laughter, and beneath that laughter something else, the howl.

Of a wolf?

It is a dog. It has to be a dog because I cannot handle a wolf right now.

I listen again. Maybe those old books I read back in fourth grade are right. Where German shepherds and Saint Bernards always rescued people in dire circumstances. Maybe a nice doggie has come to rescue me from whoever or whatever is in the woods. Maybe he'll even have a barrel of beer under his neck. I don't care. I'll even take a werewolf right now. I'll take anything.

Hope is a crazy thing. It will make you believe.

I rush toward the dog's howling noise, searching for some friendly fur, maybe some drooling jowls. The howl seems closer, coming from behind me. I plow toward it, ignoring the snow and how it covers the ground, hiding the tree roots and rocks, making every footfall a danger.

Stopping, I suck in my breath. I have no idea where I am. My head is spinning from my minor concussion.

Breathe in, Zara.

Breathe out, Zara.

List the phobias.

I can't, I can't think of any.

Breathe in.

Mrs. Nix!

She said to put your coat on inside out to avoid getting lost. Sure, she's a flake and it's a stupid superstition, but I am willing to do it. Right now, I am willing to do anything.

I yank off my jacket and turn it inside out. Then I pull off ray sweatshirt and flip it around too. The arms feel all weird and bunched up.