The wind is fierce tonight. Every gust causes the overgrown rose bushes outside to scratch against my north-facing window, thorns clawing at the screen. The sun sank below the horizon a while ago, but the sky still holds some light, a faint sheen of pink encroaching on dusty blue. I should close the curtains, I know I should. My grandmother warned me, but I don’t want to. Instead, as the first stars poke through the darkness, I stare fixedly out the eastern window toward the treeline of the park across the street. She always comes on windy nights. This one is no exception, and as gloom settles slowly on the horizon, I see her. A shadow, darker than the rest, emerges from the trees and begins to move. As it draws closer, it resolves into a recognizable shape. Her long hair whips around her head, as black as the deepest shade of the forest, marking her distinct from the pale, light-polluted cityscape. A ragged coat twirls around her legs, the same faded blue as the sky.
Eyes fixed, she walks straight ahead. Straight towards me, though she never crosses the edge of the park. I think she must live there, in the woods somewhere. When I was very young, that park was just grass. The trees came later, planted all at once over one dry summer, and she came with the trees. Grandmother says she’s a fairy coming to entrap me, or a spirit trying to steal my soul. She always admonishes me for looking, says that nothing good ever comes out of the forest at night. Each time the weather forecast mentions storms, or anything like wind, she fixes me with her watery gaze, the sharp shine of her spectacles saying don’t you dare. Still, I can never turn away.
Her bare feet seem to skim along the grass, though she moves at a glacial pace. When she first started showing up, I worried that she would hurt herself walking around barefoot. Littered with broken glass, cigarette butts, and discarded condoms, the park is not a safe place to walk without shoes. When I was nine, I left out a pair of my old rainboots for her, hiding them under our porch so grandmother wouldn’t find out. She never reached the house, and when I checked again after three windy nights the only thing using my boots was a family of spiders.
That wasn’t my only attempt to help her. I’ve caught glimpses of her expression before, when she reaches the very edge of her range and the streetlights are especially bright. She always looks like she’s pleading with me, eyes shining and face contorted, though her mouth never moves. Once, I stayed up all night watching her. Grandmother’s warnings warred with my instincts, and at three in the morning I wrote out a sign in block letters which I held up to the window. What do you need? She never replied, just stood there staring. When the wind finally faded a little before dawn, she turned around and walked back into the trees.
Tonight, she stands at the edge of the park again. I watch, staring into her face as her dark hair and blue coat fly through the air, entangled with my memory. I’m sure my eyes are pleading as well, begging her to take one more step forward, to tell me how to help. Then, something shifts. A gust of wind hurls itself out of the clouds, stronger than any before it. Every light in my house blinks out at once, it hits the walls with a sound like thunder, and the rose bush screeches as its thorns break through the screen to the glass of my window.
I catch a glimpse of her, mouth open in a silent cry, arms outstretched as if to stop herself from falling, and then she vanishes. She doesn’t walk away, fade out, or herald her departure in any dramatic way. One moment she is there, and the next she isn’t. I’m running before I have time to think, flinging the front door open, then hearing it slam behind me as another violent shift in air pressure forces it closed. My own bare feet are loud on the pavement of the sidewalk, the asphalt of the road, then silent as they hit the grass. I feel the garbage, feel something sharp pierce my skin, and can’t bring myself to care.
I pull up short at the treeline, the wind drowning out my panting breath. Right at the edge of the woods, a little beyond the shelter of the other trees, a small ceanothus has fallen. Its shallow roots have pulled up from the ground, flinging clumps of dirt into the air and unmooring it entirely. Dark green leaves cluster its branches, darker than the shadows all around it. Dusty blue petals litter the ground, twirling in the wind like a ragged coat.
Eyes fixed, she walks straight ahead. Straight towards me, though she never crosses the edge of the park. I think she must live there, in the woods somewhere. When I was very young, that park was just grass. The trees came later, planted all at once over one dry summer, and she came with the trees. Grandmother says she’s a fairy coming to entrap me, or a spirit trying to steal my soul. She always admonishes me for looking, says that nothing good ever comes out of the forest at night. Each time the weather forecast mentions storms, or anything like wind, she fixes me with her watery gaze, the sharp shine of her spectacles saying don’t you dare. Still, I can never turn away.
Her bare feet seem to skim along the grass, though she moves at a glacial pace. When she first started showing up, I worried that she would hurt herself walking around barefoot. Littered with broken glass, cigarette butts, and discarded condoms, the park is not a safe place to walk without shoes. When I was nine, I left out a pair of my old rainboots for her, hiding them under our porch so grandmother wouldn’t find out. She never reached the house, and when I checked again after three windy nights the only thing using my boots was a family of spiders.
That wasn’t my only attempt to help her. I’ve caught glimpses of her expression before, when she reaches the very edge of her range and the streetlights are especially bright. She always looks like she’s pleading with me, eyes shining and face contorted, though her mouth never moves. Once, I stayed up all night watching her. Grandmother’s warnings warred with my instincts, and at three in the morning I wrote out a sign in block letters which I held up to the window. What do you need? She never replied, just stood there staring. When the wind finally faded a little before dawn, she turned around and walked back into the trees.
Tonight, she stands at the edge of the park again. I watch, staring into her face as her dark hair and blue coat fly through the air, entangled with my memory. I’m sure my eyes are pleading as well, begging her to take one more step forward, to tell me how to help. Then, something shifts. A gust of wind hurls itself out of the clouds, stronger than any before it. Every light in my house blinks out at once, it hits the walls with a sound like thunder, and the rose bush screeches as its thorns break through the screen to the glass of my window.
I catch a glimpse of her, mouth open in a silent cry, arms outstretched as if to stop herself from falling, and then she vanishes. She doesn’t walk away, fade out, or herald her departure in any dramatic way. One moment she is there, and the next she isn’t. I’m running before I have time to think, flinging the front door open, then hearing it slam behind me as another violent shift in air pressure forces it closed. My own bare feet are loud on the pavement of the sidewalk, the asphalt of the road, then silent as they hit the grass. I feel the garbage, feel something sharp pierce my skin, and can’t bring myself to care.
I pull up short at the treeline, the wind drowning out my panting breath. Right at the edge of the woods, a little beyond the shelter of the other trees, a small ceanothus has fallen. Its shallow roots have pulled up from the ground, flinging clumps of dirt into the air and unmooring it entirely. Dark green leaves cluster its branches, darker than the shadows all around it. Dusty blue petals litter the ground, twirling in the wind like a ragged coat.