Fifteen Seconds in the Woods
By Beck Snyder, written September 2022
I am walking toward the forest in the middle of a chilly November night. Gravel crunches underneath my foot, completely unseen, and the path ahead is lit only by the small flashlight my phone provides. The light lets me catch a glimpse of the rundown white barn I’m passing, one that is hopefully empty, and I am beginning to wonder if having the flashlight on is worse.
Here’s the thing about me—I have a lot of bad ideas, and most of the time, I’m stubborn enough to go through with them.
Having a creative mind does that to you, I think, especially when given a prompt. Mine was simple: go to a location, take that location in, and write about it. Then, go to the same location when something was different (time, weather, amount of people there, etc.) and write about it from that new perspective.
That prompt and a few rejected ideas later led me to now, walking out towards Fairview Mountain past midnight, armed with nothing more than a flashlight, a journal, and a pen to jot down any notes. A terrible idea? Yes. Obviously. Anyone who’s seen more than 30 seconds of a horror movie could tell you that much, but I’d already been up on one of the mountain’s hiking trails earlier that week with the very same notebook and pen in hand, and as the sun shone above me, I’d felt more relaxed than I had since I headed off to the figurative mountain of work college laid out before me. How much different could the experience be at night, especially if I was bringing along a light source of my own?
Very.
The path continues past the barn, gravel and pavement giving way to packed dirt and grass that was just tall enough to need to be mowed again. I am relatively safe for the moment, with most of the forest still a fair distance away as I make my way through the meadow that sits next to a fishing lake. Claustrophobia has yet to set in, but I can still hear the chirping of nearby, unseen crickets, and a faint buzzing noise that reminds me of cicadas, but it’s far past their season. When I came here during the day, the tweeting of birds and buzzing of insects was a reminder of life, of how much this forest sustained. Now, it only sends a chill through my bones as I am reminded of just how many creatures are around that are beyond my sight.
But I am determined to continue. It is one of the few times my stubbornness has outweighed my anxiety—though, I suppose, my anxiety had a hand in keeping me moving forward. This writing prompt is one for a creative nonfiction class, one taught by my favorite professor, a man we all call Ben. The first time I was in his class, he told me he was impressed by my work. I don’t want to let him down.
I press on past the lake. It’s a cloudy night out tonight, and there is no reflection of the moon within the still, silent water. There is only my flashlight to illuminate it, and the stillness feels uncomfortable. People come up to fish on this lake constantly. There’s supposed to be something alive in there, but not even the reeds sprouting up along the edges are moving. The air itself is dead around me and trying not to think about it only makes it all the more noticeable.
I move on. Just past the lake and the meadow lies the final sign of civilization before plunging into the depths—the road that leads further up the mountain to the Outdoor School. I walked up this road once in fifth grade, followed by a pack of other fifth graders dragging duffle bags behind them, ready to spend our first full week away from home learning about identifying plants, going on hikes, and playing games about the food chain. As I continue along it, I catch sight of the pavilion where we played Predator/Prey, in which I was given the role of omnivore. I still remember the exact bush I was trying to hide behind before I was spotted, my hiding place announced to the enemy carnivores by Hunter, who ironically, was an herbivore. I can spot it now, just barely illuminated by one of the flickering street lamps.
I stop for a moment underneath that same street lamp. I’m not sure what stops me here—maybe I’m clinging to the last beam of light I’ll have before I am left alone with only my flashlight. Maybe I want to stay in the familiarity, here outside of the pavilion where I lost a game I was determined to win, all because I’d worn snow boots that I couldn’t run in. Perhaps I should have chosen this spot for my prompt. It’s more open and illuminated, has more memories tied to it—
But I didn’t choose this place. I chose to walk down the hiking trail into the forest for a more authentic prompt, one in which I had no previous memories, and at this moment, as I stare down at the little wooden arrow sign painted dark red pointing down the trail, I can’t remember why.
Ben, I think, as I suck in a terrified breath. I cannot disappoint Ben.
I start down the trail. The light from the street lamps behind me quickly disappears, covered up by the countless tree trunks and branches that seem to close in behind me. Fallen autumn leaves crunch under my feet, and while the noise gives me joy in the daylight, now it makes me cringe. I do not want to be heard. Not by whatever creature could be lurking just outside of my flashlight’s beam.
My mind, of course, is no help. A few of the tree trunks have hastily spray-painted circles and arrows decorating their trunks. They are meant to be guides, a sign that you are headed down the right path, markers to show where you’re going and where you’ve been. In the darkness of night with no moon overhead and only a flashlight, however, my brain has not-so-helpfully dragged forward memories of horror stories that kept me awake at night in middle school and suddenly reminded me of just how similar my current situation is to Slenderman.
I speed up. My spot is about a five-minute walk down the path at a casual stroll, I make it there in half the time, my breathing just as quick, and after an extra 30 seconds of deliberation, make up my mind and switch the flashlight off. It is worse, I think, if I were to turn around and see something than it would be to sit in pitch-black darkness and hope nothing is there. Ignorance is bliss and all that.
Last time, in the sun, I sat out here for 30 minutes. This time, my heart pounding in my chest as the darkness seems to constrict around me, I decide I will force myself to sit still for 30 seconds. I will sit here, listen to the sound of distant bugs and bats that I will not see, feel the cool, still air against my arms, and collect just enough information to write about it.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .
I’m calming down, the longer my timer goes on inside my head and nothing terrible happens. No supernatural creature is lurking behind one of the tree trunks to kill me. It is simply me, the crickets, and the moonless sky. There is something almost beautiful about being entirely alone like this on a night as close to silent as the forest can get. It feels as if I am the last human on Earth—
A twig snaps on 15.
My stubbornness finally loses the fight, and I bolt. I tear back through the hiking trail, down along the road, past the lake, and across the meadow as fast as my legs will carry me. I do not stop until I am past the old white barn, and there, I double over to gasp for air, my lungs heaving as exhaustion takes over from adrenaline.
I am left with one comfort: those 15 seconds will be enough to write a complete prompt.
Beck Snyder is a senior at Towson University studying both creative writing and film. They are from the tiny town of Clear Spring, Maryland, and while they enjoy small-town life, they cannot wait to get out of town and see what the world has to offer. They hope to graduate by the summer of 2023 and begin exploring immediately afterward. You can find more from Beck at their Instagram @real_possiblyawesome.
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