Arthouse Photography

My great grandfather, Orlando Redondo, pioneered these blackland prairies in the mid-1800s. From the earliest days of his cultivation of the acreage purchased with gold from his native Brazil–gold whose origins remain a subject of historical concern for high-minded whiners with nothing more productive to do with their time–there was one plot of land that he chose to keep in its unaltered state. It was upon the thorns of an evil-looking tree on the edge of this still-pristine semi-wilderness that I discovered the note I transcribe for you here.

With resources a scant fraction of those accessible to my notorious ancestor, I live in a modest house in a rather undistinguished subdivision carved out of the remnants of old Orlando’s rambling rancho. The urban wildland in question lies but several minutes’ walk from my front door, so I visit the pocket forest frequently on my perambulations around the neighborhood. Though, after today, I shall never again venture into its shadowy interior.

The note itself I can no longer offer as evidence, because it simply faded from existence not long after I finished reading it. Fortunately, I copied down its contents even as the wild cursive scrawls began to shimmer and grow faint before my eyes. This old photograph, for whatever reason, has remained intact and appears to have been taken sometime in the middle years of the 20th century, judging by its yellowed surface and certain other visual clues.

The pathway depicted remains more or less the same as it did when this image was captured, and will be immediately recognizable to habitués of the city park that encompasses the woodland. I think you can understand why: Even to the unimaginative eye, it appears to be a portal into a darker and perhaps more insubstantial realm.

The phantom letter reads thus:

“I write to you now from a place beyond reach or understanding. I have no way of knowing whether this message will be found by anyone on the other side–the daylight side–or whether, in fact, they will be able to read or make sense of it if it is discovered.

“I know not why I have been consigned to this living Hell–this purgatory of endless shadow and ever-shifing boundaries. I only know that, for me, there appears to be no escape. I can only hope that what you read here may serve as a warning against following the path that I chose to follow on the night of All Hallows’ Eve.

“Although… the thought of having another living soul here to share the miseries of this nightmare realm holds a certain perverse appeal. (Did I say living? In all honesty, that seems more and more unlikely.)

“It all began with a solitary walk into the park on the aforementioned occasion. The day was nearing its finish–I chose the hour of declining light due to its relative calm and in appreciation for the quietude brought on by the end of the workday hustle and bustle.

“Even before I left the mundane streets and sidewalks of my quiet suburban neighborhood, there were signs that something was oddly amiss. I simply chose not to pay them much attention, and for that I have paid a terrible price.

“A stately oak growing from the verge between a neighbor’s sidewalk and the street appeared to have suddenly burst its boundaries, spilling out over the surrounding concrete as if it were composed of malleable putty rather than solid wood. As I walked past it, I tried to recall whether its roots had recently taken this invasive form or whether I had simply not noticed them before. Did I sense a slight vibration as I walked past it on the sidewalk? If so, I wrote it up to unsure footing–perhaps I had slipped on an acorn hidden beneath the leafy detritus.

“Far more unsettling was the appearance of the two early trick-or-treaters I encountered just before entering the parkland. They exhibited a startling lack of animation, and their masks seemed strangely… organic, I suppose is the best way to describe it. I walked on without greeting them in any way, and they likewise paid me no mind.

“Upon reaching the path that would carry me into the deepest part of the woods, I approached a huge, globular-shaped bush whose aspect seemed indefinably ominous, though I cannot say exactly why. As I walked past, a gust of wind stirred the leafy branches and made it seem that the foliage was being shaken from within. I could swear I heard a faint murmuring, as if from a troubled elderly gentleman, emanating from its leafy depths.

“I hurried past and entered the forest proper, whereupon the entire atmosphere seemed to change. A stillness and quietude settled over all, as if–having crossed some invisible boundary–I had entered an entirely alien realm. Which, of course, I had, though I didn’t become fully aware of it until a good bit later.

“It struck me as odd that, here on a presumably oft-visited path through a decidedly urban parkland, the floor of the forest was littered with undisturbed leaves; should they not have been swept clear by the passage of countless city-dwellers such as myself? Surely I was not the only soul to have entered these woods since the trees had given up their desiccated burdens.

“The path forked periodically as it wound its way between oaks, willows, sycamores and hackberries of all ages and in various conditions of health. But still I heard not a whisper of birdlife or even a hint of wind. It seemed as if time had ceased to pass here in these dank and colorless woods. I wandered on–and on yet further. I’ll admit by this time I had begun to wonder whether I had, indeed, taken a wrong turn, or perhaps several, as I tried to reason how it could be possible that I had not yet emerged from this modest stand of woods.

“It was at this point that panic overtook my better judgment and I began to jog rather than amble through this preposterously expansive forest. I felt that if I picked up my pace I might somehow burst through the confines of the encompassing branches and enter the daylight once again–or the dusk, given that the hour was much advanced from the late afternoon timing of my arrival.

“It was during this headlong flight that I stumbled foolishly into the spines of a briar. The pain of a dozen puncture wounds served only to increase my panic, which must have hastened the effect of the poisonous sap injected by the evil bush. I swooned, my head reeled and the ground rose up to meet me with a stunning blow.

“How long I remained unconscious I cannot say, though judging by my parched throat and rumbling belly it might very well have been days. Nevertheless, when I came back to my senses the condition of the woods had not changed–which is to say that gloom and utter silence still held general sway. I stumbled further along an indeterminate path and soon found myself in a misty clearing, still surrounded by woods but at least able to peer upward into a sky shredded by streamers of clouds. Here, finally, was some movement to put to rest the lie that the world around me had frozen for all time.

“A tree in the midst of this clearing bore an astonishing bounty of perfectly ripe fruit. It looked delicious, at least to my addled mind and empty stomach. Not apples, because too large; not pears, because too round. Each gray, glistening globe seemed to call out to me with the promise of quenching moisture and enriching sustenance. Of course I bit into one–how could I not?

“It was only after consuming the second of these curious-tasting fruits that I found myself floating back toward the depths of the forest. Being a man of reason, I presumed I was experiencing a hallucinogenic effect–though this knowledge did nothing to lessen the outre nature of the experience. At first, the visions proved awe-inducing and delightful. I seemed to commune with the very essence of the trees and found myself becoming like a tree in order to know them better.

“It was all very exciting–until I came to the realization that I was not alone.

“In amongst the bare branches of a dying grove of red cedar I perceived a ghostly figure, staring straight at me. When I first brought him into focus, the shock of the encounter found me frozen to the spot–I literally could not move for what seemed like several minutes, though the time elapsed was probably closer to a score of seconds.

“Breaking out of my fear-induced inaction, I moved marginally to the left–and the shadowy figure (taking on more substance as I looked on in mounting horror) mirrored my motion. I moved to the right–with the same reflective result from the expressionless phantom. I turned and ran without thought of any destination or consequences, with the astonishing result that I passed right through a thick-limbed tree without any discernible resistance.

“I imagine you’ve come to the same conclusion that I did at this point–which is that I myself had become a phantom, imprisoned in this shadowed realm out of space and time. I attach this note to the brambles of the very briar that impaled me in the hope that someone will find it and know what to do to execute a rescue operation. Failing that, I trust that this message, if found, will serve as a warning to those who would enter these unhallowed woods on All Hallows’ Eve.

“It’s all I can do from where I now stand.”