"Brides Crown" by Joseph Sackett

Brides Crown

by Joseph Sackett

 

Cassia stood by the kitchen window, staring into the treeline. The forest looked darker today, trees bunched like conspirators.

"He said we're unnatural," she whispered, turning to Grace. "That the forest knows how to deal with us."

Grace paced near the stove, anger simmering.

"He's just trying to scare you." Grace moved toward her. "Come here."

Cassia jerked away. "Don't."

"You don't get it. He means it." Cassia's voice cracked. "He thinks we deserve whatever is waiting out there."

"So what if he does? He has no power over us."

"Stop pretending everything will be fine."

"What do you want me to say? That my father's right? That we should be afraid because we love each other?"

"I want you to admit this isn't nothing!"

"It's my father being the same hateful man he's always been."

Cassia's shoulders slumped. A tear rolled down her cheek. "You didn't hear his voice."

Grace stepped forward, pulling Cassia into her arms. This time, Cassia didn't resist.

"I'm sorry," Grace murmured. "I know my father scares you."

Cassia buried her face in Grace's neck. For a moment, she felt safe.

But then she pulled away, anger flaring. "You're still not listening."

Grace's face hardened. "Because you're not saying anything new. It's always the same—the woods, the stories, my father."

"Then why won't you take this seriously?"

"I am! I just refuse to let him terrorize us."

Cassia turned back to the window. "Maybe you should go."

"Fine." Grace grabbed her jacket. "Call me when you're ready to talk."

The door slammed, leaving Cassia alone with the darkening forest.

A year later, a sharp knock jolted her back to the present. Cassia blinked, disoriented, her breath fogging the glass pane.

Another knock, more insistent.

Through the peephole, Warren stood on her porch, pale eyes fixed on the door as if seeing through it.

Cassia's hand trembled on the doorknob. Warren shouldn't be here. She could just pretend not to be home.

But his knock came again, more insistent.

She opened the door just enough to see him. Warren stood on her porch, hat clutched in weathered hands. His pale brown eyes fixed on her face.

"Cassia." His voice was soft, nothing like the thundering rage she remembered. "May I… speak with you?"

"What do you want?"

"To make peace. About everything with Grace." He looked down, turning his hat. "I thought we might walk the path she loved. Along the creek bed."

A faint smell of loam drifted from his clothes. He'd already been in the woods today.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please." His eyes met hers, unexpectedly vulnerable. "I have things I need to say. About my daughter."

The mention of Grace weakened her resolve. "Just… a short walk."

The forest canopy filtered light into shifting patterns. Warren walked beside her, steps careful, shoulders rounded instead of squared, voice gentle as he pointed out a cardinal.

"Grace loved birds," he said. "As a child, she kept notebooks full of sketches."

Cassia hadn't known. The thought of Grace as a little girl made her throat ache.

"She was special," Warren continued. "I didn't understand her, but I respected her connection to these woods."

His kindness felt disorienting. Cassia watched him, trying to reconcile this man with the one who'd called them abominations.

They reached a small clearing where sunlight broke through. Warren crouched beside a circle of pale mushrooms growing in a perfect ring. His fingers hovered over them reverently.

"Bride's Crown," he said. "In the old stories, they guide souls back to those who love them most."

He plucked one from the earth and held it out.

"It's tradition to share one if you wish to feel their presence again."

Cassia stared at the mushroom in his palm. The forest had gone quiet. Warren's smile was warm, but something in his eyes made her skin prickle.

She hesitated, hand half-extended, torn between suspicion and desperate hope that she might feel Grace near her once more.

Cassia took the mushroom from Warren's palm. It felt cool and spongy between her fingers.

"For Grace," she whispered, placing it on her tongue.

Earthy taste spread as she chewed. Warren nodded, face serene in dappled light.

They continued walking, Warren's stories about Grace flowing freely. Cassia listened, hungry for every detail.

After thirty minutes, warmth spread through her limbs. Colors intensified—the green leaves almost neon, the sky electric blue. She stumbled, catching herself against a tree trunk that felt unnaturally soft.

"Alright?" Warren asked, voice stretching like taffy.

"I don't—" Nausea rolled through her. She doubled over, vomiting onto the forest floor. The mushroom came up, but the warmth remained, turning to fire in her veins.

When she straightened, Warren's face had changed—his kind smile twisted cruel, eyes cold as winter.

"Time to go," he said, grabbing her arm.

The trees bent toward them, branches reaching like grasping hands. Cassia tried to pull away, but her limbs felt disconnected.

"What did you give me?" she slurred.

Warren didn't answer, just dragged her forward until they reached a break in the trees. A freshly dug hole gaped in the center—six feet long, six feet deep.

Cassia's heart hammered. "What is this?"

Warren turned to her, and his eyes went black. His laugh deepened into something inhuman.

"The woods must feed," he said, shoving her hard.

She tumbled into the hole with a lung-emptying thud. Warren's face appeared at the edge.

"My daughter is buried right next to you," he said, spitting down at her. "She tried to defy the forest too."

The first shovelful of dirt hit Cassia's legs. She tried to stand, but her body wouldn't cooperate.

"Please," she begged as dirt rained down.

Something touched her cheek—not dirt, but warm fingers. She turned her head.

Grace lay beside her in the grave, smiling softly, her blue-gray eyes full of love.

"I'm here," Grace whispered, though her lips didn't move.

Cassia reached for her as the dirt continued to fall.