"Sisters of the Wood" by Joel Austin

Sisters of the Wood

by Joel Austin

 

When my wife killed herself, I was gutted. I blamed myself, and rightfully so. I was the one who told her to do it. 

We had been on a bender for what seemed like months. I’m pretty sure if no one else had spent a cent at the liquor store up the block, she and I would have kept them in the black with how much we drank.

It would always start fun, watching a movie we’d seen before, planning out a dinner, and talking about having sex after we were a little loaded. Rarely did we make it that far. 

Almost like clockwork, one of us would say something that got under the other's skin. I’d laugh at a joke in the movie that she found offensive, or she would answer a question sarcastically, her witty way of calling me stupid. If it were early enough in the night, it would be forgotten after a few more shots. But more frequently, as time progressed, a small comment would turn into an hour-long screaming match.  

The night before my wife ingested a handful of sleeping pills and a bottle of wine in the bathtub, I was the one who instigated the fight. Ironically, I suggested that we may want to consider drying out. I think she took that as me telling her she had a problem. I’m sure I could have used more tact… but I had already been drinking and my lips were as loose as a deflated balloon. 

She began to throw things, breaking my laptop, a couple of glasses, and then screaming about how she wished she were dead. It had never gotten that bad before. 

I wish I could say that I handled the situation with grace and love, but my drunken ego puffed its chest and reared its ugly head.

“Then kill yourself!” I screamed at her as I grabbed the open bottle of rum and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door and barricading myself inside. 

I didn’t remember anything else until the next morning. I woke up with that hollow feeling inside my stomach. The one that said I owed someone an apology because I got too drunk, and even though I had no idea what I did or said, the mattress blocking the door told me things were bad. 

I found my wife in the kitchen, the stench of body odor and alcohol burning my sinuses. She had already started drinking. Or maybe she hadn’t stopped? I tested the waters in my usual way.

“Do you want something to eat?” I asked.

She stared at the table, completely unresponsive. She didn’t look at me, which made my face flush with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. 

“Fine!” I spat and walked back out of the room. I went back to bed and lay down. I didn’t hear the bathtub fill with water, I didn’t hear my wife gargling and thrashing as she drowned, I didn’t hear anything until my ears filled with the sounds of my screaming when I entered the bathroom hours later. 

I spent two weeks drunk in my own filth. The only thing from the funeral I remember was that no one sat near me, I assumed because they knew this was my fault, but it might have been due to the aroma I carried. 

A week after that, I heard a knock on my front door. When I opened it, there was nobody there, only a manila envelope sitting on my stoop. 

I brought it inside and ripped the top open, pouring the contents onto my table. There was a letter and a map with a route scrawled in red ink. 

The letter read:

”If you want to make this right, we can offer you a second chance. Follow the map and meet us with your wife’s remains at midnight, and you will be reunited. 

Sincerely,

The Sisters of the Wood.”

Whether it was guilt, grief, or the insanity of being in active addiction, I don’t know. But I didn’t question it or hesitate for a second. 

I grabbed a bag, carefully placed the urn with my wife’s ashes inside, and set off. I couldn’t miss my chance to make things right. 

As I trekked through the woods, the moon became hidden behind the canopy. Gnarled roots stuck up from the ground like fingers, trying to grab hold of me as I walked. The trees seemed to extend their reach, covering the path behind me, following, and preventing me from turning back. 

Following the map became impossible as the darkness grew so thick that I couldn’t see the tip of my nose. I was about to give up when I heard singing, it sounded like a group of women singing, Ring Around the Rosie, the children’s rhyme. 

I took off quickly in the direction that I heard the voices and soon found myself in a clearing, moonlight poured down in a waterfall of silvery rays onto five naked women dancing around a stone block. 

“He came! He came!” They shouted, rushing over to me. They took the urn from my hand and spread its contents in a circle around the pedestal before ushering me on top. They shoved something that smelled floral into my pockets. 

I heard a rustling coming from all directions surrounding me. What sounded like massive rodents burrowing through the soft earth.

The women held hands and once again danced, circling me while singing,

“Ring around the Rosie 

Pockets full of posies

Ashes, ashes, you belong to the ground.”

Suddenly, giant snake-like roots burst from the dirt, small slithering fibers extended in all directions as the women jumped up and down, cheering. I was lifted from the stone altar; my body wrapped in a network of wooden tendrils pulling me into the cool ground below. 

Darkness enveloped me as I was consumed by the forest the sisters served.