The Shadow in the Dark (Part Ten)

 

I crouched with my back against a tree, calming myself down with some deep breathing techniques I had picked up during a weekend Health & Wellness Course in San Francisco, three years ago, when I was at an uncharacteristically low point in my life and wondering what I should do next. Slowly, as the minutes ticked by, I felt the fear and anxiety wash away.

 

I am not usually scared of men. Why should I fear them? By and large the men I routinely met were conditioned from birth to respect women and to defer to our demands. The exceptions tended to be criminals, and of course in dealing with them I had the authority of my badge and my gun, and the support of the Bureau. But here in this wood I lacked all three of those things, and for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, I had feared the two men who had stripped and abducted a young hiker named Shelley.

 

One thing puzzled me though. I was sure the men were going to rape Shelley. They had bound her wrists and stripped her, after all, but upon hearing she was a virgin, and following a brief examination that had proven she was speaking the ruth, the men had made no attempt to rape her. They had referred to her as being white silk.

 

White silk.

 

I felt a vague unease as I rolled the words upon my tongue. The phrase obviously intimated a virginal state. Presumably the opposite term would be red silk, red denoting the blooding of a woman after she has been penetrated for the very first time. In primitive cultures the taking of a woman’s virginity would be an important feature of a wedding ceremony, and often the bloodied sheets would be presented to the families as evidence that the wedding had been consummated, and that the bride had been a virgin at the outset. 

 

How brutal penetration must seem to a virgin. The tearing of her hymen as the man enters her is by definition a forced entry, no matter how gentle he might strive to be. She is torn, literally torn, and blood is shed. Her body is stretched in a fashion to then accommodate a man’s pleasure. Many women report that the first encounter with a man can be painful. 

 

I recalled Miss Virginia Ryan speaking to me at Quantico, one afternoon.

 

“I understand you are a virgin, Ashlee. How splendid.”

 

I had been surprised by her words. How did she know? 

 

“As your trainer, I have access to your medical records,” she explained. This confused me, for I had never discussed with a doctor my previous sexual history, or lack of. How could she know? “It is useful for me to know such things about my students,” she added. 

 

“Surely my sexual experience has no bearing on my career with the Bureau?” I said. I felt annoyed that she was privy to such information, however she had obtained it.

 

“Perhaps not. Or perhaps in time it may be very important. I like you, Ashlee. I think there will be opportunities for you soon. If you maintain your discipline, of course.”

 

“Discipline?”

 

“There are two kinds of women in this world – those who succumb to their baser needs, and those who rise above them. Which woman will you be, Ashlee?”

 

“That is a crude distinction some men make,” I said. “They view woman as maidens or whores. But we are more complex than that.”

 

“The world is changing, Ashlee. Soon every woman will have a choice to make. She can choose the red path or the white path. She can be desired or she can be respected. But never both.”

 

“With all due respect, Miss Ryan, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I am watching you, Ashlee. You may have potential. I hope you will understand when the time comes.”

 

I had not discussed my state of virginity with her, or why I had not yet slept with a man. I had not told Miss Ryan about the pressures we all had felt in Mount Holyoke College. Our senior Sorority Sisters had policed our dormitories with renewed vigour, spurred on by the rise in popularity (or it seemed) of New Feminism. Bryony Addison, the poster girl for New Feminism, had made it clear that any girl who ‘put herself about’ would be ‘slut shamed’ at college and denounced by her peers. I saw it happen to one girl in the first term. Chrissy Allen had dismissed the opinions of the Sorority Sisters at first, and had ultimately paid the price when she had offered herself up to a boy in the nearby town. The word ‘slut’ had been painted on the door to her room, and word was swiftly circulated that no one was to associate with her. Rather alarmingly, three days after the door painting incident, Chrissy had apparently drunk too much in the college bar and had passed out, which was very out of character for her. When she woke the next morning she found that a broad stripe had been shaved through her lovely blonde hair, from the nape of her neck to her forehead. She had gone to the police, wearing a headscarf after having the rest of her hair cut with clippers out of necessity, but they made only cursory attempts to discover the culprits. For three whole weeks her life was made a misery at Mount Holyoke College, and in the end she had quit her classes and returned home after filing numerous complaints of harassment that had done little to end the secret, unrelenting intimidation.

 

“You’re all bitches!” she had wept as we watched her load her cases into a waiting car. “Every one of you!” Bryony Addison had instructed us all to assemble outside and watch as Chrissy Allen dragged her cases down from her dormitory room. It didn’t matter whether we approved or disapproved of what had happened to Chrissy – we were expected to bear silent witness to her departure.

 

I had dared to speak to Bryony afterwards. “Do you know who did this?”

 

“Of course. Nothing happens at Mount Holyoke College without my knowledge, Ashlee.”

 

“Were you involved?”

 

“Truthfully? No. But then I would say that even if I was involved. Don’t ask questions, Ashlee. Just obey the rules here and you’ll graduate with honours.”

 

I should add that it wasn’t the case that you couldn’t date boys at Mount Holyoke College. You just had to register the relationship with the Sorority Sisters and pledge that the relationship would not extend any further than holding hands and soft kissing while you studied. It was obvious to everyone that Bryony Addison had a steady boyfriend who would spend time with her at weekends, but he was one of those men who wasn’t intimidating to women. He was polite, deferential, and he used expensive scented moisturiser. Everyone could see that Bryony Addison was in control of the relationship, and dictated the terms to Elijah Bannon, even to the extent of choosing his clothes for him. Elijah seemed to dote on Bryony, tolerating her every emotional whim.  

 

“Men like Elijah Bannon are safe,” Bryony once told me as we sat out on the grounds listening to the new Taylor Swift album. “Men like Elijah respect women. One day you will find your own man like him. Safe, dependable, unthreatening.” 

 

Curiously though, I myself had never been drawn to soft, caring men. I thought of Martin, and smiled inwardly. Martin wasn’t soft. There was something old fashioned about him. 

 

I allowed myself ten minutes of composure and then I moved north, up the sloping ground of the Arkham county woodlands towards the distant road, slipping through the gaps between oak and pine trees, past patches of dense bushes, half mindful of the existence of hidden motion sensors along the way. I walked for perhaps fifteen minutes before I reached the security perimeter that the men had discussed. Lining this side of the woodlands, well out of sight of the distant road, was a series of extremely secure close steel mesh panels stretching as far as the eye could see to a height of 5.2 metres with solid steel posts embedded in deep concrete, and razor spears lining the tops of the panels. This was serious security and not something you’d see around farm land. I had seen this sort of system used on high security facilities before now. The close mesh aperture was finger and toe proof, and extremely difficult to penetrate using hand tools. The anti-climb and anti-cut systems made the mesh impenetrable to all but the most powerful of electric tools. The structure was formed of a series of fully welded panels formed from 4 mm vertical and horizontal wires welded at every intersection. I didn’t have to look very long to recognise I’d never get through this fence or over it. In other words, I was trapped on this side of the road. 

 

Trapped.

 

Like an animal

 

Or a runaway slave

 

I felt a shiver of apprehension run down my spine and was gripped by a fight or flight sensation as I considered my options. Wherever the road was beyond here, I couldn’t even hear the traffic. No doubt if I followed the fence panels I would eventually reach some sort of locked gate, but that would simply bring me to the attention of the men who had abducted Shelley. The obvious solution seemed to me to be to return to the derelict bridge and cross back to the other side of the Miskatonic river. I would be in the middle of nowhere, but if I walked along the side of the road I would eventually see passing cars and wave one down for help. 

 

My paranoia told me that I was being watched, but I couldn’t see any sign of cameras or motion sensors.

 

Calm, Ashlee. They don’t know you’re here. They can’t have motion sensors everywhere. That would simply be too expensive. There was probably a sensor at the foot of the bridge and that’s what you tripped.  

 

They don’t know you’re here.

 

For some reason a thought flashed through my mind. I was kneeling, stripped, my chin raised, my hair back over my shoulders and a man was placing a steel collar about my throat. It was a horrible thought, and yet I felt a warm flush through my body as I considered it.

 

What was wrong with me?

 

I pushed the unwanted thoughts from my mind and began to retrace my footsteps back down the wooded slope, back towards the sunken pit with the stone steps and the deep hole that led who knows where, and then when I reached the clearing I continued south, heading back towards the river where I would find the wooden bridge. I was fifteen minutes walking back to the clearing and then another fifteen minutes pushing on back to the river bank. All the while I thought of Sheriff Root and what he must be thinking now. Was he still waiting for me on the main road, or had he become worried enough during all this time that he had left his car and begun to search for me, only to then run into the high security fence? Or had he instead driven back round to the other side of the Miskatonic and returned to the foot bridge that I had crossed? 

 

I glanced at my watch and saw it was now 4.35 in the afternoon. I had perhaps one and three-quarter hours before sunset. Instinctively I felt I didn’t want to be trapped behind the security fence tonight. But when I reached the familiar riverbank I had a surprise waiting for me. The wooden bridge that had been derelict but intact, was now broken and sunk in the water. The middle section had come away and was now fully submerged and the approach on my side of the river had seemingly collapsed on its supports so that it slanted down into the murky water. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought it had been like this for many months, possibly years, but only a few hours ago it had been stable enough to cross. 

 

I thought back to what I had found when I crossed the bridge. There had been modern supports beneath the structure, hidden to a casual inspection, and despite its condemned appearance the bridge had actually been incredibly stable. Yet now it had seemingly collapsed. Or had it? I climbed down the slope to the foot of the bridge and ventured out as far as I could without falling into the fast flowing Miskatonic river. The hand rail on this side was still intact and I held on to it as I slid carefully down to the water’s edge. It seemed to me that the bridge might not have collapsed, but rather it had been lowered by a hidden mechanism, such that the middle section simply retracted below the water line, and the section of the bridge on my side of the river angled itself down at a ninety degree angle, simulating the collapse of the wooden supports. Whatever the case, I could no longer use the bridge to return to the other side of the woodland. I was effectively trapped between the Miskatonic and the steel security fence.

 

I glanced at my watch again and saw it was now 4.53 in the afternoon. With the handrail to support me, I climbed back to the side of the river bank and gazed forlornly at the safety of the far side. Perhaps I should wait here? If Sheriff Root returned to this side of the Miskatonic and ventured back down to the bridge, hoping to cross it and find me, he would see me trapped on the far bank. And so I sat down on some mossy grass and waited. Half an hour went but without any sign of rescue. Where was he? I needed him! 

 

I am not a strong swimmer, and the Miskatonic is renowned for having strong currents during Autumn and Winter. Any attempt to swim across to the distant bank might well see me swept further downstream, battling against the pull of the water. So, what now? If I couldn’t cross the river, and if I couldn’t scale the security fence, my only options seemed to be waiting here for rescue, or finding a gate and hoping I would be permitted through it. But I had already witnessed, or rather overheard, how those men had dealt with a trespasser. And if they at all suspected I had witnessed what they had done, they would never let me reach Dunwich and report their crimes. 

 

It was getting chilly now. I sat on the damp grass with my back to a trunk of a tree and hugged my knees tightly. A strong wind had picked up in the time I’d been here and ominous dark clouds promised a fresh downpour of rain soon. Nothing I wore was waterproof. 

 

I briefly considered crying out for help, but feared who exactly might hear me. 

 

My watch told me it was now 5.22 in the afternoon. Less than an hour remained before sunset. Surely there was something I could do? During my training at Quantico there had been a number of optional courses available to prospective agents, one of which included basic outdoor survival. I had enrolled in a weekend course under the tutelage of an infantry sergeant who took us out into some woodland for a three day camping experience. As I recall he had been somewhat terse with his female students, particularly when he saw how much baggage we had brought with us for the camping trip. On the second night we had left the official campsite and we had been taken deep into the woods to make camp without any of our tents or sleeping bags. This had been a surprise and one that we objected to when we realised we would be sleeping rough that night.

 

What do I remember from the course? Well, I remember the sergeant shouted at us a lot, so much so that Alice Burton said she wanted to go home. 

 

That seemed to amuse the sergeant, and he laughed for possibly the only time during the weekend. 

 

Alice Burton wasn’t allowed to go home, or rather, the sergeant pointed in a specific direction and told her to start walking if she wanted to leave. He then told her that if she preferred to stay, she would have to give him fifty push-ups with a pack on her back. She managed twenty before she began to cry.  

 

But I also remember that in the event of being lost in the woods I should follow waterways, stay hydrated and take rest breaks, use visible landmarks, stay warm, stay positive, and stay vocal. 

 

All good advice, I suppose, but it didn’t cover the possibility that men might be looking for me with the intention of tying a leash around my throat. 

 

I needed a weapon. After ten minutes of exploration I found a stout branch that had broken away from a tree. It would serve as a blunt instrument if I was forced to fight for my life. 

 

And then, as if on cue, just twenty minutes or so before sunset, it began to rain. 

 

The dense woods with their canopy of branches would provide me with some shelter, and so I ran quickly back up the slope, away from the exposed riverbank. The rain grew heavier, but I found a comfortable space between several oaks that offered thick leaf cover.

 

At least I wasn’t feeling hungry yet. The small bowl of breakfast Nutri-girl certainly seemed to go a long way in fulfilling my dietary needs. No wonder so many vain girls turned to Nutri-girl in order to stop over eating. 

 

I sat beside a tree, remaining relatively dry as the sun finally set. I watched the last rays descend below the horizon as darkness began to set in.

 

Where was Sheriff Root? Why hadn’t he found me yet? Was I really going to have to spend a night in this wood, alone, cold, and miserable? I shivered, for the single sweater wasn’t nearly enough now that the sun had gone down. 

 

And then I heard the barking.

 

The barking of dogs, somewhere to the east of me.