The hike started at three. 

We all started together at the base of the mountain. It was an easy climb with a gentle slope and good trails with gravel and boulders and rocks. Maybe fifteen minutes in, Quinn tripped on some loose gravel. I think she said she hurt her ankle, twisted it maybe. She didn’t want to hold everyone up. Classic Quinn. She had the families keep going up the mountain while Mom and I waited for her to recuperate. In an instant, everyone else disappeared behind the veil of trees and boulders.

The climb was nothing special; it was fine for us, even with Quinn’s injury. We made it to the top just in time for sunset. The view was stunning, below us the lake and the stream and the bay, little worlds we were far above. Mom had started to get worried at that point. Four hours and no sign of the other fourteen people made her anxious. 

Quinn took out a trail map. She said there was a cabin on the edge of the forest, maybe a fifteen minute walk to get there. She had her money on the group being there. 

The forest was strange. There was no wind or rustling of leaves. I couldn’t see any bugs or birds or snakes or little squirrels hoarding their food. The silence pierced my eardrums.

The forest was dead. There was nothing there. 

The cabin looked to be one floor, one room. The lights were off if it even had any. We approached the door and looked inside.

Three windows let in some ethereal moonlight and cast view on the floors lined with the motionless bodies of my family and everyone else. All neatly lined up, filling up every little inch and corner with a sea of cotton fabric and skin and hair. Dead or asleep? Unconscious? Hexed? Mom and Quinn did not care. They seemed entranced, simply walking over the breathing human floor and through the back door to the field. 

I was horrified. What had happened to them? Were they okay? But I could not reach down and touch them, roll them over, call their names. My legs moved free from my brain. I had not realized it, but I was following the others through the house.

The back had a clearing. It wasn’t large, but it was big enough to house three boulders, like human-sized blades jutting out of the ground. The rocky teeth were etched with cryptic patterns and squiggles I could never understand. I didn’t know what I was seeing. Beside each sat an obedient dagger, twisted and disfigured, chipped, heavy with potential. In the front of each rock laid a leaf-bound book with little twigs between the pages. Charcoal was etched onto the pale green cover and little flecks of red and brown littered the sides. 

Where was I?

Quinn approached the first rock. She fell to her knees slowly, picking up the dagger when she found herself in front of the boulder. The dagger located a wrinkle on her left palm, jutting into her hand and forming a river of blood. Not a flinch. Not a wince. She opened the book flipping through the sheets to the first clear page. I watched horrified at the hundreds of hands imprinted into the leaves of the book. It was her turn. She pressed the blood-red hand into the page. She sat. Waiting.

Then Mom did it, her older, pruny hands forcing the dagger on a twisty trail through her palm. She was slower than Quinn but not hesitant. If anything, her passion was clear: she was savoring the moment, enjoying the little tendrils of blood drip into the veined book page. 

I felt my body pushing me toward the final rock. I was meant to be there. I was meant to go to the third rock, the third tooth with its dagger and book. But I couldn’t. I pulled at the vessel I was in, trying, yearning, reaching to turn around and run away. 

Until I gave in. With that, I felt a snap, a strange elastic sensation as I was no longer being beckoned to the rock.

I turned around and peered at the forest opposite of the rocks. I was confused. I saw before me...

Life. 

There were birds singing some song of meek chirps and screeches. There were small beetles and ants trailing up trees or buzzing about, fat little bees landing on yellow and white wildflowers bursting with pollen that hovered as little clouds above them. There were bright green leaves on trees with rough bark bulging and cracking in different areas. I stood and I listened for a moment, hearing the rustling of leaves and the babbling of the brooks and the dancing of the plants. 

I stared out. I don’t know what I was expecting. Not a reply. Not an acknowledgement. But I didn’t care. 

I yelled to the trees and birds and beetles and ants and dewdrops and fat little bees. 

If I sign this book, do I burn in hell?

It spoke to me then. The Forest. The trees and birds and beetles and ants and dewdrops and fat little bees. It was not audible. It was in my head, rasping, yelling, whispering, singing. 

Yes.

I had to ask another question. Does that mean that there is a hell?

Yes. 

I was never meant to be here. 

Does that mean… there is a heaven?

I listened for a moment. The Forest listened to me before and heard me and answered me. But there was no reply. Just the rustling of leaves and the babbling of the brooks and the dancing of the plants.

I turned around toward the rocks.