The Taste of Silver

Haunted by shadows of the past, a lone wanderer followed the long country road to what used to be his home. Tucked away in the quiet hills of the piney woods, he remembered it stood as tall as the trees themselves. Painted white, the wood panels gleamed among the green forest as if it were Neuschwanstein Castle. Its windows, like eyes, were draped in black shudders and situated above and around the red door. There he’d sit listening to the crickets chirp, the locusts buzz, and the leaves shake as the sun cast its last light on the road he’d finally found…County Road 471.

Armed with only a recurve bow, five carbon fiber arrows, and a serrated knife, the wanderer placed each step carefully along the faded, yellow stripes of the decaying road. Weeds peeked through cement cracks while suffocated by vines that had slithered from the nearby trees. He could feel each step crunching or cracking another item, another piece of what was, another step into the past. Tired and worn, his eyes lifted to see if anything unusual stalked or wa—

Eikkk!

The wanderer’s bag fell to the cement, bow drawn, arms clenched and holding the arrow to its designated path. His heart thumped louder than his straining breath. His fingers were ready to let loose the string, yet nothing came into view. Nothing made itself known. His eyes searched and searched for an anomaly among the foliage and stopped when they came across two purple irises, once full of color but now fading as they slumped toward the dead grass.

He remembered the moment he and his wife planted them. They were her favorite flower. She told him irises were going to be her contribution, her message to the world. She first planted them around the house, then the country road, hoping that one day there would be a sea of purple on either side, giving joy to any traveler, but most importantly, her husband when he'd come home.

As if staring into another world, resting his bow, the wanderer watched the irises simply flicker in the wind. He thought of what he’d give just to hear one word, one sound that was hers again.

From afar, thunder drummed against the endless, cloud-covered skies and caused the wanderer to wake up from his trance. He reached inside his sack, searching for an easy buzz given the constant possibility of a terrible death. Among his thick, dark beard, his smile shined as he pulled out a sugarcoated, mint-flavored piece of gooey perfection…Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum. All those years and it still tasted the same. Each chew was another moment away from the chaos, from the Silver-Seekers, from the monsters that had devoured civilizations.

“You’d think you’d get used to the screeches,” he said to himself. Chuckling, he chewed all the flavor out of his gum and spat it out between the cracks of the road.

The wanderer lowered his hood, letting his dark hair fall to his shoulders. A green light flashed as yet another wave of radioactive thunder swam through the turning sea of ash clouds, where for a brief moment a glimmer of sunlight broke through like a sword piercing a monster’s hide.

Mesmerized by the warm glow, the wanderer watched the light descend onto the surface, thinking to himself, “Light reveals what is dark,” as the clouds closed and the darkness swallowed it whole, returning the earth to its gray, snowless winter.

Lugging his backpack up to his shoulders, the wanderer continued along the faded, yellow stripes of the broken road. Up and down the hills of the leafless piney woods, he trekked until a glimmer of white beaconed over the barren horizon. Through the fold of trees, he could see it. The house…the red door. 949 miles traveled to experience this moment.

A large, white gate stood at the entrance, several hundred yards away from the house. The wanderer approached the gate code panel, hoping the “family code” would still work by pressing the numbers “101”. The panel dinged and—

Eikkk!

The wanderer froze. Turning slowly, his eyes scanned the blanket of trees looming over an open pasture. He looked closer and there they were, shifting unnaturally, shades of men clutched to the trees, their unseen gaze piercing through his very being.

He could feel their thoughts crawling over his skin, their desires, their primal urge to consume. Yet, they remained in the shadow, waiting for their moment as the wanderer stepped back and walked through the open gate.

In the final stretch of his journey, the wanderer discovered the truth of his home. Piercing through the roof, exposed timber reached for the skies like the surrounding trees. Withered roof shingles hung, dismantled. The porch frames were separated and disjointed. The chimney collapsed and vines traveled from the trees and wrapped their skeleton fingers around the house like they were about to pull it back into the earth. His home, the house on a hill, was but a loss.

The wanderer took notice of the irises planted around the house. Their color was gone. He knelt next to the flowers and said, “Perhaps one last message for me?” as he looked up at the barren home.

Approaching the red door, he grasped hold of the handle, clenching his jaw, unable to find air to breathe. He feared nothing more than discovering what was lost behind that thin slab of painted oak.

Creak…

The impact of each step lifted dust into the air. Shimmering particles, caught in darkness and light, unveiled the house within…the family that should’ve been. It was perfect. Despite its broken shell, nothing had changed. The pictures she’d hung up from their trip to Prague, the blue curtains she’d had him hang up three times, the feathered lamps she had to buy at the flea market…all of it, to the last detail, remained. Not a rip in any of the furniture, not a crack in the TV. It was untouched, sealed in the cruelty of time.

With night approaching, his eyes fixated on the old lantern they’d use for camping in the early summer. The wick remained with but a few remaining minutes of wax left on the candle. With a match, he lit the lantern. A single flame danced within the confines of the glass box, illuminating the room like the flickering irises in the wind.

The wanderer turned back to shut the door and close himself in as night fell from the ash clouds and settled onto the earth. He could feel it coming; his grip on everything was slipping, getting away from him, spiraling out of control.

Then his eyes caught hold of a small oakwood box sitting on the coffee table. He set down his bow, his knife, and his backpack to kneel before this possession. Trembling with each breath, his hands shook as they reached for the latch. The box opened, and there it was…the heart-shaped locket. Uncontrollable tears streamed down his face as he sunk his hands beneath the silver necklace and raised it so it could kiss the open air, knowing what would come.

Eikk! Eikk! Eikk!

The cries sounded like pigs in the slaughter, pulsing throughout the forest. The nightmare had awoken and raged through the unknown corners of the night. There was no rhythm or structure to its cries, only anger, bitterness, and the complete loss of control.

The wanderer's eyes shut as he pulled the silver locket to his chest and gripped it so tightly his nails pierced through his skin. Blood trickled down his wrist. His body shook as he listened to the cries grow louder and louder. The once distant echoes transitioned to patter on familiar ground…

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Bang!

The walls shook. One side of the house received a pounding. Followed by another side. And then another. There was pounding, clawing, scratching, and banging as they relentlessly tore the old home apart, piece by piece, brick by brick.

Eikk!

The wanderer’s eyes opened, and, on the other side of the glass, unforming shapes of men clung to the walls, ripping the boards to pieces while continuing to claw deeper into the beams and foundations of the home. One among them walked in front of the porch window and stared into it, through the glass, catching hold of the wanderer with its unseen eyes. Faceless, without color or complexion, the creature carefully put its gnarled hands on the window as if to feel it, to know it.

The wanderer stared back, gazing into what felt like a reflection, and whispered, “Darkness is all that’s left.”

He clung tightly to the silver locket, blood running down his wrist, eyes locked on the faceless creature before him while the horde pounded on his home. An ash-stained arm punched through the wall, the cries grew louder. The candlelight grew dimmer, for the wick had almost run out.

And then a new sound entered through the torn open holes. The breeze, the peaceful bliss he remembered, filled the home. The creatures continued to rip the house to pieces, but their chaotic sound was no longer there. Only the breeze, only the wind, the brush of air dancing atop the purple irises, rushing toward the man in the room.

The flame flickered, and it was there. A voice was calling. The wanderer looked to the locket and then to the faceless creature.

“Get up.”

He heard it again.

“Get. Up.” He could feel it within the locket. He could see it in the creature’s shadow.

He looked at the fading flame as the ceiling cracked over him, pieces breaking apart and falling through, and whispered, “What if darkness is what reveals the light?”

His eyes held to the flame of the lantern. He then watched the creature suddenly take its hands from the glass.

The wanderer dropped the silver locket, breaking it open to reveal all that remained inside, just two words.

“Love, Jacob”

Walking toward the light with but the last moments of flame left, Jacob grabbed hold of the lantern and screamed aloud as the creatures broke through his walls, his home, his past. Falling through the ceilings, jumping through the walls, the monsters of nightmare and shadow closed in as he hurled the lantern to the ground, lighting the floors, the walls, and the entire room on fire.

Charging the horde, Jacob began a new journey. As the fire consumed what was, the creatures pried into his skin, pulling him back until the flames reached the locket. The moment the silver was consumed, they let go. Awakened by the fire, they looked at one another, aware, as they let the flames consume what they had become.

Jacob jumped through the glass windows, landing among the field of irises. There was a crisp, purple glow among them. He could feel them, pushing him to move on, to overcome.

His back to the flames, Jacob ran into the night. The fire illuminated the path, and with each step, it all became more clear, more colorful, more beautiful that as he ran further, despite the growing darkness, he could finally see.