Uncanny Valley

When a person like me goes camping or hiking, it is a guarantee that I would wander lost. I accepted this fact, assuming that I’d only be lost for an hour or two before recognising a gnarled tree, or happen upon the path again. Just like getting lost while driving, a familiar landmark always steers me in the right direction.

Not this time.

I have made a fatal mistake. Night has fallen, a chill is settling into the forest, and the moonlight is struggling to pierce through the canopy above. The chances of recognising a landmark in the dark are low to nil. I don't know if my hands are shaking from the cold or fear. Inside my chest, my heart is slamming, and my eyes are darting around desperately trying to spot something familiar. I find nothing.

Trees hide behind more trees, each standing imposingly tall. The ground itself is against me, with a mound, a dip, a rock or a branch trying to unbalance me. No matter which way I turn, I worry I am just heading deeper into the forest and further away from safety. I wonder if I'll see the sun again. The thought freezes me mid-stride, shocked at my defeated pessimism, which I can’t quite shake. It sits like a pebble in my gut, threatening to become a boulder and crush me from the inside out in an instant.

I can’t let that happen. I have to stay positive, right? If I find shelter, I can survive a night in a forest.

As I stumble across fallen branches, I collect them and try leaning them up against a tree. Everything feels unfamiliar in the dark. Something I expect to feel smooth is jagged and pointy, something hard is squishy instead. I try not to overthink what I am grabbing and keep collecting. As usual, I walk with my head down, watching my footing; I am a klutz. It might be the reason I get lost. The realisation makes me frown and I look again at my surroundings. Dark shapes face me, none of which look like the dark shape of the shelter I was building.

I nearly laugh at my misfortune. My worst enemy is myself.

A loud noise makes me flinch and crouch instinctively. On a low branch of a nearby tree, an owl shakes its head and sets its wide eyes on me, making that sound again. The unnatural tone sets me on edge and shivers run down my spine. It doesn’t sound like a hoot or a hooo or even an ooooo. It sounds more like a growl. 

It ruffles its wings and glides to a nearby tree, twisting to set its great black orbs on me again, staring. Or is it glaring? The owl leans forward intently before floating to another tree and turning to look at me, waiting impatiently.

Birds have a better sense of direction, I am certain, so I follow, hoping it may lead me somewhere safe. The cold is rattling my bones and disorienting my brain; I am losing focus quickly.

As I trudge after the owl, the forest becomes more dense. The trees crowd around me, threatening to box me in. Claustrophobia rears its ugly head. By the time the shiny black eyes pause, my chest is straining for air and my muscles are throbbing and aching. My skin is stone cold, but I feel warm.

“Are we there yet, M-mister?” I say wearily. “I thought you were going to help me or something.”

Exhaustion is heavy in my body, pressing me down so strongly I could just curl up in a ball here and pass out… but it is too exposed, too cold. 

The owl perches on a branch and looks from me to a nearby rocky outcropping and makes that dreadful sound again. In the dim light, I spy a hole in the rocks. A cave!

“You b-beautiful bird! F-Finally!” My teeth are chattering.

Dread replaces my relieved expression when I look back at my guide. Its beak stretches unnaturally, pulling thin across its face like a mimicry of a sly smile. I can almost see the mal-intent in its beady eyes as it drinks in the sight of me, weak and tired. Some ancient human instinct drills into me, screaming at me to run, but I am frozen in horror.

From the opening of the cave come echoes of sounds growing louder. Similar to the owl before me, I can’t identify the noise. It isn’t a hiss, hoot, roar, croak, screech, growl, chirp, yell, squawk, squeak, or purr. It’s a rumbling, a gurgling, the sound of a hungry belly about to devour me. 

Eyes still transfixed on the owl, I finally break free of my paralysis, moving a step backwards. The bird twitches at the movement and its horrid, wide, beaky smile transforms as its face morphs and grows cheekbones and its eyes become larger like voids ready to consume me. Its wings elongate and its legs extend toward the ground while its body and head remain in place above me. Trapped in its gaze, my legs shake and tears sting my eyes as the noises from the cave explode from echoes into a barrage of loud noises assaulting my ears. 

In an instant, the cave falls silent, but the soundlessness is just as deafening. Air catches in my throat, I cannot breathe as the thing in front of me approaches with its long legs, and the disfigured human-like head of an owl with enormous eyes, high cheekbones and a beaky smile nears me, deadly quiet.

When a person like me goes camping or hiking, it is a guarantee that I would find myself in peril, deep in the uncanny valley.