Chapter Eleven

Groaning, I clamp my half-closed eyes tightly shut due to the throbbing in my head made worse by the repetitive scratchy hoot of a nearby owl. Curling myself into a tight ball lying on my side, I shiver so hard that my teeth chatter uncontrollably. Gradually, creaking my eyes open one at a time, I gasp, slowly remembering through a fog of disorientation where I am. Lying in the fetal position on the muddy ground, somewhere in the woods of Acadia National Park.

The light of day was almost gone, I noticed as well, nearly sending me into a panic. Moving my limbs around, I became acutely aware that I'd sustained multiple injuries from tumbling down the steep hillside. Nothing feels broken or severely damaged though. Trailing my fingers along the side of my head that bounced off the boulder, I winced, feeling a sickly matted section of partially dried blood mixed with hair over a sizable knot on my skull. That can't be good.

Easing myself up into a sitting position, I glanced around at my surroundings, squinting to see in the dying light. Every inch of my body protests angrily with pain in my movements. As if matters couldn't get any worse, gritting my teeth with a growl, my backpack is no longer attached and from what little I can see, isn't within the surrounding vicinity either.

Reaching into the buttoned side pocket of my vest, I retrieved my phone and swipe up at the screen to check for a signal and turned on the flashlight. Unsurprisingly, there's still no cell service available. There is a fresh crack on the glass screen under the protective phone case, which runs diagonally along the length of the phone. Apparently, the advertised 'Virtually Indestructible' fully sealed sixty-dollar phone case I purchased on A****n didn't account for being bounced and hurled several hundred feet down a steep, rocky hillside during a rainstorm. Guess I'll give the phone cases manufacturer the benefit of the doubt in this particular scenario.

Hissing from the body wide pain as I pull myself to my feet with the speed and finesse of a ninety-year-old, I stumble forward cautiously to ensure I am capable of walking and making sure nothing is severely injured or broken.

Swaying the phone, not nearly bright enough flashlight from side to side, I search the glistening, saturated black ground, stepping over clumps of pine needles, rocks, and broken branches for my backpack. The mud is so thick and deep as I trudge along, it nearly sucks my waterproof hiking boots off of my feet. Grasping at straws for an inkling of positivity in this situation, I’m grateful that at least my feet are dry. Carefully, I make my way along the washed-out hillside, hugging my arm around my chest with my hand squeezing my still bleeding upper arm under the poncho. My skin furiously itches all over due to my clothes being soaked with gritty muck.

The temperature is dropping rapidly with the absence of the sun and will continue to plummet further into the night. I force myself to pick up my pace in tracking down exactly where I crashed my way down the hillside because the urgency to find my backpack is becoming dire. Without any heat or a way to dry myself off and without shelter to protect myself from exposure, my chances of surviving the night are dwindling by the minute.

Finally, after what feels like I've been tromping around in the dark woods for hours in search of my backpack, I spot it tipped upside down in a puddle, smashed against a long-fallen tree trunk. Scowling at the ruined state of my backpack, I lift it out of the puddle and hesitate, allowing the murky water to drain out from the inside. Which means everything inside is likely just as soaked and grimy as I am.

This adventure of mine has been nothing but the bees' fucking knees!

Trekking back down the slope, I kept an eye out for somewhat level ground to pitch a tent on. I hope my lack of communication with Kyra today prompts her to reach out to either the park personnel or local law enforcement to report that I didn't check in with her as I was supposed to. For the love of all things good, I pray that she did, and someone is out here looking for me. There's no way I was the only person visiting the park today who was both surprised and stranded by that violent rainstorm that blew in out of nowhere.

Out of my peripheral line of sight, a brief flicker of light off in the distance catches my attention. Turning towards the direction of the light, I scanned carefully through the dense foliage and trees, straining to spot it again. It wasn't bright enough to be a flashlight, but more like the glow of a small fire or the flame of a torch. What if it's someone else who's stranded and was able to get a fire going?

The allure of warming my frigid stiff limbs and shivering body in front of a fire practically had me sprinting in the direction I saw the light. Catching sight of it again for a second time, I cup my hands around my mouth and shouted as loud as I can and start waving my phone with the flashlight on wildly back and forth.

"Hello! Is anyone there? Wave your light if you can hear me!"

Huffing and puffing raggedly as I run, I listen over the sounds of my pounding feet on the wet, soggy ground, and the clanking of the contents inside my backpack for a reply. There's nothing though. Maybe I'm too far away or up wind from them.

"HELLOOOO!! I have food and water! Are you in need of medical attention?” I shouted at the top of my lungs, thundering closer to the light that'd disappeared from view once again. Again, no one responds to my loud calls.

Perhaps they are hurt and unable to respond, although that doesn't really make sense if they were able to start a fire. Especially since everything in these woods is soaking wet.

Reaching the point where I initially saw the light, I found myself standing in front of a dense high wall of brush and bushes. The long row of bushes is at complete odds with the surrounding natural sprawling woodland landscape. What is a hedge doing out here? This was clearly planted at some point in a straight line but has become overgrown and snarled together now.

Stalking up and down the length of the massive hedge in search of a clearing to cross through to the other side, I stumbled on an ancient rusted iron scroll archway, thickly tangled with dormant climbing thorny rose vines. The thorns on the vines are as long as needles and far more numerous along the vines than any rose plant I've ever seen. This is an old, heirloom species of rose that hasn't had its thorns bred out of it like modern species have. The only reason I know this odd detail about older strains of roses is because my mother is an avid gardener. Her favorite flower is the rose and I grew up helping her tend the numerous rose plants in our garden as a child.

Tracing my finger along the ridge of the vine, taking care to avoid the thorns, I yank my hand away when I accidentally prick the tip of my finger on a thorn hidden behind a leaf. Ouch! Examining my finger, a single drop of blood wells at the tip and drips down the side, leaving a trail of crimson behind. For whatever reason, the line from Sleeping Beauty comes to mind when Maleficent is cursing Aurora, damning her to prick her finger on the needle of a spindle and subsequently die! Clearly, that knock to the head is affecting my ability to concentrate.

Get a grip Leslie... you're not going to die from a rose prick or become cursed.

While overgrown, the thorny vines and weeds growing around the archway are thinner than any other spot I've seen along the hedge. Thin enough, in fact, that I can vaguely see through the archway and gasp at the sight.

Hidden behind tall overgrown pine trees, bushes, and vines appeared to be a massive building approximately one hundred yards away on the other side of the hedge. This definitely wasn't on the trail map...

Removing the large tactical blade that was miraculously still clipped to my belt after my unfortunate tumbling session earlier, I began to carefully cut and hack through the tangle of thorny vines and brush that was preventing me from crossing through the archway. If the structure is in good enough condition, it could serve as a far better form of shelter than the nylon one-person tent I have packed. The nylon tent that’s also more than likely soaked along with everything else in my backpack.

Pushing my way through the clearing I’ve hacked that’s just big enough for me to slide sideways through. Turning to face the imposing structure looming ahead, I stood and stared and wondered what it was while resting to catch my breath. The utter exhaustion and achiness I feel from cutting through some weeds is telling. I desperately need nourishment, first aid, warmth and rest.

It’s inky black out here deep in the woodlands with the sun fully set, making a clear visual of what exactly it is I’m looking at nearly impossible. It appeared to be an abandoned house, or more correctly, a mansion. At least three stories tall.

Dragging my backpack around in front of me, I removed a weatherproof headlamp from an exterior pocket. The elastic strap that goes around my head is, of course, soaking wet and cold, but at least the light turns on. Sliding the strap around my head, taking care to avoid the swollen knot on the side. With a shaky breath, I took a tentative step toward the imposing structure hidden deep in the shadows.

There are ten stone steps leading up to the arched double main entrance door. The doors are solid wood, maybe hard oak or similar with iron scroll hinges, locks, and pull ring handles for each door. On the right-hand door is a black iron door knock, but I’m too far away to make out what it’s in the shape of.

I step onto a small landing at the middle of the stairs with two ornately carved stone chalice-shaped planters on each side which come up to my waist in height. Devoid of any actual plants except for dead scraggly weeds, the planters are cracked and crumbling with age I observe, illuminating them with my headlamp.

Halting in front of the massive arched doorway deeply recessed into an arched chiseled stone alcove, I raised my eyes to the top, guesstimating the doors were easily ten feet in height. The door knock is a snarling twisted horned gargoyle's head. My gaze lowers and my awe instantly sours to irritation with an audible groan at the sight of the obnoxiously heavy chains wrapped through the iron ring hand pulls on the door. Secured tight with a massive rusty padlock that looks to be a hundred years old and unlocks with not one, but two different sized skeleton keys. Someone really wanted to make sure no one could enter or leave this massive building…

There's got to be another way in. If there isn't, I'll make one if that's what it comes down to. Breaking and entering shouldn't count against you when it's potentially your only chance of survival. I wonder if that's the light I saw earlier? Maybe someone else found their way in as well?