This went on all night, and never did the voice get any closer to him, or menace him in any way. It continued in its sweetly cajoling way, never getting angry, never getting irritated. It neither rose in volume nor became insistent. It continued in its playful, lilting manor, almost as a dare, and always with a promise of Joy behind it.
“I like you. Turn around.”
“No.”
“Please turn around.”
“No.”
As for the boy, the last boy, the one left to suffer through denial after denial, his trembling became more and more evident. As the campfire grew dim and finally out, as the darkness of the woods enveloped him, leaving just that flashlight he was clutching just under his chin as the only light, and even that was beginning to dim. As the evening wore on minute by minute, then by the hour, he remained frozen in place, which was getting harder and harder as time wore on.
And time did go on. The boy and the voice, enduring a long evening, made longer by the horror surrounding them. The boy’s feet began to ache, his knees wanted to buckle, his bladder wanted to explode, and his wide open eyes were so tired, desiring nothing more than to close and for him to fall asleep, in this way surrendering to whatever fate awaited behind him.
This went on all night. Finally the sun decided to make an appearance, and as the sun rose the volume of the voice behind him began to fade. Not all at once, but as the sun continued to light the woods, making things brighter and brighter, the voice ebbed, getting lower and lower until it seemed just a whisper. Finally, for what seemed like forever, it disappeared entirely. The boy took a tentative look behind him, and found nothing but softly lit trees, and the sounds of chirping birds welcoming the morning.
At last he could let his knees buckle, dropping him to the ground in a lump. At last he could take care of his bladder, although he got more on him than on the ground in front of him. At last he could blink his eyes, his tired red eyes. He cried out, both in morning and relief. His friends were gone, he was sure of that, but he was still here, even as he sat in a pool of his own urine and sweat stained clothes. He looked up to the sky, past the canopy of tree limbs and leaves, and cried, thanking the Sun for being his savior. He remained like that for a time, letting the fear drain out of him, as well as the sadness he felt for his friends. He felt no victory of being the sole survivor of the night, nor would he ever forget those that were lost. He didn’t understand what happened, but he knew he would never forget it.
Eventually he rose on two wobbly legs and staggered back to the cars. He ignored the smell of urine that was cast on him as he used the trees as supports to keep him moving forward. Through tear clouded eyes he found the cars, sitting right where they left them. He approached them and collapsed on the hood of one of them, happy to have made it that far. He moved around to the driver’s side door, only to find it locked. He didn’t have the keys, and wondered where they could be. He looked back to the woods…
And then there were none.
Arid Testimony 