Page 2 of In Love With the Leshy

I felt bad. She was alone. Like me. Maybe because the loneliness of losing my parents so suddenly felt suffocating, I wanted her to feel like someone cared. Like she wasn’t completely alone in the world. Like me. I stocked her pantry with bread and peanut butter. Made sure she had fresh milk and eggs. I searched for sales at the grocery store, doubled my meals and brought her half. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do.

These brainiacs chasing me think she had money. Or jewels. Or something of value hidden in her rent-controlled apartment. They tore the place to pieces, including the second or third-hand furniture it came with.

Her grandson caught me looking a little too long at the open door to her torn up apartment days after I found her lying beaten and lifeless on the floor. He ransacked the place and then accused me of beating and mistreating her so I could steal his inheritance. Like I didn’t have enough garbage of my own and needed to add to the shit pile.

He accused me of taking her valuables. Another joke. I bet if he knew the only thing I have of hers is her old pin cushion she insisted I give to Masha, these men might not have tailed me and run me off the road.

“Are you okay, Ms. Irina? Does something hurt?”

“No!” She yells, and tears flood her faded blue eyes.

“Why are you crying? Tell me how I can help?”

Irina grabs both of my hands and brings them to her chest, just under her tucked chin. She stares at me in silence, her large eyes searching mine. I’m starting to think the lady has lost it and forgot what got her riled up in the first place when finally she speaks.

“Masha.” The familiar name is barely a whisper between us. Her eyes dart from side to side, as if she’s worried someone will hear her. “Find her. Please!”

Great. This again.

“I need you to tell me where to look. Or what she looks like, or something.”

She pulls my hands in closer. I’m nose to nose with the old woman, and lord help me, I don’t know what has her so frightened, but I feel the fear, and not just because her hands tremble.

“Go to the forest. Ask Leshy. Bring him pie. He’ll help you.”

She releases one of her hands from me and reaches between her breasts. Shit just got weird. When she pulls her hand out, her gnarled, crooked fingers are wrapped around something small and round. It’s about the size of an apple and has a woman’s face on it. Could that be Masha? She shoves the thing in my face.

Eww. I turn away.

“Give to Masha!” She insists as I back up. “Promise. No matter what. Find Masha.

Back to Masha. Every conversation seems to be circular, coming back to Masha.

“I’ll try.”

“NO!” She screams. “Give to Masha!” She yells over and over again. “Give to Masha.”

She screamed and cried until I promised. I had no choice. I didn’t want her to stroke out right then and there. Besides, what was the harm in saying yes? It was the last time I saw her alive. I can’t very well ignore her dying wish.

I thought I’d drive over to the scenic lookout, park in the lot with every other tourist who wants a look into the interior, and walk around the outer perimeter of the trees for a bit. I figured I could give up five or ten minutes to live with a clear conscience. That way, I can live with the peace of mind that I tried. That I did everything I could to make her happy. It sure as hell beats being haunted by Irina over some stress ball want-to-be.

Except that’s not how it happened. I felt like I was being watched and saw the car following close behind. They didn’t even try to hide. As if they knew what I planned and wanted to thwart it, they ran into my car and pushed me off the road well short of where I hoped to park. Then came the gun and the shot through my window. I had no choice but to get out and run.

Damn it! I need to focus and reassess my options. There’s nothing here but trees. No secret cottage where an imaginary granddaughter might live. Why did I entertain an old woman’s dementia? Turning my head to the right and left, I see nothing but brown trunks and green foliage overhead.

I don’t know which way to go, which way I can squeeze and muddle through. I have two choices: turn back in the direction of my want-to-be captors, or pretend I’m toothpaste and spread myself between the thick trunks so I can weave my way out of the rough bark and leafy dome. The second is the only real choice I have. I can’t stand still and wait for them to get me.

Maybe if I tell them about the stupid pin cushion, they’ll leave me alone. And maybe fairies do exist? What would any rational person want with it?

You can tell the thing is foreign by the image on the strange material. The ball, covered with a thick rubbery material, is round like a head, and the woman’s face drawn or painted on it doesn’t look like anyone from around here. The cartoonish lady wears a cloth over her hair. Her huge eyes are the most prominent feature. They, along with her thick, black lashes, take up half her face; you almost forget anything else exists.

It’s cute, I guess. If you’re into sewing or antiques. Honestly, it feels like it’s filled with sand or some other material that’s crumbling to pieces. All in all, it feels like a stress ball. Masha could use it for whatever she wants. I used it as a paperweight for the last two weeks while I considered whether or not to come. I don’t have a clue what it really is.

I could swear I saw it once in her sewing kit. If I tell them it’s in my car, would they want it? Or would it anger them more because it proves I lied and I really do have her treasure? I have no doubt they’re looking for something a hell of a lot more valuable, and when I don’t cough it up, they’ll leave me in the same condition they left her. Hence, the need to keep moving.

Distant laughter catches my ear. My heart races like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. It, like my brain, knows they’re closing in for the kill. Of course, kill might be the kindest thing they could do to me. No one will even notice that I’m gone, let alone care. My parents died tragically three years ago, so my family line ends with me.

I make it only two feet further before the hairs on the back of my neck grow stiff. The men are dangerously close. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help myself. I look back, slamming hard into the trunk of a towering tree.

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