Page 41 of Buried Souls
CHAPTER 19
“The Edge of Bear Forest”
I stand at the tree line again, three weeks after waking from my coma.
The world is quieter than I remember.
The hum of tires on a distant road. The wind brushing brittle leaves. The crackle of dead branches underfoot. All normal. All wrong. I had waited. Had tried to move on. The hospital had discharged me with a prescription and pamphlets about trauma-induced psychosis.
My colleagues at the Institute had welcomed me with soft pity and lowered voices. Everyone told me I was lucky to survive. That the mind invents things to fill in the gaps.
But they didn’t know that I hadn’t imagined the broken gold necklace that I found in the palm of my hand. Nor the voice I sometimes heard when the room grew too still—low, amused, waiting.
And my dreams—
They were always the same: the Bear Mansion. Nikolas. The black lake.
And now, here I am. The forest hasn’t changed. It’s still tall, dark, ancient. Beech trees still shift as if alive.
I take a step forward, into its embrace. The air shifts. Warmer. Thicker. Like breath on my skin. I didn’t bother with bringing a flashlight, I know my way, and as if in agreement, I feel it. A noise, slight but undeniable, as if the trees recognize me. As if they are watching me.
The path twists in ways it shouldn’t, leading me not by memory, but by pull. Each step feels half like my own, half dictated by something deeper.
I walk for what feels like hours, my unwavering resolve and belief close to crumbling the more time that passes as I wonder in the woods.
Suddenly, a clearing. And in it—towering, dark spires.
I suck in a breath.
The Bear Mansion.
I found it.
Behind me, a breeze stirs. I turn. The trees bow. Shadowsdeepen. But no one steps forth.
I rush through the front gate that hangs ajar, rusted chains clinking faintly in the cold wind—the same way they did when I first passed through them. The front door is sealed tight, and I have to throw my shoulder into it before it gives with a loud crack.
I stumble inside, dust and faint light from the dying day greeting me with wide open arms. Silence hangs in the air like a noose. I take my time walking through the many rooms and hallways. Furniture, paintings, even the beds are covered with white sheets.
I hurry up the stairs, finding my room.
The room I had lived in.
The bed I had slept in.
The mirror I had watched myself in.
Layers of dust and linen sheets that resemble ghosts greet me, the same as they do throughout the rest of the old house.
I spin on the spot, suddenly feeling a surge of panic when the realization that it might have all truly been nothing but a vivid dream, dawns on me.
No.
No.
No.
I shake my head, over and over again.
