The Birchwood Walk

The town of Millbrook hugged the shore of Lake Arden, a body of water so vast it felt like an inland sea. Every summer, families flocked to its islands, dotting the waves with cabin cruisers and sailboats. One such island, Birchwood, was a place of quiet dread for the locals. Long before the settlers arrived, the Wabanaki people had used it as a burial ground, and the soil was said to be thick with their bones. No one spoke of it openly, but every child knew the story: the island was watchful, and it did not forget.

I was nine when my family spent a week on my Uncle Ray’s boat, the ‘Marline’, moored at the rickety dock of Birchwood’s only harbour. The evening had been stifling, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. We’d gone to bed early, the boat’s gentle rocking a lullaby. But sleep was a shallow thing that night.

It began as a soft thud, barely perceptible above the lapping water. Then another, heavier. Footsteps. They moved deliberately from the bow, across the flybridge, and down the ladder, each step a miniature tremor that vibrated through the hull. The sound stopped at the stern, just above the cabin where we all lay frozen. My heart hammered against my ribs. My cousin, Ellie, let out a whimper, and my mother’s hand found mine in the dark, squeezing tight.

Uncle Ray, ever the pragmatist, broke the silence. ‘Probably a late fisherman,’ he whispered, but his voice was thin. He pulled on his boots, grabbed a flashlight, and creaked his way up to the deck. We waited, listening. The cabin door opened, then shut. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness, a trembling spear of light. But the beam didn’t reach far. The fog had rolled in, so thick it seemed to swallow light and sound alike. It was like being inside a cloud, muffled and blind.

He called out, ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ His voice, normally booming, came back to us as a dull echo. The footsteps had ceased, but the air was heavy with an unseen presence. He took a few steps toward the stern, the flashlight beam a pale coin in the murk. Then, he stopped. Through the window, we saw him tilt his head, as if listening. And then, in a voice that was not his, a voice that was thin and hollow, he said, ‘They’re walking.’

The next morning, Uncle Ray was gone. His boots were still on the deck, his flashlight lay dead on the planks. But he was nowhere. The boat was searched, the island’s shore called, but he had vanished as if the fog had absorbed him. The police came, but they found nothing. The island was too large, the fog too concealing. Eventually, they concluded he’d fallen overboard, but no body was ever found.

We left that day, but the memory clung to me like a wet shroud. Years later, I returned to Birchwood, drawn by an inexplicable need. I rented a small skiff and rowed out to the island, the water glassy and silent. The dock had rotted, but I managed to tie up. The island was overgrown, a tangle of birch and alder, the ground soft and spongy underfoot. I walked inland, following a deer trail that led to a clearing.

In the center of the clearing, there was a birch tree, its white bark peeling like old skin. And at its base, a single, smooth stone, the size of a human skull. I knelt, and as I touched the stone, I heard it again: footsteps. But this time, they were all around me, rustling through the underbrush, circling. I stood, turning, but saw nothing. My heart pounded as the footsteps grew closer, then stopped. A whisper, dry as dead leaves, brushed my ear: ‘You came back.’

I stumbled backward, but the ground gave way. I fell into a shallow depression, a pit lined with bones. Femurs, ribs, skulls, stacked neatly, like a macabre cranberry. In the center, a tarnished compass, Uncle Ray’s. I snatched it and scrambled out, running blindly through the forest. The footsteps followed, relentless, until I burst onto the shore, gasping.

I rowed away without looking back, the compass a cold weight in my pocket. That night, in my hotel room, I opened it. The needle spun wildly, then settled, pointing not north, but back toward Birchwood. And from the window, I heard a sound that froze my blood: the crunch of footsteps on gravel, moving closer, stopping just beneath my window. A voice, thin and hollow, floated up: ‘You have what’s ours. Return to the birchwood walk.’

I haven’t slept since. The compass never points north. And every night, I hear those footsteps, pacing back and forth, outside my door, waiting. They know I have it. And they will not rest until I return what belongs to them.