The Loop at Meridian Creek

It was a Tuesday in late June, and the heat had finally broken. Cora and I had grown tired of the same suburban loop around our block, so we packed water bottles and drove to the edge of town, where a new trailhead had been carved into the hills. The map at the entrance showed a simple out-and-back route along a creek, with a loop at the end. ‘Perfect for an afternoon stroll,’ I said, and Cora agreed, adjusting her sun hat.

The path was pleasant enough, with dappled shade from cottonwoods and the gurgle of water over stones. We passed a few joggers and a family with a stroller, all smiling in the rare good weather. The trail hugged the creek for a while, then veered into a thicket of brush and old oaks. The houses behind us disappeared from view, and the only sounds were our footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves.

As we neared the loop, I noticed a figure ahead: a middle-aged woman in a long, gray-green slicker, even though the sky was clear. She walked slowly, almost painfully, with her head bowed as if studying every pebble. Cora mumbled something about the odd choice of attire, but we didn’t stop. I waved as we passed, but she never looked up. Her face was pale, and I caught a glimpse of her hands: they were bone-white, gripping the sleeves of her coat as if cold.

We rounded the loop and started back, the sun now lower, casting long shadows across the trail. The woman was gone, but up ahead, I noticed a small, weathered gate half-hidden by vines. It wasn’t on the map. Cora paused, curious, and pushed it open. Beyond was a narrow, overgrown path leading up a gentle slope, lined with crumbling stone markers. ‘Looks like an old cemetery,’ she said, her voice hushed. I hesitated, but she stepped through, and I followed.

The markers were unreadable, worn smooth by decades of rain. At the top of the slope stood a single oak tree, its branches twisted into grotesque shapes. Beneath it, a fresh grave—the soil dark and moist—with no headstone, only a small wooden cross. Cora knelt, brushing away dried leaves to read something carved into the cross. ‘Elena Voss, 1968–2021,’ she whispered. I felt a chill despite the warmth. ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ I said, but Cora was already walking toward a tiny, rusted tool shed at the edge of the clearing.

The shed door was ajar. Inside, on a shelf, sat a jar filled with a murky liquid and what looked like a human finger. I gagged, grabbing Cora’s arm, but she was transfixed. ‘This is wrong. We need to leave,’ I urged. She nodded, and we hurried back through the gate, the trail behind us feeling darker, the trees closer.

When we reached the main path again, the sun had dipped below the treeline, and the air turned cool. We walked faster, but the path seemed longer than before. We passed the spot where we’d seen the woman, but she was back, still walking in the same direction, still slow. This time, she stopped and turned her head. Her eyes were black, like polished obsidian. She smiled—a wide, unnatural smile—and spoke in a voice that seemed to come from all around us: ‘You found the gate. You must finish the loop.’

Cora screamed, pulling me forward. We ran, the path now curving in ways it hadn’t before. The houses were gone; the creek was gone. Only trees, endless trees. We ran until our lungs burned, but the loop kept stretching, and the woman’s laughter echoed behind us. We stumbled into a clearing—the same clearing with the oak and the fresh grave. The wooden cross now read: ‘Cora and [My Name], 2023.’

I woke with a start, lying on the grass by the creek, the sun bright overhead. Cora was beside me, pale and trembling. We checked our phones: it was 5:47 PM, the same time we’d started. We had been gone for only an hour, but the day felt wrong. We drove home in silence, and for weeks, we avoided that trail. But sometimes, at night, I hear water trickling, and I see her face at the window—black eyes, gray-green coat, smiling. And I know the loop isn’t finished. It’s waiting for us to return.