The Pacing Below the Pines

I was eight when we moved to the old cottage at the edge of the pine woods. My parents had inherited it from a distant aunt, and they were thrilled to escape the city. I, on the other hand, had always been a city kid, and the silence of the countryside felt like a held breath. The house itself was quaint enough, with its crooked chimney and a porch that creaked in the wind, but the woods that began right at our back fence seemed to swallow the light. My room faced those woods, and from my window, I could see the dense, dark wall of trees that seemed to lean in, as if listening.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. I was reading a battered copy of ‘The Secret Garden,’ a gift from my grandmother, and the words were a comfort against the unfamiliar darkness. The wind rustled the leaves outside, and I tried to focus on the story, but my attention kept drifting to a sound I couldn’t quite place. It was a rhythmic crunching, like footsteps on the pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. I put down my book and listened. There it was again—a steady pacing, back and forth, just beyond my window. I glanced outside, but the darkness was absolute, and the glow from my lamp only showed the reflection of my own face in the glass. I thought of my parents, asleep in their room at the other end of the hall, and I knew they hadn’t gone out. Who could be walking out there, this late? I told myself it was a deer, or a fox, or the wind playing tricks. But the sound was too regular, too human. It paced with purpose, as if waiting for something.

I pulled the covers over my head and tried to block it out, but the pacing continued, hour after hour. Finally, just before dawn, it stopped. I fell asleep with the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears, and in the morning, I convinced myself it had all been a dream. But the next night, it returned. And the night after that. Each time, I would lie in bed, listening to the crunch-crunch-crunch of someone or something walking back and forth under my window. I told my parents, but they dismissed it. ‘Probably a raccoon,’ my father said. ‘Or your imagination running wild with those horror stories you read.’ I didn’t read horror stories, but I didn’t argue.

A week passed, and the pacing became a nightly ritual. I grew used to it, even began to expect it. But then, one night, the pacing changed. It stopped abruptly, and then I heard a heavy breathing, right against the glass. I froze, my heart hammering. The breathing went on for what felt like minutes, and then I heard a low, guttural whisper, too distorted to make out the words. The fear that had been dormant in my chest exploded. I screamed, and immediately the breathing stopped. I heard footsteps retreating into the woods, and then nothing.

My parents burst into my room, and I sobbed, telling them about the face, the voice. But there was no face, only darkness. They searched the yard, found nothing but footprints. Not animal tracks, but bare human footprints, pressed deep into the pine needles. They were long and narrow, with six toes on each foot. My father laughed nervously and said it must be a prank. He filled the prints with dirt and went back to bed. But I saw the unease in his eyes.

After that night, the pacing returned, but it was different. It wasn’t just outside my window; it moved around the house. I could hear it in the hallway, outside my door. Sometimes, it would pause, and I’d feel a cold draft under the door, as if something was peering through the keyhole. I stopped sleeping. I kept my lamp on, and I stared at the door, waiting. The whisperings grew louder, more insistent. I couldn’t make out the words, but they had a rhythm, like a chant.

One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I snuck out of my room and crept down the hall. The floorboards creaked under my weight, and I froze, but the sounds continued, coming from the kitchen. I peeked around the corner and saw my parents, sitting at the table, both staring at the back door. They looked like they were in a trance, their eyes wide, mouths slightly open. I called out to them, but they didn’t respond. They just kept staring. I looked at the back door, and through the glass, I saw a shape—tall, gaunt, with long arms that hung past its knees. It was pressing its face against the door, its pale skin stretched over a skull-like visage. Its mouth was open, too, and it was whispering, the same words over and over, but I couldn’t understand them.

I screamed, and at that moment, the shape vanished. My parents snapped out of their trance, blinking as if waking from a dream. They saw me, and my mother rushed to hug me, saying they’d had a bad dream. But I knew what I’d seen. I dragged them to the window, but there was nothing there. Just the dark woods, and the silhouette of the pines against the moonless sky.

The next day, I refused to stay in that house. I begged my parents to leave, but they wouldn’t. They said it was just my imagination, that I’d been reading too many scary stories. I burned my book in the fireplace, hoping it would break the curse. That night, the pacing was worse. It was like a storm, circling the house, rattling the windows. My parents came to my room, their faces pale, and said, ‘We need to leave.’ I’d never seen them so scared.

We packed the car in the dead of night, but as we were about to drive away, I looked back at the house, and in my bedroom window, I saw a figure. It was the shape, the thing from the door. It looked at me, and for the first time, I heard its voice clearly, in my head: ‘You cannot leave. The bargain is made.’ I blinked, and it was gone. We drove as fast as the gravel would allow, but we didn’t get far. The car engine died at the edge of the woods, and the forest seemed to close in around us. My father tried to restart it, but it wouldn’t turn over. The silence was oppressive.

And then we heard it: the crunching footsteps, coming from all directions, surrounding the car. We sat there, huddled together, as the sound grew louder and louder. And then, the shadows around us began to writhe, taking shape. Tall, thin forms, like the one I’d seen, emerged from the trees. They moved in unison, circling us, their whispers blending into a deafening cacophony. The last thing I remember was my mother’s scream, and then everything went white.

I woke up in a hospital bed, with doctors and nurses asking me if I knew my name. I was disoriented, and I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. They told me I’d been found wandering alone on a highway, miles from any town. My parents were nowhere to be found. The police searched, but they never located them. They assumed they’d abandoned me, or worse, but I knew the truth. I was taken to a foster home, and I never talked about it, because who would believe me? But I still hear the pacing sometimes, at night, just outside my window. And I know it’s waiting for me to complete the bargain. I don’t know what that means, but I know it will never let me go.