The Pallet in the Glade

In the autumn of 2008, when I was sixteen and my friend Lila was seventeen, we often escaped to the abandoned farmlands on the edge of our town. The fields were overgrown with thistles and goldenrod, and the old farmhouse had burned down six years prior. We knew the story: a drifter had been living there illegally, and one cold night, a faulty kerosene heater set the place ablaze. Firefighters found his remains in the basement, but the official report said ‘accidental.’ We never believed that.

One October afternoon, dark clouds rolled in from the west, promising a downpour. We were sitting on a stone wall near the ruins, the charred beams like blackened ribs against the sky. When the first fat droplets hit, Lila pulled her hood up and said, ‘I know where there are some old pallets, just across the field by the creek. We can use them to sit on under that big oak.’ I nodded, and we trudged through the muddy grass, past the collapsed fence, and into a grove of twisted oaks.

The moment I stepped over the broken wire, a chill slithered down my spine. It was as if the air itself had turned solid and cold, a pocket of winter in the middle of autumn. The grove was dimmer, the trees closer, their branches interlocking like grasping fingers. A hill sloped down to a dense thicket of brambles and bushes, and there, half-embedded in the mud, lay a stack of pallets, their wood gray and rotten.

We grabbed one, the wood slick with damp. Lila led the way back up the hill, and I followed, the pallet heavy between us. We had taken about five steps when I heard a soft noise behind me, like a stone rolling over wood. I glanced back, but saw nothing. Another step, and the sound came again, closer. My heart began to pound, and I called out to Lila, ‘Hey, did you hear that?’ She didn’t turn, just said, ‘Hear what? Keep moving, it’s starting to rain harder.’

I tried to ignore it, but then I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. I spun around, dropping my end of the pallet. There was nothing behind me, but the underbrush at the bottom of the hill was rustling, as if something was moving through it. Lila stopped and turned, her face pale. ‘What are you doing?’ she snapped. ‘Just… did you see that?’ I pointed. She squinted. ‘It’s just the wind, dummy. Now help me with this pallet.’

Reluctantly, I picked up my end again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. We continued up the hill, and the rustling grew louder, no longer random, but rhythmic, like footsteps following our pace. When we reached the top, I dared a glance back. The brambles had parted, and in the gloom, I saw a shape—a dark, humanoid figure, hunched and motionless, staring directly at me. It had no face, just a smooth black void where features should have been.

I froze, my blood turning to ice. Lila kept walking, unaware. ‘Lila!’ I hissed, but she was already at the fence. I turned to run, but my legs were heavy, as if the mud had grabbed them. The figure took a step forward, and the temperature plummeted further. I could see my breath now, a faint plume in the cold. Then it spoke, but not with a voice—it was a dry, rasping sound that seemed to come from inside my own head: ‘You took my seat.’

I screamed and forced myself to move, scrambling over the fence after Lila. She looked at me wide-eyed as I tumbled onto the other side. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ she yelled. I was shaking, tears streaming down my face. ‘There’s something in there,’ I gasped. ‘A… a thing. It spoke to me.’ Lila rolled her eyes and gave me a disgusted look. ‘You’re such a baby. It’s just an old pallet.’ She picked up the pallet and marched off toward the oak tree, leaving me behind.

I followed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. We sat under the tree on the pallet, the rain hammering on the leaves above. Lila was calm, but I was tense, scanning the edge of the grove. After a while, she noticed my unease and sighed. ‘Fine, let’s go home.’ We stood, and as we walked away, I glanced back one last time. The fence was still broken, the grove dark and still, but I could swear I saw a faint, dark silhouette standing just at the edge of the trees, watching us go.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that faceless thing, and I heard its words: ‘You took my seat.’ The next day, I told Lila I wanted to go back, just to see if it was real. She laughed but agreed, saying she wanted to prove I was crazy. We returned to the spot, hopped the fence, and walked down to the pallets. They were still there, four of them stacked. But now, there was a fifth pallet lying on top, slightly apart, and it was not wet.

Lila shrugged and said, ‘Someone must have dumped it recently.’ But when we got closer, I saw that this pallet was different—its wood was dark, almost black, and it was etched with symbols I’d never seen before. A cold dread filled me. ‘We need to leave,’ I said, but Lila was already reaching for it. As her fingers brushed the wood, the ground beneath us shuddered, and a low moan echoed from the trees.

We bolted, but as we ran, I felt something grab my ankle. I stumbled, and when I looked down, a gnarled hand, black and thin, was wrapped around my boot. I cried out, and Lila grabbed my arm, pulling me free. We made it over the fence and didn’t stop running until we reached the main road.

We never went back there, but the memory haunts me. A year later, Lila disappeared. Her car was found abandoned near that same field, the door open, her phone on the seat. The police searched the grove, but they found nothing, except one of the pallets, now broken and scattered as if someone had smashed it in rage. They never found her.

I still dream of that place. In my dreams, I see a dark figure sitting on a pallet, its head tilted as if listening. And in the distance, I hear Lila’s voice calling my name, begging me to come back. But I never will. I know that if I do, I’ll be taking a seat next to her, and I’ll never leave.