The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

found that the town continued to stretch on, regardless of how long he walked. At first, he thought he might be overly tired, but after walking a solid twenty minutes, he passed GJ’s Dugout and Donato’s for the third time. It seemed impossible, and Clay couldn’t rationalize what was happening, so he continued walking, thinking that he had merely taken a wrong turn and somehow just looped back around. But that wasn’t the case. Clay had reached the end of town only to find himself back at the entrance to Kirkbride’s Bluff. He passed the Welcome to Kirkbride’s Bluff sign now five times, and when he checked his watch, the train would be arriving in ten minutes, and he knew it would be impossible to make it there, even if he wasn’t somehow finding himself in an impossible space-time nightmare.

He paused and looked up at the bluff the town got its name from. From one angle, you could see down into the town’s square. From another, one could look out over the Hudson River in the distance and watch as ships passed lazily up and down the river. Clay remembered so many nights on the bluff, indulging his teenage desires for whatever he needed at that moment. Most of the time, with friends, drinking warm beer and smoking terrible marijuana.

He checked his FitBit again. Another fifteen thousand steps had been tacked onto his count. His body was exhausted. He found no other figures, no more creatures, but instead felt the presence of something from the trees in the park watching him. He had spent multiple nights in the park with friends, playing sports, drinking beer, smoking weed, getting into trouble, and found that whenever he looped back into the town on his fruitless trek to make it back to the train station, every single time he passed the park, he felt uncomfortable. There was a silence that felt unnatural to him as he walked past the park, and his skin crawled at the idea of something in there, watching him.

Taking a seat on a park bench that framed the outer entrance to the park itself, he opened his briefcase and started eating the banana, which was browning quickly. He looked around town, the mist still coming down, and couldn’t figure out what to do next.

Finally, his mind and heart raced when he saw a figure moving down the cement sidewalk leading to and from the park and noted its movement was jittery and unnatural. Clay gripped the cleaver tightly, rose, and walked toward the figure. The only thought Clay had in mind was that he was tired. He couldn’t escape the town and couldn’t call for help, as his phone just didn’t seem to have a signal.

The figure was about sixty yards away and moving quickly, its torso lilting to the right, one arm dangling, some kind of stick in its hand. Clay couldn’t quite make it out, but followed it nonetheless. He called after it, but it only continued deeper into the park, the trees black, creating almost a tunnel of foliage from which Clay couldn’t see the stars, or much of the town. His phone light’s beam was bright and sure, and he continued, cleaver in hand. The figure was large, larger than himself—even at this distance, Clay knew that—but he didn’t know what it was. At least it didn’t seem to want to kill him like the last thing he'd encountered.

Eventually, the tall figure disappeared into the woods next to a large fountain. Clay stood near the fountain and was flooded by memories. Fleeting glimpses of holding hands. He was young. Sixteen or so. Holding hands. His lips and tongue dancing with another’s. He couldn’t quite hold onto any of the images long enough to discern anything, but when the images finished flashing through his mind, he recoiled, suddenly unsteady on his feet. He looked toward the tree line where the large figure had disappeared. He placed his briefcase on the fountain. He held the cleaver in one hand and the knife in the other and made his way into the woods.

Once inside, he followed the sound of bushes rustling. He checked the battery on his phone and noticed he still had eighty percent power. After a few moments, Clay found himself in a small clearing, a shovel resting on a nearby tree. The area was small, about fifteen feet all around, but there was a small plot of disturbed land situated at the base of one of the enormous black trees. Clay reached for the shovel, thinking that it may be an upgrade from the knife or cleaver, and again, he was flooded with memories that didn’t seem like his own.

His hands gripped the shovel and dug furiously into the soil. He saw his father nearby, standing, watching the woods, cigarette in his mouth. Clay wondered what his father had been doing in the woods, and who he was with, and what they were burying. Clay grabbed the shovel and started digging, and each time the shovel connected with the dirt, he felt a shock run through his body, from his fingertips to the base of his spine, as though someone was gently touching a raw nerve.

After digging about two feet down, the shovel struck what looked like a plastic bag. Kneeling, he gripped the bag and pulled, revealing a pair of skeletal, brown hands. Stumbling backward, Clay struggled to his feet, and when he did, he saw the tall figure, looming in the tree line. Was it watching me the entire time?  Much taller than he imagined, its body twisted into a hunch leaning to its right. A thin, membranous film that almost resembled flesh covered its face. A black mouth full of brown and black teeth, rotted away, showed through the covering. Loose, fleshy sacks hung in spots all over its largely featureless body and crinkled as the tall figure moved. Bright, orange eyes stared at him. A nose, or, what remained of a