The Ghost Road

I had no idea where I was heading. Right turn, then down a street until my gaze snagged left—a plum tree in full, audacious bloom. An instruction: go there. I veered off the asphalt, onto a narrow path snaking between cultivated fields.

The landscape swallowed me whole, colors blurring, seamless. Farmers on their tractors became distant, mechanical hums. Left. Right. A sheep shed. The sheep herd. Then, on its roof, a cat—a feline sentinel, a Garfield grin splitting its face, cheering me on as it paced the ridge. It knew. All the animals I'd met on this path—they saw something in me I couldn't see in myself. I let the sheep guide me, their collective movement a silent nudge to turn, to carry on.

Suddenly, a grit under my right eyelid. A tearing. The same sensation that had plagued me on the couch, waiting for the signal. The rice milk. Something wrong with it. My body knew before my mind caught up. The plant—2's plant. My hands moved without thinking. I sank to the ground, ripped open the baby aloe, swallowed the bitter pulp. Waited. My body temperature spiked, sweat prickling; the drug was a slow, creeping burn. I stripped off my sweater. The aloe wouldn't be enough, not against a slow-release poison. I needed more. A frantic impulse: evacuate. Yes, that worked last time. I stumbled towards a lone tree, collapsing beneath its shade. Already, a subtle shift. This was an olive tree. Bitter. The perfect counterpoint. I filled my pockets, the rough fruit, a promise.

I walked again, a ghost among olive trees. The field ended at a ditch. I let myself slide down, following the murmuring stream. It widened, deepening into a pond, and there I stopped. Helicopters. They razored the sky, a constant, low thrum, sometimes close enough to feel the pressure. Hunting me. I tried to scale the pond’s retaining wall, clawing at it, slipping, my ankle screaming with each failed attempt. Gave up. Retraced my steps until the hill softened, offering an easier ascent.

I needed rest. The helicopters were a phantom limb now, a constant ache. The shoes. Something in them that didn't belong. The helicopters had been following these, not me. I tore them off, let the earth bite my bare feet. My feet would have to learn the language of the earth, had to burn every image, every sound into my brain. The growl of heavy machinery. A quarry, nearby. No more helicopters. I was right about the shoes.

The hill crested into a derelict shooting range, littered with shell casings. I had to explore its every boundary. Something about this place felt wrong. Used. The shell casings told stories I didn't want to understand. Voices drifted from afar, low and indistinct. I dove behind a bush, vanishing until the whispers faded. A spider, impossibly close to my face, whispered to leave. Its legs vibrated with urgency.

I moved, traversing a field of mud towards a sprawling mansion. I paused under an olive tree, leaving a piece of my hospital discharge papers, a trace for others. Children had walked this path. Small feet. Bare feet like mine. At night, when no one could see them disappear.

I crawled under the brambles, inching towards a main road. Trucks rumbled past at unnerving intervals. I counted the seconds between each passage, a mental rhythm, calculating my crossing.

Done. The other side. Another stream, cool gold against my burned bare feet. Then more brambles. Odd, these seemed like sniper’s nests, strategically placed, pointing towards a massive mansion visible above.

I crossed the fence. A potager garden, vineyards, soft green grass. Deep in the wood, a colossal rock. Carefully. A noise trap, wires snaking from the rock up the steep hill to the mansion. I knelt, examining the rock. A faint glimmer. An underground cave, child-sized. Something moved in the darkness—or maybe it was just my shadow. 'We're coming' I whispered to whoever might be listening. I lingered, letting my presence be a reassurance. I scattered olives like breadcrumbs for the others. Our rule: no faces. No names. Only telepathy—a diffuse murmur in the mind’s static. Time to go.

Where was I? A road. Yes, I recognized it. Fifteen kilometers, easily. I was dead tired. Finding my way back was impossible. Better to stay off the road, hidden from the gaze of strangers and their judgment of my bare feet. A riding path. I walked further into the wood, feeling the familiar tendrils of being lost. Then, the birds—aware of me, they circled, chirping, a language I almost understood. They guided me towards shelter. And there it was: the tunnel, dark as a throat.