There were no sounds of birds on the pathway beyond the shabby gate. No flapping or rustling of wings. No caws, crowing, or coos. No chirps of any sort. Silence thickened around me. I felt no wind on my shoulders, arms, or face. No distant sounds of any movement. The hardening ground lacked the activity of playful chipmunks in the colorful leaves that autumn offered plentifully, and the trees were bare of puffy-tailed squirrels, lacking those soothing clicking and clacking rodent animal sounds to draw their mates and friends. Death lingered in those woods. Something primal and wicked. Something from hell itself.
I walked cautiously down the narrow pathway, surrounded by that strange and suffocating place. Strands of dried, orange/green/brown grass brushed against my jean-covered kneecaps.
