The sun hung high in the afternoon sky. The crisp December wind tugged at the remaining leaves on the trees, which were equally as crisp. The trail ahead of us was overgrown, but still visible just beneath the foliage.

We had been through these woods a thousand times before, across a dozen summers, while we were both in school. This was the first time we’d seen each other in over four years, and it was supposed to be a chance to catch up; a nostalgic adventure down the same trails we had ridden as kids. 

This time was different, though; my brother Mark and I were older now, both in our twenties, he only a couple of years older than I. I had recently landed my dream job as a conservation scientist working for the Missouri DNR. He had just gotten out of prison for the second time.

Something else was different that day. About a mile and a half into the trail, only about half as far as we used to ride together, unfamiliar structures came into view. A fence, dotted with fading red and white planks, and on the other side, we could see shredded tents, dilapidated fair rides, many buildings of various sizes, and, in the center of it all, a truly massive oak tree.

“What the hell? When did this get here?” Mark asked aloud, probably mostly to himself. He leaned his bike against a nearby pine tree and unslung his backpack, wrapping the shoulder strap over the seat of the bike, before pulling something small and shiny out and tucking it into his waistband.

“No clue, but couldn't have been any longer than a couple of years, right?” I said in awe, as I walked up to the fence and chipped at a peeling bit of paint with my fingernail.

“No way, Liz. This place is old. Are you sure you didn't make a wrong turn on the trail somewhere?” He asked, already trying to shift the blame to someone else, despite him being in the lead the entire time, and me just following him. 

“No, dumbass, you were the one leading us. Besides, there's only one trail, you know that.” I shot back, rolling my eyes and pulling my phone out of my pocket, trying to open Maps. I had marked all the landmarks along our route in the years prior, so I was hoping for some insight on just where we were in relation to where we thought we were. 

The Maps app was loaded, but I had no GPS or cellular signal, so it was pretty much useless as far as telling exactly where we were. Even then, this place was huge, and should have at least shown up on the satellite images.

It did not. That should have been the point where we turned and ran. That should have been the last time we stepped foot between those trees.

—

Despite the apparent age of the fence, there were no sections that had fallen or leaned which would have allowed us to climb over, and the jagged, rusty links that lined the top of it discouraged us from just scaling it. After a few minutes of walking, we came across the entrance. 

A wooden cutout of a large, cartoonish opossum, which stood about seven feet tall and donned a cowboy hat, lasso, and spurred boots (among other western-themed clothing items) greeted us just before the gate. It was in a similar state of disrepair to the rest of the place, but we could make out most of the lettering. In large print, faded black letters in a white speech bubble (looked like Comic Sans, possibly) read:

“Welcome to Ophie O's Woodland Jamboree!
Please follow all posted rules, and have fun!”

A smaller sign to the left of the monstrous marsupial listed the rules that park-goers were supposed to follow, marked in blank paint on a piss-yellow background.

Respect all fauna and flora within and around the park. All creatures big and small are welcome here!
No firearms or other weapons allowed past the ticket booth! Please leave all dangerous items at the lockers located to your right for safekeeping!
All children must be accompanied by an adult. Unattended children may be- (the rest of this line appeared to have been hatched out and painted over.)
The park closes at 5 pm. Please be heading towards the exit by 4:45 pm!
If you ride Billy Buck's Barleysack, Hang on or Deer Life! (This entire line was seemingly added at the bottom margin after the fact, with an entirely different font.)

“Must have been some tree-hugger types that built it,” Mark said, shrugging, “might as well check it out while we're here, huh?”

Despite all the once-bright colors of carnival festivity, I found my attention being drawn towards the center of the grounds. Towards the big oak.

“You think they built this park around that tree on purpose?” I asked, pointing it out to my brother, who had gotten to work checking all the empty stalls for loose change or knick-knacks.

“Huh,” he started to ask, following my outstretched finger until his gaze landed on the tree, then passed right over it, “what tree are you talking about, Liz? Are you on shrooms again?” 

My face flashed hot, “That was one time, and once again, it was your idea! Quit holding it over my head!” I yelled at him. He had to have been fucking with me; there was no way he couldn’t see the tree. It looked big enough for four people to hug all at once and probably still not touch fingers.

“Okay, hippie. Come help me get this door open,” he teased as he fiddled with the tarnished knob on the door that led to the back of a run-down performance stage.

“What's back there that you could possibly want? And didn't you just get out of jail? Breaking and entering is a crime, y’know,” I scoffed.

“BrEaKiNg AnD eNtErInG iS a CrImE y'KnOw,” he mocked me, “and I don't know what's in there. Duh. That's why I want the door open, so I can find out, anyone who cared about this stuff obviously isn't here.” He motioned to the mess around us.

“Just move,” I said, annoyed, but unable to disagree with his last sentiment, “prick,” I said under my breath before leveling a kick at the door just beside the handle.

—

The decayed wood of the door buckled inwards, and Mark was able to push the rest of the way through, but a sharp pain in my ankle when I set my foot back down told me that I had probably overdone it.

“Ouch,” I muttered in response to the sharp sensation.

“I'm not carrying you back!” Was my brother's response, from already halfway inside the second room of the building.

I tried to maintain a steady walk out of spite, but every footfall sent another stab up the side of my calf. Inside the building was exactly what I expected. Costumes, props, fake instruments, and a few random t-shirts with Ophie Opossum and other woodland mascots on them.

“Liz! Come quick! I need help! My leg is stuck in the floor!” Mark called from the next room over. He may have been older, but I had spent most of our childhood together bailing him out of his bad decisions, so my sisterly instincts kicked in and I ran around the corner, ignoring my throbbing ankle.

“Mark? Where are you?” I didn't immediately see him, and I was worried that he had fallen into a subfloor or something. Then a curtain was thrown back, and I saw it.

The antlers were bent and broken in places, and a single eye remained in its socket while the other hung limply by the nerve. The fur was moldy and tattered around the joints. The neck was long, too long, and bent in two places; and worst of all, the silhouette body it was attached to looked human. I screamed.

“Bohahah-” Came my brother's attempt at a noise to scare me, but the damage was done just by the sight of that awful mascot head, and my fist was already in motion. It landed firmly into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him for a moment and cutting off his noise.

 He pulled off the mascot head and tossed it aside, laughing and smiling ear to ear as he clutched his side where I'd hit him. “Worth it,” he croaked out through his teeth.

“Ugh! I am so done with you, we are leaving!” I screamed as I half-limped out of the building.

I stopped before I made it to the open doorway. Outside, I could hear small footfalls, as well as clucking and gobbling. I peeked through the doorway, and, sure enough, there was a whole flock of turkeys just outside the door, led by the biggest tom I'd ever seen.

I heard a click behind me, and turned to see Mark checking the cylinders on the pistol he had just pulled from his waistband; a small, shiny .38 caliber revolver that he had just been given as an early Christmas gift by our father.

“Don't you fucking dare,” I hissed out at him, “it's not gun season for turkey, you idiot,” I tried to reason.

His reply was his smile, sly and mischievous as always. He crept up beside me and pointed the pistol through the door.

“DON'T!” I shouted at him, spooking the turkeys, but it was too late.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

The four shots rang out, and the clucking of the turkeys grew frantic as most of them took to the sky to escape the din. Two turkeys did not take off: the large tom, which had been hit twice in the body and was clearly dead, and one of the hens, which had only been winged and was flopping around trying to regain its footing.

“Mark, why? You can't take it home with us, we're over a mile into the woods, and you only have a bike!” I questioned him, tears filling my eyes.

Mark shrugged and said with a cheery voice, “Chill out, they're just animals. It's not like they even know what happened anyway.” he pointed the gun at the turkey that was struggling in front of us. I turned my head away and sobbed.

Bang. Bang. Click.

“Shit, out of ammo, I guess. At least I ended its suffering.” He said, sticking his tongue out and tilting his head to the side, mimicking the two dead turkeys now lying side by side in the leaf litter.

“Suffering that you caused! Didn't you read the sign…” I stopped myself from finishing the sentence, realizing how silly it sounded to be basing the immorality of a grown adult off of rules written on a decrepit fairgrounds rules board. I hadn't stopped soon enough.

“The sign? What, are you afraid that giant ‘possum up at the gate is gonna come for me? Or do you think the goddamn Turkeyman is gonna hunt me down for killing his kinfolk?” He spat at me as he kicked the hen aside and bent down, pulling a knife from his boot and getting to work cutting the head and tail off of the tom.

“These are the only parts I want anyway, you can have a funeral for the rest, if you'd like,” he sneered. I never remembered him being this cruel. An asshole, maybe, inconsiderate always, but this crossed the line. 

“I'm leaving, Mark. Find your way back to Momma's house, or don't. I don't care anymore.” I said, as I began making my way back towards the gate where we had come in, but before I got too far, something else caught my eye. The tree. We were somehow closer to it now, despite walking in the opposite direction to get to the stage.

“Hey, genius, gates that way.” He said, pointing in the direction we had come from. But he was wrong. I looked back in the direction where he gestured, and saw only the fence. No ticket booth, no gate, no Ophie O sign. 

“What?” he asked himself as he looked in the direction he was pointing and noticed the same thing that I had. “No way, we definitely came from there. Look, there's our bikes just on the other side of the fence!”

He wasn't wrong, our bikes were still parked right there, his leaned against the same pine tree from before, and mine on the kick stand just feet away from his. “Maybe someone's pranking us, I don't know, but the gate is way over there,” I said, pointing to the gate, ticket booth, and opossum sign that stood far out, on the other side of the tree.

“Yeah, you're right… must have gotten turned around somewhere, and somebody must have moved our bikes. I'm leaving with you. Momma'd kill me if I left you out here this close to dark,” Mark said, checking his watch, “It's already 5:05. Sun's gonna set soon anyway.”

We started walking towards the gate together, but I refused to look at him. He was still carrying his bloody trophies; he'd stashed them away in a small cloth bag from inside the stage room, but I could see the blood pooling and dripping from the bottom.

The closer we got to the tree, the more unusual I noticed it was. Despite looking at it from a completely different angle now, the tree looked identical to how it had from the gate when I first saw it, only bigger; almost like how the moon follows you on clear nights and stays in the same spot in the sky no matter how far you drive.

I turned to Mark reluctantly. “Can you at least acknowledge the damn tree so I don't feel like a complete lunatic? It looks weird.”

Mark looked at me, genuine confusion crossing his face. “Sis, I don’t know what you're smoking, but you’re sharing some with me when we get back to the house. There ain't a tree where you're pointing.” He squinted for a moment in the direction of the tree, before adding, “Looks like you're pointing at a chair to me, a loveseat maybe?”

We were only feet away now, and the texture of the tree became clearer, but it was… wrong. Closer to the texture of a fingerprint, or the skin of a palm. Directly in front of us, I could see ropey tendrils hanging down from a fleshy protrusion above us, forming the vignette of a seat.
The color was green enough to be a vine, but, like the tree, the texture was all wrong.

“It's not a chair…” Mark said aloud, “It's the seat of a roller coaster. Must be a joke.” He looked up at the bark of the tree, where I could read words carved in bloody letters on the skin-bark.

“Sinner's Ascent: Single Occupant”

“Billy Buck's Barleysack.” Mark read from whatever sign he was perceiving, “Hey, Liz, take my picture!” He exclaimed as he threw himself into the vines, ass-first.

The second his weight touched the vines, they reacted. The vines wrapped around the closest appendage they could find; two around his neck, and one each around his arms and legs, then they all retracted, pulling him several feet into the tree.

“Mark!” I screamed his name as I attempted to climb the tree to where he was being held, but my hands found no purchase on the slick, oily surface. I resorted to digging my nails into the soft mass, clawing at it until it bled, then punching and kicking the wound. Above me, I could hear Mark screaming. I looked up. I wish I hadn't looked up.

The vines had stretched Mark into a star pose, and I could tell by the way his body sagged against his joints that the vines were pulling hard. Then, additional vines fell around him and wrapped around his thighs, constricting tighter and tighter in unison until…

Snap… Snap…

As his femurs broke, I could hear Mark begging me to help. Begging for Momma. Begging God to save him, but if God heard him that day, He turned away.

Mark's scream tore in his throat, growing in pitch until only a hoarse bleating noise passed his lips. I sobbed, kneeling at the tree and looking up at him. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…” I cried.

Two more vines curled around Mark, this time looping around his upper arms. I looked away, knowing what would happen but not having the heart to watch.

Two more sickening snaps and another minute of agonizing cries later, Mark fell silent. I gazed up at him through tear-blurred eyes and saw that the vines had wrapped themselves around his neck, and were pulling tight; his neck was now twice its original length.

I watched as the vines slowly unfurled from around his arms and neck, and his limp body flopped loosely down, dangling now only by the vines around his legs. I watched as the vines around his legs loosened, then released altogether, and Mark fell several feet directly onto his head. I lost consciousness before I heard the impact.

—

When I woke up, I was no longer in the park, and, as a matter of fact, the park was gone. Night had passed, and the early rays of morning light were peaking through the trees. My bike was lying next to me, and so was my brother's. I ignored the bike, which was useless to me with the state of my ankle, and limped back up the trail. The police found me before I made it to Momma's house.

Momma had heard the shots from Mark's revolver last night, but didn't think much of it. When she woke up, and my car was still in the driveway, with my brother nowhere to be found, she assumed the worst. The cops assumed a completely different worst. They thought I had made him disappear. I didn't bother telling my truth; I knew how it would be taken. I sat silently in the interrogation room and answered every question with “I don't know,” or “I don't remember.”

The blood and tissue under my nails were sampled and taken in as evidence, as well as the shirt I was wearing that night, which was also covered in blood. I don't know exactly what they found, but the officer who called Momma told her that I was no longer a suspect and that it would probably be a good idea for me to get a rabies vaccine and take grief counseling. I was free to return home. 

I left without saying goodbye. I didn't even bother staying for Christmas.

I've been home for a week. My ankle is fractured, but that is the least of my worries. I still see that tree in my dreams, and lingering at the edges of my vision when I find myself staring into nothing for too long. Worse than that, I see Mark. 

He's not dead in my dreams; he's much worse. He's crawling through the woods of Tennessee, broken and bent arms acting as a second set of legs, and that grotesque, moldy, one-eyed deer mask as a head, covering his bashed-in head attached to his too-long neck.

If you ever see Ophie O’s Woodland Jamboree, don’t make the same mistake we did.

Don’t go in.
