Forest of No Return
Rushton DeWolfe was a professional skeptic. His was not a job students learn about on career day; it was one he carefully created for himself by writing articles and books debunking conspiracy theories and uncovering the truth behind urban legends. Strangely enough, men who tell the truth and expose our cherished myths as lies are often disliked. Such was the case with Rushton DeWolfe. Whenever he gave interviews on radio and television, they were met with hostility. People who wanted to believe in Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster and the aliens of Area 51 despised his sarcasm and air of superiority. Those who read, watched or listened to him did so only in hopes of finding a possible chink in his armor of logic.
As Rushton sat at his desk counting the number of rings it took his editor to answer the telephone, his impatience grew.
"Pick it up, damn it!" he said after the fourth ring.
"Bernstein."
It was the only greeting the magazine's managing editor ever used. Despite being a former journalist, he was a man of few words.
"Hi, Saul. It's me, Rushton. How did you like the last piece I sent you?"
"It was pretty good"—this was high praise coming from the editor. "We'll run it in the October issue."
"Fine. As for my next article, I was thinking of writing about the disappearance of D.B. Cooper."
"Forget about that for now. I've got an assignment for you."
I can't wait to hear this! the writer thought, rolling his eyes with disgust. The last time Saul sent me out on an assignment I got a bad case of sunburn and heat exhaustion.
"Not to another place with a tropical climate, I hope!"
"How does Maine sound to you?"
"What's in Maine—other than lobsters, lighthouses and Stephen King?"
"Trees. Lots of them."
"Trees?"
"Ever hear of the Forest of No Return?" Saul asked.
"Yeah. It's supposedly a magnet for people who want to kill themselves."
"That's right. In 2018, a hundred and five bodies were found there, which was way up from the seventy-eight found in 2017. The causes of death were mostly hangings, self-inflicted gunshots and drug overdoses."
"Some of the O.D.s might have been accidental, not intentional," Rushton pointed out.
"Even if that's the case, that still leaves a lot of suicides in one area. Police reported over two hundred attempts last year alone."
"And what exactly do you want me to write, that the figures are overinflated? That the whole idea of a suicide forest is nothing but an urban legend?"
"No. There's a story going around on the Internet that the deaths are the result of a Satanic cult."
"Oh, Christ! Not that old chestnut."
"I'm afraid so."
"How widespread is this crackpot theory?"
"There was a video that went viral on YouTube of a body supposedly found in the forest that was marked with a pentagram and an inverted crucifix."
"Which some kid probably filmed in his back yard."
"Maybe so, but the magazine has received hundreds of emails asking for the facts. That's why you're going to Maine."
"I suppose it's better than the last place you sent me."
"Don't rush to judgment. You're not going to be staying in a hotel. I want you to bring alone a tent and camping gear."
"You expect me to sleep out in the woods!" the writer exclaimed.
"It'll be fun," Saul declared, knowing full-well that Rushton hated the so-called great outdoors. "Just like when you were a Boy Scout."
"I was never a Boy Scout. Even as a child, I preferred to remain indoors. But I'll give it the old college try."
"That's the spirit! You can go over to Cabela's and get what gear you need. Just attach the receipt to your expense report. Oh, and don't forget to buy insect repellent."
Good God! Rushton thought, shuddering with revulsion. I hate bugs! They're worse than sunburn and heat exhaustion.
* * *
The ringing of his phone startled Rushton. He thought he had left civilization behind, yet here it was in the form of a phone call from his editor.
"I wasn't sure if I could reach you," Saul said when the writer answered. "I was afraid there wouldn't be any cell phone reception in that area of Maine."
"I'm not at the forest yet."
"Good because I've got someone to keep you company while you're there."
"Company? Who? A native guide to make sure I don't get lost?"
"No. A summer intern at the magazine."
"You've got to be kidding! I'm up here to work, not to play babysitter to some college kid."
"Think of it as mentoring a future journalist."
"I'd rather not."
"You don't have a choice. There's a gas station about a mile before you enter the forest. Dale will be waiting there for you."
Twenty minutes later Rushton saw the combination gas station and convenience store up ahead. Standing on the side of the road, half a block from the station's parking lot, was a pretty young woman with a backpack slung over her shoulder. He pulled his SUV up to her and opened the window.
"Are you Dale?" he inquired.
"You must be the writer who plans on spending the weekend in the forest," she said.
"Yes. I'm afraid that's me. Hop in."
The girl opened the rear door, tossed her backpack on the seat and then sat on the passenger seat next to Rushton.
"While we're here, do you need anything?" the writer asked. "I wasn't expecting a sidekick, so I only brought enough food for one."
"I'm okay. I've got my own supplies."
"Saul tells me you want to be a journalist," he said, resorting to small talk.
"Not really."
"You don't? Why intern at the magazine then?"
A shrug of her shoulders was the only answer he received.
"I sense you're less than enthusiastic about this little camping trip," Rushton observed. "Are you uncomfortable about having to spend the weekend in the woods with a strange man?"
"No. I've met men a lot stranger than you."
"Is it the forest's reputation as a suicide hotspot then?"
"Hardly!" she replied, laughing at his suggestion. "I've been here many times."
"Well, that's good. You can keep me from getting lost then."
"I take it you're not much of an outdoors person."
"You got that right."
A large sign put up by the Park Service indicated that they had arrived at their destination. Written on it were the typical warnings concerning campfires, wild animals and trash removal but no reference to the deaths that regularly occurred within the forest's boundaries. There was, however, a handmade placard that spelled out "Forest of No Return" affixed to a wooden stake and hammered into the ground. Just beyond the sign the road ended in a parking lot.
"You have to leave your car here," the girl explained. "The only way into the forest is by foot."
"Let me just text Saul and tell him we've arrived," he announced, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
"Don't bother. You won't get any service here."
Always the skeptic, he tried anyway, only to confirm that the intern was right. Meanwhile, the girl adjusted the straps on her backpack and put on a baseball cap.
"I'm ready when you are," she announced.
"Please tell me there are designated camping areas within a short walking distance."
He was hoping there might be showers and toilet facilities. Even a porta potty would do.
"Afraid not. We're going to have to rough it. Just look for a small clearing where we can pitch our tents."
As they hiked over the uneven trails, Rushton was careful not to twist an ankle. With his cell phone out of commission, who knew how long it would take to get medical personnel to come to his aid.
"Hold on," he called to the girl who was several steps ahead of him. "I need to put on my insect repellant."
After spraying himself with a generous dose of Deep Woods Off!, he took a long swig from his bottle of Dasani.
"Just a word of advice," his companion said. "Go easy on the bottled water. It has to last until we leave on Monday morning."
"You mean there's no water here?"
"There are a number of streams that you can use for bathing and boiling, but I don't think you'll want to drink from it. You never know if some other camper has used it for a toilet."
Approximately two miles from the parking lot, they found a flat, clear patch of land only a few feet from a good-sized brook.
"What about here?" Rushton asked, hoping Dale would not find fault with it as she had the previous spots he found.
"Yeah, this'll do," she answered, removing her backpack and laying it on the ground.
Although he had no previous experience pitching tents, with the girl's help, the one-man pup tent was soon up. Rushton was dismayed to see that there was no floor to the tent.
"Am I supposed to put my sleeping bag directly on the ground?"
"Don't worry. It should keep you warm. Besides, the temperature is only supposed to go down to the sixties tonight."
"It's not the cold I'm worried about. Anything can crawl inside."
"Are you afraid you'll wake up next to a bear?" the girl laughed, apparently amused by his aversion to the camping experience.
"Not bears—snakes."
"Relax! You'll rarely find a snake in the state of Maine, and you definitely won't find one in this forest—or bears either."
As Dale prepared a campfire, Rushton thought about what she had said. No bears. No snakes. Since leaving the parking lot, he had not seen or heard a bird, squirrel, deer or rabbit. Neither did he encounter any insects, even before applying the insect repellant.
"There!" the girl exclaimed, getting to her feet after she got the fire going. "You can cook your dinner now."
"Aren't you eating?" he asked as he speared two Nathan's hot dogs with a long, pointed stick.
"I'm a vegan," she announced, scooping up a handful of nuts, berries and seeds from a Ziploc bag.
"So, you've been here before?"
"Yes, many times. And, no, I've never had the urge to kill myself while I'm here."
"Do you believe the stories they tell about this place are true?"
"There has been an unusually high number of deaths here."
"I'm referring to the story going around on the Internet that Satanists are killing people here."
"I don't know anything about that. Why? Do you believe it?"
"Not me. I don't believe any of the junk people post online. Hell, I don't even believe half of what I read in the papers or watch on the TV news."
"You really are a skeptic."
"And proud of it!"
After finishing his hot dogs, Rushton opened a can of Coke and a bag of Wise potato chips.
"Want one?" he asked, pointing the open bag in Dale's direction.
"No thanks," she replied and then turned the conversation to his proposed article. "Exactly what do you intend to write about this place?"
"Frankly, I don't think there is much I can write about it. I have facts and figures but no angle. Unless we stumble across a bunch of devil worshippers conducting a black mass or someone stringing a noose over a tree limb or drinking a Jonestown cocktail, I suppose I'll just have to write about my general observations. You know, describe the vibes I feel."
"Do you feel any now?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. I'm tired from the hike we took from the parking lot."
The young woman smiled. She had the distinct feeling her companion would not admit to a sense of foreboding even if he felt one.
* * *
Rushton was awakened early the next morning by the discomfort in his full bladder. He opened the tent flap and went outside, expecting to find the young intern munching on her rabbit food, but no one was there.
"Dale?" he called, fearful that something might have happened to her.
Several moments later she appeared on the path, carrying sticks and branches for a campfire.
"Can you point me to the nearest men's room?" he joked, happy to see that she was alive and well.
"It's a big forest; take your pick."
Wanting privacy, the writer walked up the path about a quarter of a mile. When he stopped to relieve himself, he found the total silence disturbing. He had often heard that wooded areas were alive with sounds of birds, insects and small animals.
That's my angle, he thought, using the eerie feeling as inspiration for his proposed magazine article. Forget the Satanist bullshit! I'll write about the complete lack of lifeforms here and how lonely and desolate it can make people feel. I can then delve into the psychology of suicide clusters. It'll give all these deaths a scientific reason.
When he returned to the campsite, he saw Dale heating a small pan of water over the campfire.
"I'm making myself some tea. Did you want some?"
"I'm not a tea drinker. I'm more of a coffee man myself."
He opened the front pocket of his backpack and took out a Styrofoam cup, a packet of Starbucks instant coffee, a small tub of Coffee-mate creamer and two Domino sugars. While he sipped his hot campfire brew, he told Dale about his idea for the article.
"You make these deaths sound so clinical," she commented. "You've taken all the mystery out of this place."
"There is no mystery. For some unknown reason, one emotionally disturbed person came into this forest and killed himself. That set off a wave of like-minded people to do the same thing. They have a similar situation in Sri Lanka. Clusters of people there are committing suicide by ingesting yellow oleander seeds."
"And what's this about a lack of lifeforms in the forest?"
"Have you seen any birds since we left the parking lot?"
"No," the intern admitted.
"Neither have I. And it's not just birds. There are no mammals or insects either—not even ants."
"Open your eyes!" she cried. "This forest is teeming with life."
"Where?"
"The trees are alive."
"I'm talking about sentient life, not plant life."
"Trees are sentient. They communicate with each other. Humans just haven't found a way to communicate with them."
"Well, maybe if I were in league with the conspiracy nuts, I'd write an article suggesting the trees talked these people into killing themselves. Better yet, I'd put it in a video on YouTube and watch it go viral."
The intern did not laugh at his joke or even smile.
Some people have no sense of humor, Rushton thought and finished drinking his coffee.
* * *
Saul Bernstein sat at his desk, going through his email, most of which was spam. Normally, he took Saturdays off, but his mother-in-law was visiting from Pennsylvania, and he decided going to the office was the lesser of two evils. He was laughing at a cat video an old army buddy had sent him, when there was a knock on his door.
"Come in," he called.
The editor looked up to see Dale Zacarian, the college student who was interning at the magazine for the summer.
"What are you doing here?" Saul asked. "I thought you were up in Maine with Rushton DeWolfe."
"I waited inside that gas station for more than three hours. He never showed. I tried getting in touch with him, but I couldn't get any service on my cell phone. Finally, I gave up and drove back to Boston."
"I hope everything is all right. DeWolfe was supposed to have texted me when he arrived; but when I didn't hear from him, I naturally assumed there was no cell phone service in the area."
"There isn't. But he never showed at the gas station, and I didn't pass any other cars on the drive back to the interstate."
Since his secretary was not in the office, he relied on Siri to find the telephone number of the Maine State Police. After being put on hold and having his call transferred several times, he was told to contact the National Park Service since the forest was under their domain. Again, he was put on hold and his call transferred until he reached the appropriate park ranger.
The editor quickly explained his concern over his missing writer.
"Is there any chance he might want to hurt himself?" the ranger asked.
"No. He's there on an assignment for the magazine, not to kill himself."
Perceiving there was no imminent danger, the park ranger decided there was no need for a massive manhunt.
"I'll have my rangers keep an eye out for him during their patrols. Let me have your number, so I can get back to you."
"When will that be?"
"I'm not sure. There are over eighty square miles of trees up here, and your man can be anywhere."
Meanwhile, back at the campsite, Rushton jotted down ideas for his article in a three-by-five notepad he kept tucked in the pocket of his Under Armour jacket. While he ordinarily used a Surface tablet for organizing his thoughts when in the field, he had tried to keep the weight of his backpack to a minimum.
"Are you planning on writing the entire article in longhand in that little notebook?" his companion asked.
"No, just making a few notes."
"What do you have planned for us today then?"
"I though we'd take a walk. Like the bear who went over the mountain, we will see what we can see."
"Like a dead body hanging from a tree?"
"Good God! I hope not. What about you? Why did you want to come here with me? You told me yesterday you had no real interest in becoming a journalist."
"I wanted to come because I like it here. Unlike you, I am an outdoorsy person."
"But you've been here many times before. Why did you need to accompany me? Oh, I get it," he declared, answering his own question. "You don't like to come here alone."
Dale—or the person he believed was Dale—did not deny his theory.
"I can't say that I blame you," the writer continued. "This place gives me the creeps. In fact, I'm glad to have you along for the company."
Rushton went through his backpack, deciding what items to bring along on the hike.
"Definitely water," he decided, putting a bottle of Dasani in each of his back pockets. "An emergency flare? It might be a good idea to take that along. Bug spray? Totally useless in the absence of bugs."
He tossed the can on the ground instead of disposing of it in the Hefty bag with the rest of the refuse.
"What are you going?" the girl angrily demanded to know.
"I'm getting rid of the bug spray. I don't need it."
"You can't leave it there! It's always the same with the human race. You come into the forest and leave your trash behind."
"Whoa! Calm down. I'll pick it up and put in the garbage bag. Okay?"
Maybe I'm not so happy to have her along as company after all. These avid environmentalists can be a real pain in the ass! And this one's worse. She obviously sees herself as being above the rest of us humans.
* * *
The lighthearted banter that the two occasionally shared since meeting the previous day was absent during the hike. The girl remained moodily silent since her blow-up over the discarded can of insect repellant. Rushton tried to strike up a conversation, first by asking her about school and then by making jokes about some of the conspiracy theories he had debunked. Neither elicited a response from his companion.
Since there was nothing to see but trees, boredom soon set in. As he frequently did when he was bored, he sang to himself. This time, however, it was a kid's song rather than the usual rock 'n' roll classic.
"The bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the mountain. The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see. To see what he could see. To see what he could see. The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see. The other side of the mountain. The other side of the mountain. The other side of the mountain was all that he could see."
"That's a pessimistic song," the girl said, finally breaking her silence. "Besides, it's inappropriate since we're not in the mountains."
"How about a tree song then? Let's see there's 'Lemon Tree' by Peter, Paul and Mary. That's way before your time, though. 'O, Christmas Tree.' Not the season for that one. Wait! I know one."
The girl's stony frown finally broke, and she smiled.
"Whoa, tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree," he began to sing.
"Please! That's enough."
"What? Don't tell me you don't like Tony Orlando and Dawn? Haven't you ever ...?"
Rushton's voice trailed off as he spied a clearing up ahead.
"I wonder what that is," he said.
"It's a dirt road."
"I didn't see it on the camp map."
"It's a private road, used only by the park rangers."
"Are we allowed to walk on it?" he asked, fearing that the girl might have another tantrum if he broke the rules again.
"I don't see why not—just as long as you don't do any more singing."
"Everyone's a critic."
Rushton took several steps before noticing the sun seemed to be sitting lower in the sky. He looked at his Apple Watch, only to discover the battery was dead.
"That's impossible! It was fully charged." He turned to the girl and asked, "Do you know what time it is?"
"It's time you learned the truth about this forest."
In the few moments it took her to utter the nine-word sentence, the sun went down, even though Rushton estimated it to be mid-morning.
"What the hell is going on?" he cried.
The girl began to look less like a human and more like a tree. Her smooth skin morphed into rough bark, and green leaves sprouted in her long brown hair.
"This can't be happening," the diehard skeptic insisted.
"But it is. My name isn't Dale, and I'm not a summer intern at your magazine. In fact, I'm not even human."
"I get it now. There must be some kind of fungus in the forest that acts as a hallucinogen. Like ergot, it causes people to hallucinate. That's why they kill themselves here."
"Your thinking is still way too clinical," the girl said, her voice sounding more bass than soprano. "You must open up your mind to more esoteric possibilities."
Although the being was now more tree than human, it still retained some of its feminine features as well as its ability to speak.
"Assuming I haven't completely lost my mind, what are you?"
"The Greeks called us dryads. We have also been referred to as tree sprites or nymphs."
"Clinical my ass! My money is still on a hallucinogen produced by fungus."
"Whether you believe in us or not, it makes no difference. We exist."
The trees that lined the dirt road suddenly began to morph, becoming more human, until they resembled the being Rushton still thought of as Dale, the summer intern. When her branchlike hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, belief finally began to break through his skepticism. With it came fear as more and more trees transformed into dryads.
I've got to get out of here.
With great effort, he managed to break out of the dryad's grasp. Once free, he turned and ran, not into the woods where he was likely to trip over a rock or tree root but along the dirt road.
"You can't escape," the tree-like creature shouted. "You're doomed, just like the others who dared to profane our sacred forest."
Their roots having turned to limbs, the tree sprites pursued the fleeing writer. Not one to hit the gym and keep in shape, he tired quickly. Just when he feared they would overtake him, Rushton saw headlights up ahead.
It must be the park rangers, he thought with joy, arriving in the nick of time like the U.S. calvary.
The dryads fell back; and as the jeep neared, they morphed back into harmless trees along the dirt road. Only the creature who pretended to be a girl named Dale was left to witness the writer's fate.
The two rangers in the jeep, who had been instructed to search for a missing camper, were both shining their flashlights into the dark forest. The driver kept an eye on the road with his peripheral vision only. By the time he saw the man running toward the vehicle, there was little he could do. He hit the brakes but was unable to stop in time to avoid hitting him.
* * *
Saul Bernstein was seeking sanctuary from his visiting mother-in-law by watching a baseball game in the family room. His cell phone rang in the middle of the third inning.
"Hello? Mr. Bernstein?"
"That's me."
"I'm calling from the National Park Service here in Maine."
"Ah, yes, Ranger. Have you found my missing writer yet?"
"I'm afraid we have."
The editor was dumbfounded by the story the ranger told him. Rushton DeWolfe was the last person he would expect to take his own life.
And to do it in such a horrible way. Imagine deliberately running into a moving car!
After the truth of the writer's death finally set in, Saul phoned Dale Zacarian, the intern.
"Hi, Dale," he said when the young man answered. "I have an assignment for you. How do you feel about making that long drive up to Maine again?"
This story is inspired by Aokigahara Jukai, also known as the Sea of Trees, in Japan. Like the forest in this story, there are a large number of suicides that occur there.
"Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree" written by Irwin Levine and L. Russell Brown. © Peermusic Publishing, Spirit Music Group.
Not even Tony Orlando would tie a yellow ribbon round this ole oak tree!
