Wormwood

Chapter 1

The townspeople never knew. They lived each day in routine fashion, never knowing about the great tragedy that had befallen them so many centuries ago. A tragedy that, had it not been for a band of forgotten heroes, would have wiped out the rest of the world.

Even though no one remembered the sacrifices made to save the Earth from a hellish evil, the heroes still continue to watch over humanity, lest the dark powers of Chaos returned.

In the town that was made to forget, the town known as Wormwood, there was a small forest. Once a playground to local children, it became out of bounds after two siblings, followed by a whole lot of other children, went in to explore and never returned. The mothers mourned for their presumably dead kids, while the fathers took comfort in the condolence money given out by the town mayor.

Those who did not wish to think of their children as deceased went into the forest in search of them, only to return, petrified and unwilling to speak. Trauma soon erased whatever memory they had of their experiences in the woods, and of their lost children.

Young John Martin was eleven. His generation enjoyed the luxuries of technology, even in such a rural town like Wormwood. Nearly every household had a television set, no matter how tiny or screwed up it was. Faded cartoons served well in capturing a child's attention, but it was not just cartoons that filled the media.

John Martin, having had some glimspe of the outside world, was getting to become rather rebellious. His mother credited his behaviour to not just television, but his best pal, Scott Riley, a notorious troublemaking twelve-year-old.

Like many other mothers, John's mother had told him a million times not to enter the forest, lest he wanted to 'be torn apart by them goblins'. It would seem like a wrong choice of words, for 'goblins' only heightened John's curiosity and desire to enter the woods.

It was Scott's idea to explore the forest. Or, more accurately, John dared him to take ten large steps into it; Scott double-dared him, and John concluded by suggesting they both go in. If they died, they died as best buds. If they survived, they would return as brave, revered heroes.

The plan was to wander the woods for ten minutes, using a stick to mark their path so they could return from whence they came.

With a deep breath each, the two boys entered the woods. It was deadly silent, as if they had been sucked into another world. Wormwood seemed a million miles away: the sounds of the town--infants crying at their mothers' breasts; newspaper vendors screaming their businesses; good-for-nothings making known their grieviances--faded away to an eerie, compelling silence.

Every step they took seemed to draw them closer into a thickening mist. Scott suggested they hold a second stick (no self-respecting twelve-year-old boy would be caught dead holding another boy's hand) so they would not get separated. Many times they called out each other's name; just hearing the response would be a greatly settling.

John glanced at his digital watch, a gift from his travelling uncle, vaguely making out the glowing numbers in the mist. Eight minutes had passed since they first stepped into the forest. Time seemed to move so slowly; those eight minutes had felt like an eternity.

The numbers changed again, indicating another minute had passed. John called out to his friend, "Scott? We only have to stay another minute!"

No response.

John clutched the stick tight, holding his breath. He let it out when he felt the counter-resistance. "Very funny Scott. I ain't scared of you!"

No response.

Gulping nervously, John stopped in his tracks. The stick didn't move, but remained in its position, as if still held by two persons. John called, "Scott! C'mon this ain't funny! Scott!"

Suddenly, the stick in his hand fell into the ground with a soft thud. Visibly shaking, John took two steps back. He whimpered, "Scott...stop it..."

There was no wind, but the thick fog was cool to the touch. Unable to see where his steady backtrack was taking him, he tripped over a root, and found himself staring up at whiteness.

"Scott!" he screamed, on the verge of tears. "Scott!"

And then the whiteness was gone, for an unnatural wind had blown past, swooshing aside the blinding fog.

Scott Riley stood over John, laughing victoriously. "You should have heard yourself screaming!"

It took some seconds for John to return to reality and calm down. "That wasn't funny, Scott!" He pushed his friend, who was still laughing, onto the moist soil.

"Okay," Scott choked amid laughs. "Okay...I'm sorry, John. Now let's head home before our folks notice we're gone."

Cursing under his breath, John helped him up, and they both turned. Something was wrong.

"Where's the track?" said Scott, anxiety mounting within his young heart.

"Ha-ha, Scott. I ain't falling for your tricks no more."

But Scott did not appear to be faking it. "I'm serious! I can't find the track I drew!"

"It's probably here," said John, running towards the spot he had fallen.

There was nothing there. He whirled round wildly, but suddenly the fog had returned. He called for Scott, but like before, there was no response.

"Scott, stop kidding! We've got to get home!" John shouted, angrily this time.

A tingle ran down John's spine, and, instinctively, he whipped around again. He screamed.

Staring down at him was the last thing John ever saw. His screams echoed through the forest, but he had unknowingly ventured too far from town for them to be heard. The next day, John Martin and Scott Riley were deemed missing and dead, and nobody, not even their parents, dared go looking for them...