Will-o'-the-Wisp, Part 8, Final (Fiction)

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       In the darkness, the forest twisted him, tricked him, gouged and grated him. His right arm hung useless, and with each step a hot bolt ripped from the small of his back down to his toes. He fell and crawled like an insect until the forest made him stand. Finally, the rush of car tires in the distance steered him. It was just enough to lead him out.
       Andy hobbled over the field and the pitted ground, and when he crossed to the downward slope, the lights of his house glowed below. Late night silence blanketed all when he returned to the safety of the lamplight and locked doors. He climbed to the room overlooking the woods and pulled a sewing chair over to the window. Dried blood flaked from his arms onto the needlepoint cushions.
       And so, Andy sat, not calling the police for Byrn, not calling the ambulance for himself. He sat. Rarely blinking. Until the dawn stirred in the eastern sky.
       He waited.
       The morning mists whitened as the light grew.
       But before the sun blazed over the horizon, and a measure of night still clung in the shade, Andy spied it.
       A glow. Leaping on the hill. One last revel before the day.
       With leaves and twigs knotted in his hair, Andy sobbed. Dirty tears washed down his cheeks.
       He saw them. Graceful. And beautiful. Two ghastly orbs in a pas de deux. Then, the first sunbeams flared and chased them back into the forest.
       Andy's hands splayed on the window glass. His enraptured face reflected back at him.
       Bryn was whispering. And laughing with the child.
       He wanted to go.
       He wanted to dance.

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Based on the legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp

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