Ambrose Wilson just wanted a quiet life. Nearing his twentieth birthday, he grew tired of his hectic city life and decided to rest for a week in a small plot of land his late grandfather had bought in the countryside.
The young man, despite being slightly intellectually accomplished, had had a mediocre relationship with physical fitness, leading to a bulky, chubby look about him.
He arrived at the front gate of the property, nearly a thirty minute drive from the city under whose jurisdiction fell the estate. A well kept, yet noticeably aged iron gate, held closed by a chain with a large steel lock stood before him. Ambrose took out a large keychain and selected a thick, shining key, which he then inserted into the lock, opening it with a click. He drove his blue Volkswagen Beetle inside, before once again exiting and locking the gate.
It had been too long since he had last been there. The unpaved road which led to the cottage, standing on a hillside, felt distantly familiar to him. As he drove uphill, he spotted a flock of geese honking at a few dogs whick ran amok near the road, curious at the new arrival. He saw a few heads of cattle grazing and, looking towards his left, he remebered a place he deeply feared as a child.
His grandfather, amongst his many interests, held a deep interest in other cultures, especially asian cultures. Over his long life of working and travelling, he managed to collect art from India, China and Japan, amongst other trinkets from around the world. He had also thought to grow bamboo on his estate, near a creek that passed nearby. Over the years, It became a thick grove, filled with bamboo and native trees, which let little light in and exuded a creepy atmosphere, in Ambrose's mind.
Seeing once again this dark wood, he could not help but feel a child-like curiosity towards it, like something drawing him into it. He shuddered slightly and focused on the path ahead, driving up to the back of the house.
He saw a couple awaiting him, a middle aged man and woman. The latter had graying brown hair and the rough, sunkissed face of someone who had lived in the countryside her entire life, and toiled through most of it. She was a mixture of the native people of that region and the European conquerors of long ago. Her husband, who stood right beside her, descended from Japanese immigrants, which had come along with many others more than a century before the present. The two were called Anna and Kazuo.
"Hey, it's been quite a while! How are you two." Ambrose greeted as he exited the car.
"Welcome back. We were quite surprised to know you were coming, especially when we heard you would come alone. It's been, what? More than ten years, I reckon." said Anna with a contented look on her face. "I suppose so. You know how it is, city life keeps you really busy. It's hard to leave." "I can imagine." Replied Kazuo, his brow slightly furrowed. A brief silence followed, before Ambrose picked up his luggage and some food he had brought from the trunk. "Okay. I'll head inside. Is the fridge stocked?" Anna kept a shallow smile. "Yeah, Kazuo will grab some fresh food in town tomorrow morning, though." "Oh, good. Thanks for everything." "Don't mention it. If you need anything, we'll be around." "Sure, thanks again." Ambrose said as he carried his things inside. The two scattered, leaving Ambrose by himself.
He was sure of it: there was a large distance between him and the two. He must seem nearly a stranger to them, despite him having come there a lot during his childhood. He wondered just how much he was at fault for this distance between them. His own negligence. His mind wandered through saddening thoughts as he unpacked. "Negligence... the basis for guilt, huh?" he whispered to nobody in particular. He sat down on the bed, an old frame with a decent mattress, and pouted, sighing deeply. He threw himself backwards, his head hitting the soft pillow and his body bouncing on the mattress.
He lied there for a while, sighing heavily, with heavily shut eyes. His feet ached from the drive, he swatted away the constant barrage of insects and he couldn't shake tha nagging feeling that hus life was more a compilation of mistakes and bad judgement than anything else.
He shook it off after a while as he felt his hunger increasing. The sun hadn't yet set, but he figured it was as good a time as any to begin making dinner. He went with a simple yet practical dish, taught to him by his grandmother to impress his first girlfriend, who ended the relationship before he had the opportunity to make it for her. It was Penne al Ragu, using pork instead of beef.
The finished product was a tad salty, yet still tasty. he made enough to completely sate his hunger, and was confronted with a lack of things to do before sleep. 'Maybe coming here alone wasn't the best idea.' He thought.
His mind travelled back to the bamboo grove. Its dark, wet ambiance still gave him chills. Still, he was double his age compared to his last visit. 'Should I do it? Put my fear to rest?' He hesitated as the washed the dishes. There was still a bit of light in the sky, and it was supposed to be a full moon that night. 'There's no harm in it, right?' He convinced himself.
Taking a flashlight just in case, he followed a footpath, shaded by pines, down the hill towards the road he had driven through. Across a hundred meters of short grass and a few geese was the tempting maw of the grove, which could only be accessed easily through a stone bridge, which went over some thick vegetation and god-knows-whatever else lurked below.
He stepped into the wood.