There's a pull that people get in the pit of their stomach in moments of danger, either real or perceived. It was pretty easy to recognize: Tugging at some primal part of you as one walked down darkened alleys, for example, or felt the exact same moment one evaded a car that had brushed a tad bit too close for comfort while crossing a supposedly empty street.
Her eyes cracked open to said sensation. They always did. That, and a strong thud against the fire tower's window, had put an end to Mary's rest. The bleeding sun had just began to dissappear behind the treeline, not yet night, and she groaned at the thought of an interrupted sleep.
"It's better if you start early tonight". A man that had not been there before, informed her in a matter-of-factly manner. The woman in the bed threw a pillow at him. He didn't bother to dodge.
Mary mumbled out nothing particularly inteligible.
"You know, luv, if you finish your job quickly, you'll also have the privilege to go back to sleep faster".
That was a lie, Mary grunted, still barely dragging the words. There was no going to bed after this until the following morning. He knew it, she knew it. The old goat wasn't a flexible person when one spoke of matters of time, work and word— not that he had any problems with stretching his own word to the limits if it so suited him.
'Rule number three of the park ranger guide: If you ever encounter a middle aged man in a suit, beware of what he says. Mr. B tells at least one lie'.
She also had no idea where her glasses had gone. Her face planted against the mattress and she let out a whine.
"Don't sulk now, dear". Mr. B chided. His eyes, as blue and dark as the depths of a dead lake, rolled in a fashion that made Mary wish for a second pillow to throw. "I have the feeling it's going to be an easy shift. Would you like some coffee before you leave?"
"Depends. Did you roast the beans yourself again?"
"Oh, again with that? It didn't even taste that bad last time".
She wouldn't argue with him (not that there was a point to it), but Mary begged to differ. She hadn't been able to wipe the taste of sulfur off her tongue for a week.
"You were sleeping on them, you know?"
Indeed, she had been. With as much dignity as she could muster, Mary settled the now slightly-crooked glasses on her face and stood up to walk towards the window, opening it to inspect the cause of the noise that had awoken her. She found a bird laying on the windowsill, poked it to see if it was dead, and immediately planted a hand to her face.
Of course it was dead.
She turned around to look at the inappropriately dressed man —who the hell wore a suit in the middle of the woods?—, and pointed at the carcass with an accusing finger. An easy shift, huh? The old bastard raised his hands, as if to give her a double high five, in a gesture that meant to placate her yet failed at its purpose.
"I know it's a bad omen, but that one wasn't me".
Her gaze fell on the dead bag of feathers again, and only then, did she noticed a second set of glassy eyes on its face. She sighed in aggravation, almost wondered at the shortness of her patience (maybe it was Monday today?), and muttered "hags" under her breath.
She absolutely hated hags. She hated them more than she hated those demonic squirrels that liked to nest on the roof. And she hated those squirrels a lot— nasty little buggers.
The devil gave her a sympathetic look. "Well, there you go". He simply stated, and handed her a duffel bag as she walked right past him and to the broom closet. Hags, hags, hags. They were annoying to deal with, but not very troublesome. Not as long as there weren't any people around. Finding what she was looking for, Mary nodded, and turned to leave. "I would be quick if I were you. Lynne was telling me earlier about certain... Nosy individuals in the tourist center. They seemed stubbornly decided on staying just a bit longer than allowed".
The redhead halted midstep and groaned. She took another look inside the closet.
"Would you like me to have dinner prepared for you when you come back?"
With an audible 'A-ha!', Mary peeked around the metal door, propping the mallet she'd been looking for on one of her shoulders.
'Rule number seven of the park ranger guide: Never accept food offered by any of the creatures of the forest. Unless you're Mary Sun".
"Mac and cheese". She simply stated as she started to walk away. Scratching at his salt and pepper hair, Mr. B sighed.
"I'll steam some vegetables on the side". He informed her, a literal warning in his voice. It distorted the sound around them and momentarily filled her ears with static. 'Testy'. Mary flinched as she finished putting her hair up in a pony tail, but didn't stop walking. "And try not to make too much of a mess, luv! And don't take things to the tourist center if you don't have to! Lynne is still a little cross with me from last time!"
Of course she was going to make a mess. They were hags. Man, she hated hags.
Kissing the golden rosary that hung around her neck, Mary stepped outside, pushing the door close with her foot.
'Rule number one of the park ranger guide: The firetower door must always remain closed, unless you fancy a surprise coming back'.
In the distance, a disorganized flock of birds flew over a specific point. Some fell, although most remained in the air, flapping their wings like men drowning inside a sea of reds and orange. Mary took notice that they were flying near the tourist center. Lynne's angry expression flashed through her head. She shivered, and apologized to Mr. B in her thoughts.
'Better him than me'.
With a last glance over the horizon, the woman made her way down the stairs, her mallet dragging with every step through the forest floor, leaving an imprint as she went.
'Rule number five of the park ranger guide: No matter how well you believe to know the terrain, if possible, try to make a trail. Sometimes, the trees like to move places'.
A person screamed in the distance and she quickened her step. Another night, another horror.
She wasn't paid enough for this.
(She wasn't paid at all).