Mime Time

Jacob had been a park ranger for over a year. Every day patrolling the dirt highways that wove in and out of woods and clearings, winding and bending through knotted roots and lush green bushes. It was pristine and isolated, and those were the things that drew him to the job. There would be times when he would have to go to the ranger station, or check out an animal sighting, all sorts of busywork. But for the most part, it was quiet hikes, with nothing man-made in sight. Except for the outhouses.

Various wooden shacks would stand erect in the strangest of places throughout the park, lying dead in the middle of the more isolated fields, or hanging out in between two trees, and occasionally dotting the riverbanks. And Jacob had even once found one built around a tree, or maybe the grew through it. He didn't know. And it was one of these outhouses that Jacob was currently standing in front of, an hour after the sun had set, and after the night's winds had picked up. Jacob could hardly remember being so cold. Or having to take a shit so badly.

Any other man in Jacob's situation would've been ecstatic at the prospect of shelter, and more importantly, toilet paper. But Jacob and his fellow rangers had always remained skeptical of these supposed blessings, mostly because they weren't the ones who built them. They were just there, sometimes practically appearing out of thin air, or moving around from place to place. And despite it being illegal for some random guy to build something like this on a national park, it wasn't malicious, or at least not in effect. Many people visiting had even vouched for them, saying they provided a nice alternative during the longer hikes. But the ranger's never used them. They stood out of each other's way.

Jacob looked around. He could feel the wind on his neck, and the water from the wet earth beneath him seep into his shoes. He had never been out this late before, and the darkness around him crawled into his blood and his brain. He could feel bugs scamper across his skin. But he never moved his flashlight away from the outhouse door. Even when it felt like an animal had scampered across the forest bed past his wet feet, he didn't flinch. Finally, Jacob walked up to the door. It was wooden, and it's metal hinges looked of rust. As did the interior. Even the wood carried a distinct red hue across it. He didn't shine his flashlight into the actual hole, because he would rather not experience looking at the shit of a dozen strangers, and he pulled down his pants and sat. The wood was wet and warm. The whole room was uncomfortably so, actually. Jacob shone his light around the interior, eyeing the small figurines darted around the floor and bench to his sides. They depicted what looked at first to be men and women in various poses, but the longer Jacob admired the more he took notice of their proportions. Then he heard metal. Metal rustling. It's not a common thing to hear in the woods, but it was still a sound he recognized, and even more clearly he recognized where it was coming from. Below him.

Jacob's mind raced. I wonder what that sounded like? Jacob thought to himself. He thought that something metallic was moving below him. A screw? Perhaps. But it had to be longer, to be able to move like that. Wire? Maybe, but the sound was far heavier than that. It was big, and long. Why would a long thick piece of metal be rustling around in the pit of an outhouse? He wondered. Jacob could finally feel the process of his business beginning. And as he did, he could hear something else beneath. It was harder to place, but it was low, and droning. It sounded like the kind of hum Jacob would make when he played charades, the low note of his vocal cords vibrating. But this wasn't that, Jacob was sure of it.

Then Jacob felt a spurt of water, fly up from the depths of the pit. It was enough to make him flinch, but it didn't phase him any more than that. It was warm and thick against his skin, but he imagined splash back was common, and continued on. Despite it coming again, and this time with what felt like a bug on his ass accompanying it. It made him think of his dog licking his hand, and he wondered how a fly could be so wet.

And soon enough, he was finished. And as he stood up, his curiosity, overpowered him. He wanted to look. It was a strange desire, but his flashlight had the battery for a bit of indulgence, after all? He aimed the light down the shaft and saw... nothing. Or at least he saw nothing because his flashlight had died before he could take it all in. But he did see something pale. Floating in the filth. But Jacob now had a larger predicament then a lack of resolution. He couldn't see a thing. He waved his arms around for the door. Nothing moved. It was walls. Jacob began losing control of his breathing. And the increasing volume of the low, mouth less droning did not soothe his mind as he broke his fists against the walls. And the walls moved with him.