She takes your voice first.
It was the kids that slowed us down. There were eight of us: four adults and four children. Four little shits who should never have been brought to this Godforsaken river in the first place. The children proved early that they couldn’t carry their own weight— they couldn’t handle the trials of the forest— or the river— or the woman who dwelled within.
The trip seemed doable when Thatcher first asked me to tag along. A family-friendly excursion down Moose River, located in the desolate wilds of northern Maine. I don’t have any children of my own … thank fucking Christ, I don’t. The worst thing Thatcher told us we’d have to worry about were the mosquitoes and black flies. They’ve left their welts but they sure as shit couldn’t hold a candle to the woman lurking under the river.
Before I tell you everything I know, let’s get something straight. I won’t tell you the names of the children, and I won’t tell you my own. I’ve changed the four boys’ names into colors because it’s easier for me … don’t ask. It’s just easier, ok? If I could only forget who they were, then I might be able to forget their screams.
Yes, that’s another thing. This isn’t your average canoe trip. This isn’t a coming-of-age story where we find out something about useful about ourselves… find out the true treasure was the love we held within. Those children’s stories have already ended, unfortunately. They will never have the opportunity to age like the trees that surround us. I rapped my knuckles against those trees when we first arrived— they were hollow, as if some insect had used its tongue to suck out the pulp. Those children’s flowers had yet to bloom before we entered the mouth of the river— now they lie wilted, fallen to the forest floor, consumed by the woman of the river.
When I say us, I’m referring to Thatcher and myself. The others are already gone … they’ve been gone for a while now. Thatcher, the father of Red, Jonesey, the father of Yellow and Green, and of course, Burt, the father of Blue. When we first felt something under the water— or movement along the perimeter of the trees— Burt said he would protect us, and there was nothing to worry about. I assumed he had a gun, but when he pulled out his hunting bow, I knew we were fucked if there was an actual threat.
***
I was given a ticket on the first night. A ticket from the woman who rose from the depths when we finally stopped our lollygagging and fell into our blissful, silent slumbers. You can really hear everything out in the middle of nowhere— footsteps, whispers, and even a slither if you’re a light sleeper. Her wet body bumped my own in the dead of night. Her outer shell rubbed my back as she slithered by. I first thought it was only my imagination— my bladder was full, so I left my tent to take a piss. As I stepped into the moonlight, I saw her glistening body pressed against the tent as the boys slept obliviously inside. The moon illuminated her black and white figure, as if stripped from an old movie; her back: curved and filled with intricate, concave grooves, highlighting her ghastly flesh which appeared as a face looking back at me. I knew she was basking in the presence of those boys … feeling them … consuming a piece of their essence, without them having a clue. I wish it stayed that way … I really do.
She turned and spotted me. Before I was able to scream and alert the others, I blinked and suddenly I couldn’t make a sound. My voice was … well, my voice was somehow gone. Her cadaverous face was pressed against my own: pushing the screams that had been taken from me and cramming them down until they pulverized my heart. Her teeth, the color of obsidian and her breath, the smell of decomposing fish guts. I looked into those black marbles and recognized something that was greater than me. Her whispers wrapped their tentacles around my ears like a cunning riddle, and it was my own voice that she used to communicate. It was mine.
She Takes Your Voice First.
That night, Blue was taken below the water. I am the only one that knows of the boy’s fate … the only one so far, I suppose. She didn’t let him scream …
I woke up to the sound of Burt and the children’s screams. It was shortly after we heard Blue’s tortured pleas begin to reverberate from deep within the forest. He asked his father to save him … he didn’t just ask, he begged. Burt darted off into that thick forest canopy— determined to find his child— we tried to follow but were left behind. I haven’t seen him since … and I doubt his son was what was waiting for him out there. I know the truth.
With Burt and Blue gone, we pressed forward and tried to finish the trip. We left their canoe and bags in the dirt. We tried to pick up the children’s slack— dispel their lack of urgency but it was no use. Children are weak … and they make their fathers weaker. The children just couldn’t comprehend the direness of our situation.
Unfortunately, despite our best efforts, it was a three-day trip, and it stayed a three-day trip.
That night, she came to me again. She gave me the ticket and it was time for her to punch the stub again. We divvyed up the sleeping shifts, played it safe, and made sure the children remained unmolested by whatever had taken Blue the night before. When it was my turn, I felt her wrap a boneless appendage around my ankle and she spoke to me once more with my own cadence. I couldn’t help but listen to myself … I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to listen to the initial taking. I wish she took my ears rather than my voice … it would’ve made things so much easier. When I finally opened my eyes, it was morning; I was startled awake by the screams of men: Jonesy and Thatcher.
The children’s tent was wiped off the bank where it had been placed the night before. Vanished into thin air. I know it’s in the river … and if Thatcher and Jonesy knew as well, I wonder if they’d have submerged themselves and searched for their lost sons.
After the fathers had a good cry, the voices of their kin were conjured for them, the same as they had been heard by Burt on day one.
I watched the father’s shriek as they contemplated following their son’s stolen tongues into the forest … but in the end, Jonesy decided to take the easy way out. He cracked first. He took one of Burt’s arrows and lodged it deep into his jugular. Thatcher and I tried yet failed to stop to his final self-mutilating act. I think, in some ways it’s better that Jonesy didn’t let her have his voice … it’s almost like he took something from her. I watched the dark scarlet ichor pour from his body and form a crimson twister at a small dip in the bank of the river. The river was feeding on his body … I wonder if it will have the pleasure of feeding on mine.
Soon.
***
Here we are, Thatcher and I. Rowing the final canoe. We didn’t bother packing a tent or taking any of our provisions. Two men. Two oars. And a river that must lead somewhere.
I can hear those children talking with their fathers on the riverside. It’s late, there are so many stars dancing across the open black water the same as the first night I laid my eyes on her. Thatcher is crying but there’s no sound emitting from his throat. We should’ve made it to the landing by now …
Thatcher turned and looked at me. I swear, I’m looking into the same black marbles that infected me the first night. His body, drooped like the branches of trees that suspend over the water, as if they are perching atop the smile her back manifested. Thatcher cleared his throat and tried speaking but nothing came out. My friend was distraught and I wanted to tell him everything will be alright, but I don’t know if she’ll allow me to do so. I want to tell him the only words I know to be true. I finally open my mouth, but the words that come out are not my own— she flows through me like the river we permanently float down.
My Voice is Reds.
“She takes your voice first.”
[Image Credit : Photo by Thiébaud Faix on Unsplash]
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Nicholas Starr Kellogg
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- She Takes Your Voice First - August 16, 2026
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