"The Wood Sprite" by Tobiah Black

The Wood Sprite

If you’d asked me a couple of weeks ago, I wouldn’t have known the first thing about wood sprites. I wouldn’t have known if they were big or small. I wouldn’t have known if they were different from water nymphs. I wouldn’t have even known for sure if they were real. But when one starts inviting himself into your apartment and eating your food, you learn fast, believe me.
I had seen the signs around the neighborhood, taped to lampposts: What to Do if You See a Wood Sprite. Six Signs of Wood Sprite Infestation. That kind of thing. And I knew Lola’s sister had woken up with a clover chain in her hair the summer before and had put all her clothes in black garbage bags, which she put on the roof in the sun for hours. But I hadn’t paid much attention. To be honest, I thought she was overreacting. I thought she was being whatever you would call a hypochondriac, but for wood sprites.
So when my infestation began, it took me a while to realize what was happening. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of scratching and scurrying. But by the time I flicked on the light, all I’d see was a trail of food strewn across the floor from the open refrigerator, like a dog had gotten into the garbage.
But over time, the wood sprite got less and less timid, until one day I came home from work and found him hunched over my kitchen table, his hairy feet dangling above a pile of chicken bones. He paused for a moment and looked up at me, maybe to see if I was going to try to shoo him out of the apartment. His eyes were black and yellow, perfect circles, and he never blinked. When he saw I wasn’t going to do anything, he went back to eating.
I put down my bag and pulled out my phone. I moved slowly. I didn’t want to spook him. I searched “wood sprites” in Google and clicked the first link: a CDC page.

You may have noticed a rise in the number of wood sprites in certain urban centers. Wood sprites have historically lived in a heavily forested and relatively isolated corridor reaching from Maine to Mississippi, as well as in certain parts of Canada and the Pacific Northwest. But deforestation has disrupted many of the wood sprites’ normal habitats and migratory patterns. As a result, some wood sprites have begun entering previously inhospitable areas in search of food and companionship. If an unwelcome wood sprite has appeared in your neighborhood or home, please contact your local ethereal spirit control agency.

Remember: Wood sprites are not pets! They are hosts for several dangerous diseases and can be very persuasive when threatened.

I looked over at the wood sprite. He had kicked his feet up on the table and was leaning back in his chair—my chair—licking his fingers one by one with a popping, smacking sound, chicken grease glistening in the hair on his chin. He started working his tongue along his teeth, trying to dislodge a stuck string of chicken flesh or something.
“Are you lost?” I said. “I could call someone to bring you back to the forest.”
The wood sprite paused, his index finger still in his mouth.
“Fuck you,” he said.
“Excuse me? This is my home. You’re eating my food.”
“My apologies,” he said. “Forest manners. Where I come from, ‘fuck you’ is an affectionate saying.”
I was no expert in forest manners, but I figured he was making fun of me. “So you don’t want to go back to the forest?” I said.
“Sure I do. I’m a fucking wood sprite. But I’m not a big fan of those dog catchers.”
I tried to calculate how many hours I could spare. I was in the middle of a big project for work. They were finally giving me more responsibility, and I really wanted to impress them. But I also couldn’t help remembering the horror stories my mom would tell us about the Humane Society when we were growing up.
“What if I take you?” I asked.
“You have a car?” I admit that the apartment was small, and I was still using some moving boxes as furniture. All the same, I thought it was kind of rude how surprised he was. “What kind?”
“A little hatchback. It’s small, but there’s plenty of room if I put the seats down.”
The wood sprite nodded slowly a few times. “All right,” he said finally. “But take the route I give you. I don’t want any of my friends to think I needed to catch a ride from some loser driving his mom’s Honda.”
Rude, I know. But I wanted to get him out of my hair, so I let it slide. I was pretty sick of having to clean up the messes he’d been making in the kitchen, not to mention that I was buying twice as much food these days to make up for what he was eating. It was getting pretty expensive.
We went out to my car. I put the back seats down, and he climbed in. He laid down, stretched out, put his hands behind his head, and crossed one ankle over the other knee. “Not too bad,” he said. “I expected there to be more trash.”
I was going to take the highway, but he said he knew a way around the traffic that time of day. I drove along with him shouting out directions from the back. Every once in a while he would jump up and change the radio station in the middle of a song, which was pretty annoying. He got super excited when “Night Moves” came on. “Man, I love Pete Seeger,” he said. I decided not to correct him.
After a couple of hours it was getting dark and the roads he was leading me down were getting more and more deserted, until finally he told me to make a right down a dirt road that went right into the forest. After a few hundred feet, he leaned across the armrest into the front seat. “Stop here,” he said.
I pulled over and turned off the car. “Well,” I said. “Here you go. Home sweet home.”
“Aren’t you going to open the door for me?” the wood sprite said.
“Are you serious?”
“I thought you were a gentleman, but I guess I was mistaken.”
“All right, all right,” I said. I got out of the car and opened the back door. The wood sprite was rocking back and forth, wheezing with laughter.
“You should’ve seen your face!” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Are you serious?” he says. “Oh, man. It was perfect. I was just messing with you, but you really opened the door. You really did it. Wow. Don’t you have any self-respect?”
“The door is open now, so you can get out and leave me alone.”
“Don’t take it like that. I’m just teasing you. We’ve had a good time, right? I wouldn’t’ve done it if we weren’t friends. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
I took a deep breath. “Sure. Fine. Anyway, we’re here.” The wood sprite hopped out of the car. “It was nice to meet you,” I said. I stuck out my hand.
“So polite! Not even a hug, after all we’ve been through? You’re not gonna stay and hang out a little bit?”
I was about to say no and get back into my car. But just then a breeze whipped up a big pile of dead leaves, and the crickets suddenly got louder. I thought about having to go to work the next day, and the project I was working on, and the coffee maker at the office that smelled like mildew. “Maybe just for a few minutes.”
“A few minutes, a few hours, a few days, your whole life—whatever you want. Mi casa and all that.” He scampered off into the trees. “Come on!” I heard him shout, although I couldn’t see him anymore.
I stepped off the dirt road and into the forest. A twig snapped beneath my foot.

tobiah black

Tobiah Black is a writer and documentary producer living in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in the Roanoke Review, Tilted House Review, The Molotov Cocktail and Points in Case.

Headshot: Langan Kingsley

Photo Credit: Staff