The Forest

Grandpa always says to be careful walking home after dark. Mama always scoffs, claims it’s superstition and there’s nothing to worry about but even she stays indoors after dark. The path to our house is through a thick patch of woods, barren now since its winter. Our footprints stark in the snow as we trek to the small clearing that houses our cabin. With the sun going early nowadays, I end up walking home when all these ghosts and creatures are supposed to be out and about. Most days, I run as fast as I can from the corner the bus drops me off at and the front door but today I sprained my ankle chasing Claudia around so I begin my trek home on a slow limp, the forest heavy and silent around me. I think about what the bus driver must see, a small girl, bundled in an unevenly knitted scarf and her grandfather’s old beat up work jacket, tumbling into the dark slice of a trailhead. The woods, swallowing me whole as the sky darkens.

I hear the owl when I'm about halfway home, a low melancholy note that flees through the woods. The snow crunches under my boots as I try to pick up my speed, silently cursing Claudia for loping over the log that looked smaller than it actually was. It caught my ankle as I tried to follow and spilled me crooked and now I'm unable to run.

Grandpa told me all about the owl, it’s his favorite story. Ma always gets mad at him but he says it’s important for me to know. According to grandpa, the owl of the woods is actually a sorceress who turned herself into a bird when her two children passed away. The story always changed when it came to exactly how they died. Some nights, it was from an accident the witch caused. Other nights she flayed them on purpose. In the end, she was overcome with grief and turned herself into a bird to escape the well of emptiness inside her. But the grief turned to rage turned to jealousy and now she hunts children, like me, who are out after dark.

Now most people view owls as a sign of good luck and wisdom. But I know better. Grandpa taught me better. So when the first oooooooo sounds across the path my heart chills, thuds deep into my bones. Makes my chest constrict, my lungs trying to shrink and hide behind themselves. My ankle complains as I picked up my pace, dragging my useless foot through the icy snow.

I don't want to die. I don’t think anyone really wants to die, but I especially do not want to die at the hands of a grief deranged forest witch. Snow starts to fall, making a thin powdery layer of white over the moss stained older stuff I’d crunched through.

Grandpa told me that if you sit real still the witch won’t notice you. If you’re real quiet and small she will glide by in her owl form and continue hunting other children in the night. I crouch down at the base of a tree, pulling my too-large jacket around me for warmth. A snowflake twirls down on my nose and melts against my skin. It’s cold out but my cheek feel hot, like there is a little fire in my mouth emanating outwards.

I scooch closer to the tree. The owl wails another lament in the dark that turns into a howling screech. My joints started to hurt, my skin feels fleshy and numb as the cold surrounds it. I’m scared of the way I can't feel my back but I’m more scared of the owl. She feels all encompassing, like every corner of the woods belongs to her and her grief alone. I close my eyes tight and force a deep breath that is exhausting to take.

A voice cuts through the snow thickened wind. I think it might be Grandpa but it's far away and I am so scared, so tired.

The owl screams again.