The Woods

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

You don’t go into the woods alone. The woods have secrets, dark and twisted, like the roots of a great oak. The woods are a living, breathing being. Like the wisps of dancing smoke from a fire, fleeting and fragile. The thing is, when there’s enough smoke, it’ll choke you, leaving you gasping for air while the fire catches up. The woods will do nothing less. They’ll trap you and choke you and leave you to rot while your bones stay with the woods forever.

You don’t go into the woods. You stay locked in your house while the warbling whispers of the wind flow through the leaves and the trees leaving you wondering what on Earth they’re whispering about.

You don’t go into the woods. You look cautiously out the window, staring across the field in which you live while the dim dark stares right back at you, peering into your soul and searching for weakness.

Your mother slams the curtains shut. She shakes her head and covers your eyes. Then she sings that old French lullaby.

“Á la claire fontaine, m’en allant promener,”

Then one day, your mother leaves the cabin. She tells you not to leave the cabin, she’ll be right back. Before she leaves, she lights a candle in the window. So she can find her way home. She’s going out for more food. She hugs you tight. She smells like sweet hickory smoke and pine needles. You ask her to stay, but she shakes her head. She leaves, and you watch her, walking down the road of worn cobblestone with a basket in hand.

She’s been gone for hours now. You tap your fingers on the table you sit at for every meal, stained with food and drink over the years. Tap. Tap. Tap. The wind outside is screaming, beating against your door, begging to be let in. howling and wailing and seeping through the cracks in the cabin.

You get a fleece blanket from the couch, and throw it over your shivering shoulders. The wind keeps beating, pounding at your door.

“I won’t let you in,” you tell the wind. It shrieks and slams itself against the door. It dies down eventually, as the sun sets, and the night starts to set.

The dark outside is creeping up, as it always does. The dark is like an animal, crawling over the world, plunging everything into night. The night doesn’t care for you or your precious daylight. The dark is an abyss, hiding the monsters from your view, making sure you can’t find them, but they can find you.

You are still sitting at the table, when you hear a wail. It isn’t the wind, the wind is far too calm. This wail is of a person, anguished and suffering.

“Mother?” you say. You get up from the table and lean your head against the door. There is no more wailing, of the wind or the person. Then, you break the most sacred rule, and you go out into the woods. It’s dark, but you follow the trail. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders and walk further into the woods. The woods seemed to creep up on you, the branches inching closer to you, the roots of the trees tangling around your feet. Every crunch of every leave sends a shiver down your spine as you walk further into the unforgiving dark.

“Are you okay?” you call out into the dark. Nobody answers you but the crickets and the wind. The crickets chirp impatiently, waiting for you to leave their woods. The wind was curious, whipping through the trees and cutting your cheeks. It wants to know what you’re doing here.

You hear somebody groan. You go off the trail and look for whoever made the noise. The thorns start scraping at your feet and the shadows from behind the trees creeping further towards you.

“Help,” somebody groaned. It’s a woman, lying on the ground. She has her leg caught in a bear trap. You drop to your knees next to her.

“Are you okay?” you ask her.

“No, I need help, please,” she asks me. You help pry the bear trap from her leg. Your hands are slimy, most likely from the blood oozing from her leg. When she’s free, she stumbles away from the bear trap. You tie the blanket around her leg.

“We have to get out of the woods, now,” you tell her. She nods and starts limping after you.

“Where are we going, we have to go the other way,” she cries, falling again, and she balls up her hands, crunching the leaves.

“No,” you say. “My house is over there, you can stay there,”

“The only thing that way is the old ghost house, we have to go the way I came, there is a hospital,”

“What are you talking about, there’s nothing for miles in that direction,” Your head starts to spin and you stumble backwards. The shadows keep crawling closer, up your arms and legs and wrapping you in darkness.

Now you're running through the woods, stumbling over the tangled roots as the woman calls for you. Soon you're looking at your house, the cabin in the woods. There is a candle, the one your mother lit to find her way home, still burning in the window. That’s the only thing left. The house has been lost to what looks like time. The cobblestone pathway is cracked and crumbling. The wood was falling off of the house and the windows were cracked. The shingles had fallen off the roof and were littering the ground. Still, in the cracked window, the candle burned bright. You fall to your knees and stare at your ruined house. The woman has caught up with you, limping down the old worn path to join you.

“This old cabin has been abandoned for years,” the woman tells you. “I need help, please, we have to go,” she tugs on your arm. You don't go into the woods alone.