Off the Path

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Crissy and her older sister, Molly, were the first to see it. They were walking home from a friend’s birthday party, and they were running late.

“If we’re not home by 11 Mom’ll kill us,” said Molly. “We gotta take the shortcut.”

“But she said to always stick to the path,” said Crissy.

“Well which would you rather be punished for?” said Molly. “If we’re home on time, she doesn’t even have to know.”

So they stepped off the concrete trail, out of the bright radiance of the streetlight and into the expansive shadow of the woods.

They’d been walking for a few minutes, ambling through a thick, moonless dark. Crissy felt the dull tingle of fear rising in her spine as she absorbed the endless gloom about them. Molly seemed to sense this, and began gossiping about their friend, Angelica. It took both of their minds off of things.

But then they gradually fell quiet again, and the fear resettled. The darkness seemed to close in on them. Crissy held her hand out in front of her face, held it closer… closer… until she nearly tapped her own nose, and she could finally make out the bleary outline of her fingers.

“Tell me a joke,” said Molly, breaking the stillness.

“Okay, um… What’s a witch’s favorite class in school?” said Crissy

“I don’t know… Chemistry?”

“Spelling.”

They giggled. The sound of their voices filled the space around them for a moment. Then the laughs died out in the dark, and it was back to silence again, disrupted only by the leaves crackling beneath their footfalls.

Crissy had never seen such darkness. Even when she shut her eyes in bed, there was still the red warmth of the inside of her eyelids. But this was true blackness, deep and pure, in all directions. Who knew what horrid things lay concealed in these inky shadows?

Then, something scared them. And it wasn’t even the darkness at all, but a relief from it—a faint orange glow, flickering out through the passing branches.

“What’s that?” said Crissy.

“I think… the old Murnicky place,” said Molly.

“I thought that place was abandoned,” said Crissy.

“It is,” said Molly. “Er—was.”

“Did someone move in?” said Crissy.

“Doubt it,” said Molly. “No one would wanna live in that old place.”

“Then whose c-candle is that?” said Crissy, her voice quivering lightly.

“Probably just some teenagers,” said Molly. “Or some pledges from the university.” She was doing her best to sound strong and relaxed, but Crissy could hear faint cracks of unease spilling through.

“I guess so,” said Crissy.

So they kept walking. And again, their third companion, silence, crept along beside them, a most unwelcome and stubborn escort.

Finally Crissy broke out—“What happened there?” She figured that, at the very least, talking about it out loud must surely be better than keeping it in and letting it fester in their minds.

“The old Murnicky cabin?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well…” said Molly, clearing her throat. “A long time ago, a traveling carnival was passing through town. And they had a caged jackal.”

“What’s a jackal?” said Crissy.

“It’s like a wolf, sort of. Or like a coyote. They live in Africa and stuff.”

Crissy nodded. Maybe she’d seen something like it in her science textbook.

“Normally they’re not very big, no bigger than a dog. But this one was huge. It had tall, spindly legs and long crooked teeth. Anyway, one night it escaped,” said Molly, her voice getting lower. “And it wandered to the Murnicky’s cabin. Mr. and Mrs. Murnicky were staying there with their young daughter, Greta, and baby son, Tommy. It…” Molly paused, looked around. Then she lowered her voice even more: “It got in. And it ate the kids up.”

“Even the baby?” muttered Crissy.

“It ate him first,” said Molly. “And then it ate Greta. Dragged her out of her bed. Mr. and Mrs. Murnicky must’ve somehow slept through the screaming. But when they saw what happened the next morning… their hair instantly turned white.”

“That can happen?”

“If you see something that horrible it can. And they could never sell the house. No matter how many layers of wallpaper they put on, the blood just kept staining through.”

“What happened to the jackal?” said Crissy.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “The sheriff probably shot it or something.”

“Yeah,” said Crissy. “Probably.”

They looked once more at the candle in the Murnicky window, now behind them. And right before she turned back ahead, Crissy thought she saw another, dimmer candle, maybe two—out of the corner of her eye. But when she did a double take, there was only the one in the window.

“How much farther?” said Crissy.

“We’re nearly there,” said Molly.

“What time is it?” said Crissy.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I can’t see my watch.”

“Wait a minute,” said Crissy, and stopped.

Molly kept walking. “Come on,” she said. “We shouldn’t stop.”

“I hear something,” said Crissy, and this made Molly abruptly halt. About thirty yards off, there was the distinct sound of snapping twigs, before they too fell silent.

“Oh shit,” said Crissy.

“Watch your language,” said Molly.

“What was that?”

“Probably a squirrel or a deer or something,” said Molly. “Come on.” And she started walking again. Crissy didn’t let her get far before she hurried to rejoin.

They had walked for a while longer when Crissy thought she heard it again—something hobbling through the brush alongside them. This time she was so sure of it that she dared not speak—she reached out and tugged on Molly’s sleeve, but Molly ripped her arm away and kept on walking.

Crissy looked out towards the noise… and her eyes fell on two lights in the distance. Dim, faint pinpricks in the canvas of night. “We must be getting closer to the neighborhood,” she thought, and turned—

Her foot caught on a branch and she tripped and tumbled to the damp forest floor.

“Shit, Crissy!” said Molly, whirling around and feeling for her in the dark.

“Watch your language,” said Crissy, with a defensive laugh, as her sister helped her back to her feet.

In the sudden quiet that had befallen them, without the trampling of leaves beneath them, they heard it again—branches breaking, then nothing. Molly kept her arm around Crissy’s shoulder protectively.

“I’m telling you,” she said. “It’s just a deer. It’s gotta be.”

Crissy looked out, and there were those two lights in the distance. They twinkled and bobbed, and for a moment Crissy thought they must be more candles...

And then, the realization dawned on her, and jolted her mind like frigid water. They were eyes. And they were close.

“Run, Molly, run!” she screamed. And without asking any questions, Molly fell into a dead sprint with her sister.

They dashed through the trees, weaving between the mighty wide trunks, scraping their cheeks and ankles and fingers on the branches as they whirred by. They galloped towards the vague direction of their neighborhood, the semblance of light—growing lighter—of civilization. Their breath waned, their blood swirled hot through their veins, their throats seared and their eyes stung. When the sight of their backyard emerged through the trees, they somehow ran even faster.

The girls erupted into their dark kitchen, slammed the door behind them, and collapsed to the floor, gasping and sweating.

Molly looked up at the clock above the oven, then let out a slight laugh amidst her panting. “Good thing we ran,” she said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t‘ve made it.

Crissy looked up, just as it struck 11. The grandfather clock in the parlor started its low, tinny chime. Molly stood up, brushed herself off, and let out another chuckle. “Well that was fun,” she said. “Now we can say we outran a jackal.”

“That’s not funny,” said Crissy. But the adrenaline, and feeling of sudden safety, made her also feel overwhelmingly giddy. They looked out the back window to an empty woods. It probably was a deer, after all.

Then they went upstairs and found their Mother laying in bed, falling asleep to some old movie.

“How was the party?” she said, sitting up and looking at the clock.

“Fine,” they said in unison.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” they said.

As Molly took a shower, Crissy crawled in bed with her mother and cuddled up beside her as the end credits rolled.

“Cristina,” her Mother said, running her fingers through her hair.

“Yes, Mom?”

“You’re a good girl.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right?”

“Yeah.”

“You know what happens to bad kids, don’t you?”

Crissy furrowed her brow, and turned to face her mother. “No,” she said. “What happens?”

Her Mother smiled, and playfully bopped Crissy’s nose. “The Jackal eats ‘em up.”

“You know that story?” said Crissy. “About the Murdickys?”

“Do I know it?” said her Mother. “I remember it exactly. You know it was 30 years ago tonight when Greta died. She was a classmate of mine.”

“She was?”

“Yes, and she was really bad. She threw things across the room and stuck glue on people’s seats and swore at the teacher.”

“So you’re saying… she deserved to be eaten?”

“Of course,” said her Mother, still stroking Crissy’s hair. “All the bad kids do. Otherwise the Jackal would eat up anyone—good, bad, young, old. Kids who do their homework on time. Adults who have important jobs. Old people with lots of stories and memories. Good, sweet girls like you and your sister.”

“So they… feed? The bad kids to the Jackal?” stammered Crissy, trying to piece everything together.

“Yes, once a year, on this night. It’s the only way,” said her Mother. “Of course, you have nothing to worry about.”

“I guess not,” said Crissy.

Her Mother turned off the TV and the room went dark. They laid there in the quiet black for a moment, her Mother’s hands gently caressing her head.

Then the phone rang, and Crissy nearly jumped out of her skin. Her Mother answered.

“Hello? Oh yes, hi, Mrs. Woodard…” She nodded her head and listened. Crissy strained to hear the other line.

“I’m sure you’re mistaken…” said her Mother, her face sinking. “They would never… No… They’re good girls.”

Crissy listened closer, but heard only muffled speech.

“Okay…” said her Mother, eyes glassy with tears. “Th-thanks for t-telling me.” And she hung up the phone.

“What was that, Mom?” said Crissy. “What’s going on?”

“Mrs… Mrs. Woodard… saw you two running through the woods.”

“That wasn’t us,” said Crissy. “That must’ve been someone else.”

“It was you,” said her Mother. “She saw you run into the back door.”

“It was… just a shortcut. We didn’t want to be late.”

“You went off the path… I told you to never go off the path.”

“It was just once,” insisted Crissy. “We’ll never do it again.”

“You’re bad girls,” said her Mother, and her expression changed from somber devastation to cold calm.

“No, Mommy,” pleaded Crissy. “We’re good. I promise, we’re good…”

“You’re bad girls,” she said again, rising up from the bed. “And you know what happens to bad girls.”

***

As the clock struck midnight, their Mother dragged two limp sacks out onto the front porch. Then she went to the broom closet and grabbed a candle. It was a white, scentless emergency candle, but it would have to do. With misty eyes and trembling fingers, she lit it on the stove, stood it upright on a small saucer, and placed it in the front window.

She looked out. In their cul-de-sac, there were three other candles burning bright. And in the hills beyond that, dozens more. Maybe even hundreds.

“So many bad children,” their Mother thought. Then she locked the front door and went back upstairs to bed.

And slinking out from the shadow of the woods, there emerged a great beast with long, spindly legs and crooked teeth. It raised its nose and smelled fresh, coppery blood on the night air; then proceeded out—its paws leaving the soft leaves and grass, stepping onto the concrete, where its nails lightly clicked as it paced.

And the Jackal licked its lips.