Wandering Lambs

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

You are weary, Wanderer.

Your boots squelch with each step as mud sucks at the soles. You don’t remember why you are in these woods or where you’re going, only that you must continue. You are looking for something.

You have been awake for so long that your thoughts have become incoherent — a cacophonous jumble of words that once held meaning, but you no longer have the energy to sift through the mush. You don’t care to decipher them at this point. You don’t need thoughts, not when your body screams for one thing so loudly that it drowns out the disarray of your mind.

Rest.

Your footsteps slow to a stop as you consider the ground beneath you. You wonder if you might be able to manage a few hours of shut-eye here.

Not yet, dear Wanderer, do not rest here.

Wolves lurk in this forest.

Keep going.

The inky wood surrounding is lit in silhouette by the weak light of a waning moon. Dark branches coalesce above your head in a patchwork of frosted sky and gold-kissed leaf. Were you not so exhausted, you might have paused to admire the silver slash of moon in the sky and how it looks akin to a crooked smile.

The wind trails cold fingers over your exposed skin and tugs at your limbs as if urging you forward — deeper into the endless woods. Bone-tired and shivering, the night has leeched the last of the warmth from your body. Your jacket, dampened by tendrils of mist, does little to keep the winds at bay. It’s getting harder to drag your feet, stuttering sinew protesting with each movement.

You must keep going, Wanderer, safe haven lies ahead.

Autumn mistrals snap and pull at the crisp leaves above. Coaxed from their branches by its whispered sweet nothings, a few leaves spiral towards the ground to join in its wild merriment. Together they twirl, dancing over the dirt and around the skeletal limbs of shrubs. Leaves skitter across the tops of your shoes.

Perhaps once you have rested, you can dance with them too.

Your knees have been sapped of their strength, and you brace yourself against the rough bark of a nearby tree. Howls echo from somewhere in the woods, too close for comfort. Their baying is a symphony of hunger and bloodlust.

If you stop now, the pack will find you.

Steel yourself, Wanderer; there is not much farther to go.

You drag a deep breath into your reluctant lungs and resume your trek with urgency.

It isn’t long before you come across a clearing. In it, a cabin. It is a ramshackle thing with crumbling bricks and ivy growing thick with abandon. The whole building seems to tilt as if slowly — ever so slowly — the damp earth and its garden are reclaiming its decrepit walls.

Your shoulders curl with unease as you take in the sight. The cabin looks eerie, painted in watery sheaths of moonlight.

Not eerie, Wanderer, lonely.

Just like you.

You nod your head, a sad smile pulling at the corners of your lips. You are lonely. And tired. You’ve been in this labyrinth of a forest for far too long.

In the cabin’s window is a candle. A welcome, albeit strange, sight. The lit flame beckons you, promising a good night’s sleep — safety within its walls.

Rest.

Goaded by the flame, you pick your way across the overgrown lawn, through rotted debris and thatch.

You hesitate at its door, your hand hovering above its faded green paint. Fleetingly, you wonder if stumbling upon this cabin is too good to be true.

You’re so tired, Wanderer.

You must rest here.

Safe.

You knock. Once, twice, three times, and the door opens inwards, its hinges squeaking. You stumble inside, teeth chattering as you cast one final look at the forest and its dancing leaves. They do not dance past the edge of the clearing.

The cabin shudders, delighted, as the door slams shut. There is a brief moment of panic as the subsequent silence settles over you. It is an unusual kind of quiet, thick and dead — the sort that slides over you and leaves your skin prickling in its wake.

It is peaceful, Wanderer.

You feel safe.

Rest.

The tension you feel ebbs away, and a sense of calm takes root. You bend to untie your laces, relief sluicing from your strained muscles. You briefly survey the shoes already abandoned by the door as your shuck yours off. If you weren’t so drowsy, you might have wondered after the fifteen pairs scattered haphazardly around the entryway, puzzled over them and the feet that used to inhabit them. But the promise of rest has pacified your mind, so you don’t wonder, and you don’t puzzle.

You make to move deeper into the cabin when your brows furrow. You look lost, momentarily, as if you can‘t remember the next step.

Socks too, we mustn’t forget the socks.

You peel them from your feet, tucking them into a bundle and tossing it over an unravelled armchair. It bounces across the dusty floors before rolling to a stop next to a pile of long-forgotten socks in the fireplace. Whispering fills the cabin.

You flex your toes — curling them into the worn, fracturing wood. You’re still so numb that you barely feel the splinters slicing at your skin.

It’s okay, Wanderer, it’s only a little blood.

Rest will make it better.

As you take your first steps into the cabin, the floorboards groan beneath your bloody feet. You think nothing of how your blood seeps into the woodgrain and seems to disappear. You think even less of how the boards continue to groan long after you’ve stepped off them, perpetual and deep.

The sound lulls you, Wanderer; it soothes your frayed nerves.

Rest.

The warmth begins to return to your limbs as you continue towards the dilapidated kitchen. Your eyes roam over the cracked floor tiles and utensils strewn across them.

Follow the footprints, Wanderer.

You shrug out of your jacket and toss it on a pile of disintegrating clothes by the rickety old table, grabbing a rotting apple from a bowl as you pass. The whispers crescendo as you lift the fruit to your lips.

Pay no heed to the whispers.

Eat.

Your teeth sink into its too soft flesh, and your tongue darts out to catch the sludge as it oozes down your chin. You don’t seem to mind the way the fruit wriggles in your mouth. As you swallow the last bite, your eyes become wide, unblinking, and wonderfully empty.

You drop the remanents of the apple in the rusted sink, where it joins the rest of the blackened cores.

Dazed and sated, you follow the dribbling wallpaper down the back corridor. The walls quiver beneath your fingers as you trace the handprints along them. And when your hand falls back to your side, you don’t bat an eye at the red now glistening upon your skin.

With a dopey smile, you breathe deeply as you drift down the hallway, relishing how the air smells.

It smells sweet, doesn’t it, Wanderer?

With another lungful of the cloying air, you unbutton your pants and step out of them, discarding them next to the others. Your eyelids droop as you near the bedroom, and you yawn as its door swings open.

Rest.

You shed your shirt as you cross the bedroom threshold. Had your wits not been addled, you might have been dissuaded by the fear coiled in your gut or the gooseflesh along the back of your neck. You might have heeded the warning whispers.

But you’re too far gone, aren’t you Wanderer?

Your bed awaits.

Rest.

The cabin is a living thing, not that you noticed. My walls weep blood, and my floorboards moan between breaths. I have consumed many, feasted on their souls and sopped up their blood with fading wallpaper. My foundation is not one built of wood, but of bone and festering flesh.

Those promises of safe haven made by the candle in my window are empty. As empty as my rafters, as barren as my hearth.

You would have fared better with the wolves. As would have my previous, unfortunate guests. But they too breathed deeply of my mildew and ingested my rot. By the time they realized they were not guests but lambs marked for slaughter, it was too late. Those lambs are now trapped within my rotting walls, forever wandering my halls, and you will join them.

You’re happy to join them.

Rest.

It’s an effort to keep your eyes open as you run red fingers over the folded blankets at the end of the bed. They’re soft.

Now make your bed, Wanderer, lay beneath my hole-ridden roof.

After snapping open the blankets and arranging them just so, you climb onto the mattress. The rusted springs creak, and those meddlesome whispers cease. There is no saving you now.

Lay your head down, sweet wandering lamb; you will never have to wander again.

Loosing a sigh, your eyes flutter shut, and your body settles in for its long-anticipated rest.

And as you snuggle beneath the moth-eaten blanket, you don’t notice the spectral hands that tuck you in — or the fact that the candle in the window has gone out.