Who's There?

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

As soon as the last rays of the sun left the horizon, the adults knew it was time.

A collective tightness gripped the chest of every adult in the town below the hill where the cabin loomed. As much as the women prayed, bonnets cinched tight and skirts perfectly long, as much as the men tried to live in ignorance and sharpen their weapons, as though The Night had any physical threat, it was going to happen anyway.

The children of the town were confused, but knew something was wrong. Not only did the town suddenly fall silent, the wind itself stilled. Anxiety spread through their guts, like spilled black ink spreading across a snow white piece of paper.

With trembling lips and hands, mothers hugged their children, instructing the eldest of the family to put the younger ones to bed and to not for any reason, come out until sunrise.

Confused, and admittedly frightened, they all obeyed.

Brushing off their skirts and wiping away their tears, the women straightened their backs and walked toward the cabin, rocks lining the inside of their stomachs.

All the men were afraid, though some hid it behind their large axes and grimaces. The rest set on with quiet sobs and wringing hands.

Like a herd of pigs to slaughter, the townsfolk walked into the forest.

“I knew it, I knew my life would never be so lucky. Four generations of nothing and now…”

“I haven’t seen the priest today. Oh God, where is the priest?”

“I thought it was just a rumor, a ghost story.”

Whispers and quiet cries trickled throughout the crowd, bubbling and stirring in more anxiety, more despair.

As they climbed up the hill, silence eventually fell over the humans. It was not a silence born of acceptance, but on the contrary, born of a rage and sorrow so powerful and so concentrated, it resulted in the equivalence of feeling numb. The human soul can only bear so much grief.

After many long steps, and many long moments, the men began to drop their axes, heavy thuds permeating the crunch of dozens of sets of feet walking across the pine needles. A heaviness began to drag down the community. Soon, they were all slouching, every foot dragging. One man, the baker, suddenly ripped a scream into the night. It wasn’t human, the sound that escaped his lips. It was pain, it was sadness, it was fear.

He turned around, screaming about his children, about his life, pushing his way through the crowd, growing more mad by the second. The others grimaced, knowing the rules that were embedded into their psyche, their very souls.

The baker broke away from the group, and began running back down the hill, calling to his children, then, with urgency, to his long deceased mother.

There was one last scream, a crunch that many tried to convince themselves was simply a very thick branch snapping in two, and then dead silence.

In unison, they all stopped. Every face was desolate. Every member was silent. Except the baker's wife, who, head in her hands, tried to contain the sobs. Her dear friend tried to comfort and silence her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

That however, seemed to only intensify the emotions of the poor widow, and she fell to her knees. He threw her face up to the moonless sky, demanding answers from a god that was not listening.

In perfect unison, the group began their voyage again, leaving the woman behind.

Soon enough, another sickening crunch, and silence.

They stopped again. This time, the friend of the baker’s wife was crying uncontrollably. She tried her best to stop, but the more she tried to stop it, the harder the tears fell.

No one offered assistance this time.

Once she fell, they marched on.

Again and again they continued the modus operandi, one by one, they fell to their knees, the grief overwhelming, cries tearing their throats apart, until they were silenced.

On and on the group traveled.

Smaller and smaller, the group became.

Until, one man and one woman stood before the cabin. The foliage around the cabin was dead and rotting. The candle in the window, usually a sign of warmth and comfort, flickered with a foreboding glow. Clasping hands, as instructed by something in their spirit, they marched forward.

Bile crept up the man’s throat. His eyes watered. His knees grew weak. A force was radiating from the cabin. He could only use one word to describe it; evil.

His lungs suddenly seemed unable to take in air. He fell to his knees, gasping. His hand locked around the woman’s, tying her down, as if he were a cursed anchor. She tried to continue forward. She tried to release her hand without turning around. She struggled, she used all her strength. But, quite by accident, she turned to use her other hand to free herself.

Poor thing didn’t have a chance. Her hair turned gray and wiry, immediately. All of the breath in her lungs escaped in a violent scream of uncanny proportions, and her heart stopped instantly.

The man, whose eyes were no longer in his head, did not see any of this, but heard the thump of her body hit the dead and damp ground.

He whimpered.

Suddenly, he grew warmer.

Was it morning already?

No, it was the candle. A line of flame leaked from the window and surrounded everything, including the man, who, under the pressure of the immense heat, disappeared instantly. Bathing the forest in a white flame, the fire cleansing all the blood, muck, and gore from the path the pilgrims had taken. The fire roared for hours, all through the night.

Sunrise arrived, and the first rays that touched the tips of the trees sent the unholy fire slithering back to the cabin, not a trace of humanity anywhere to be found. The sunlight saturated the cabin, and only then did the candle gently go out. A single wisp of smoke faded into the new, shining day.