Of course, the forest was dark that night, in these sorts of stories it always is. But, even as I stumbled through the undergrowth, the wind whipping razor-sharp branches into my face like an enraged banshee, I couldn’t allow myself to slow.
There it was, by some miracle, a light up ahead. I almost physically stretched toward it, like a dying man in the desert offered a flask of water or, perhaps, to flip the analogy, a drowning man thrown a rope from a passing ship.
What it was, was hope. Lower case, yes, but hope nonetheless.
I could make out the outline of a building, painted white. A warm ochre glow flickered invitingly from a window on the ground floor. Surely whoever lived here wouldn’t turn away a traveller, even one as bedraggled as I? A rough stony path approached an unkempt front lawn and certainly made my way easier, with no further tangling of my feet in roots, or risk of cuts and bruises.
As I drew nearer, further details resolved themselves; an arched window on the first floor that wouldn’t have looked out of place containing stained glass in a church, a boards-and-battens construction that, upon reflection, reminded me of something… I just couldn’t place what.
Lightning split the sky and, for a moment I swore I saw two figures standing outside in the rain, frozen in time, one holding a… no, it couldn’t be. As my night vision returned they were gone. I shook myself; I didn’t think I should be hallucinating yet, but who knows? There definitely wasn’t anyone there.
I limped carefully onto the porch and rapped my knuckles upon the door.
No movement, no answer, so I cupped my hands over my eyes, and peered through a window. How wonderful! A real log fire, two comfortable old armchairs, and a bottle of whiskey with two fingers poured into a solitary tumbler. Maybe whoever was inside was in the bathroom? Maybe they didn’t answer the door to strangers on nights like this? I tried knocking again, calling out that I was no threat, and was seeking shelter until the storm had passed. That I could pay. I stuffed a couple of hundred-dollar bills under the door, and waited.
Twenty seconds later, I was desperate. A glance back to the treeline merely reaffirmed my need to escape the maelstrom circling me. Shaking with exhaustion, I tried the handle, and was surprised that it opened with a gentle creak.
“Hello?” I called, friendly as I could, and retrieved the cash. “Hello? I just need to rest for a couple of hours, please? I won’t be any trouble…”
Silence.
In the main room, above the roaring flames, a framed needlepoint sampler read “Home Sweet Home”. I sank gratefully into one of the chairs, then leaned forward to warm my hands and start to dry my clothes.
A soft, insistent tapping began to sound from inside the walls.
Outside, hungry, feral eyes watched and waited.
The shadows deepened.
