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In the woods lies a cabin, a cabin made from the trees that stood on the spot it now occupies. In the cabin lies a boy, a boy made from by the people that build the cabin. And within the boy lies a hunger, a hunger so unnatural that it couldn’t have come form these wholesome people in these fine woods, could it?
But you don’t know any of this. All you know is that it’s cold, getting dark, you’re lost, and there’s a cabin up ahead. I guess, by now, you shouldn’t have tried to find a short cut. I guess, by now, you’re thinking that you’ll stick to the paths in the future. And I guess, right now, you believe you have a future.
So you stumble towards the cabin. The trees seem to part, making the way through to it so much easier. The trees know more than you do. The tress know that if he can keep his wrongs within the walls of the cabin, then no more blood will be spilt on their roots. But again, so don’t know this. You’re hungry, but in a different way to him. You’re tired, and you’re cold. You think it’s kind of bizarre that in this day and age there would be a cabin out in the woods that was occupied. Perhaps a retreat of some kind for a fine day, but it’s a bleak evening, and the lights are on.
You knock on the door. He answers. A small boy, perhaps in his teens. His rags of clothes hang loose on his small frame. His hair hangs over his face, dirty, scruffy. Beneath the grime lies skin as whine as bone itself. He urges you in with arms, not words.
You speak. You don’t know that he can’t understand you. You ask where his parents are, and soon, perhaps, you’ll figure it out. They’re dead, of course. But he didn’t kill them, he’s no murderer.
He relaxes in a chair, and beckons you to sit by the fire. He stokes a log and it sparks to life. Heat spreads through the room. Your fingers begin to feel like your own again. Your teeth stop chattering. That’s when you notice the silence. It’s not that it’s quiet outside. It is, but that’s not the problem. Yes, I know you’d expect to hear the swaying of the trees, creatures moving between them. Late bird song or the early cry of the owl. That outside is silent would be eerie , but inside is too. The fire, dancing in front of you is silent. Your breathing is silent. And the boy fattens as you wonder what’s going on.
His face, full, round rests on one shoulder. A chunky smile spreads as you stand. The chair doesn’t creak as you get up. Your feet make no sound on the floorboards, and the boy grows fatter. His arms, barely more than bone mere minutes ago and podgy, and fill his rags which tear silently.
You move for the door. Your hand slips on the handle. You try to turn it again, but it won’t budge. You look back to the boy. His flesh is no longer milky white, but a healthy pink. Beside him the fire is still. The flames flicker not, but are frozen. Nothing is moving but you, and he. You are drawn to the flame. You can still feel its heat, despite its lack of motion. You put your arms on a chair, try to push it, but it won’t move. You think it does as it starts to give, but it’s just you moving through it.
Now that small boy, fragile and weak is no more. Before you is a pink chunky beast of a boy. His clothes, too small for this body lie at his feet, torn to pieces by his fast expansion.
He opens his mouth to reveal a row of hundreds of pin-like teeth. You’re caught in his stare.
And all of this. All of this. Is a diversion.
For in these woods, before there was a boy, before there were his parents, before there was a cabin, was a door. Not a door like the entrance into the cabin. This was a door into the darkness, an unseen door that could open at any moment.
It had remained closed for some time before the cabin, the roots of the mighty trees that stood over it were like an intricate woven barrier, stopping anything from crossing over. But without those trees that are now all around you as the walls of this cabin, there was no barrier. It opened as the boy was conceived. Perhaps it is why the boy was conceived, then it closed again until he was ready.
The mother was first to suffer, and the father days later. Since that time it has opened less frequently. Only when an overconfident traveller tries to cross the woods rather than follow the path round does it open, for they always find the cabin. You probably don’t know that it was the trees that lead you there. They held the door closed for so long, but it was people that unbolted it, and they believe that it is they that should suffer.
So here you are. A pink behemoth before you, trapping your very mind, and behind you, the door opens. Whilst the boy has fed on your curiosity, your fear, and your panic he has expanded rapidly, but the best meal of all is that that feeds his eyes. The sight of your bloody death, a death you don’t see coming is what returns him to human form. Strong, mighty, but already fading, ready to appear weak to the next traveller.
And if you really want to know what it is that’s about to kill you, well, you could turn around and look into its undead eyes. The very shock of the sight will kill you outright, but it’s better than the suffering that it will inflict upon you.
So dare you turn around?
But you don’t know any of this. All you know is that it’s cold, getting dark, you’re lost, and there’s a cabin up ahead. I guess, by now, you shouldn’t have tried to find a short cut. I guess, by now, you’re thinking that you’ll stick to the paths in the future. And I guess, right now, you believe you have a future.
So you stumble towards the cabin. The trees seem to part, making the way through to it so much easier. The trees know more than you do. The tress know that if he can keep his wrongs within the walls of the cabin, then no more blood will be spilt on their roots. But again, so don’t know this. You’re hungry, but in a different way to him. You’re tired, and you’re cold. You think it’s kind of bizarre that in this day and age there would be a cabin out in the woods that was occupied. Perhaps a retreat of some kind for a fine day, but it’s a bleak evening, and the lights are on.
You knock on the door. He answers. A small boy, perhaps in his teens. His rags of clothes hang loose on his small frame. His hair hangs over his face, dirty, scruffy. Beneath the grime lies skin as whine as bone itself. He urges you in with arms, not words.
You speak. You don’t know that he can’t understand you. You ask where his parents are, and soon, perhaps, you’ll figure it out. They’re dead, of course. But he didn’t kill them, he’s no murderer.
He relaxes in a chair, and beckons you to sit by the fire. He stokes a log and it sparks to life. Heat spreads through the room. Your fingers begin to feel like your own again. Your teeth stop chattering. That’s when you notice the silence. It’s not that it’s quiet outside. It is, but that’s not the problem. Yes, I know you’d expect to hear the swaying of the trees, creatures moving between them. Late bird song or the early cry of the owl. That outside is silent would be eerie , but inside is too. The fire, dancing in front of you is silent. Your breathing is silent. And the boy fattens as you wonder what’s going on.
His face, full, round rests on one shoulder. A chunky smile spreads as you stand. The chair doesn’t creak as you get up. Your feet make no sound on the floorboards, and the boy grows fatter. His arms, barely more than bone mere minutes ago and podgy, and fill his rags which tear silently.
You move for the door. Your hand slips on the handle. You try to turn it again, but it won’t budge. You look back to the boy. His flesh is no longer milky white, but a healthy pink. Beside him the fire is still. The flames flicker not, but are frozen. Nothing is moving but you, and he. You are drawn to the flame. You can still feel its heat, despite its lack of motion. You put your arms on a chair, try to push it, but it won’t move. You think it does as it starts to give, but it’s just you moving through it.
Now that small boy, fragile and weak is no more. Before you is a pink chunky beast of a boy. His clothes, too small for this body lie at his feet, torn to pieces by his fast expansion.
He opens his mouth to reveal a row of hundreds of pin-like teeth. You’re caught in his stare.
And all of this. All of this. Is a diversion.
For in these woods, before there was a boy, before there were his parents, before there was a cabin, was a door. Not a door like the entrance into the cabin. This was a door into the darkness, an unseen door that could open at any moment.
It had remained closed for some time before the cabin, the roots of the mighty trees that stood over it were like an intricate woven barrier, stopping anything from crossing over. But without those trees that are now all around you as the walls of this cabin, there was no barrier. It opened as the boy was conceived. Perhaps it is why the boy was conceived, then it closed again until he was ready.
The mother was first to suffer, and the father days later. Since that time it has opened less frequently. Only when an overconfident traveller tries to cross the woods rather than follow the path round does it open, for they always find the cabin. You probably don’t know that it was the trees that lead you there. They held the door closed for so long, but it was people that unbolted it, and they believe that it is they that should suffer.
So here you are. A pink behemoth before you, trapping your very mind, and behind you, the door opens. Whilst the boy has fed on your curiosity, your fear, and your panic he has expanded rapidly, but the best meal of all is that that feeds his eyes. The sight of your bloody death, a death you don’t see coming is what returns him to human form. Strong, mighty, but already fading, ready to appear weak to the next traveller.
And if you really want to know what it is that’s about to kill you, well, you could turn around and look into its undead eyes. The very shock of the sight will kill you outright, but it’s better than the suffering that it will inflict upon you.
So dare you turn around?
In the woods lies a cabin, a cabin made from the trees that stood on the spot it now occupies. In the cabin lies a boy, a boy made from by the people that build the cabin. And within the boy lies a hunger, a hunger so unnatural that it couldn’t have come form these wholesome people in these fine woods, could it?
But you don’t know any of this. All you know is that it’s cold, getting dark, you’re lost, and there’s a cabin up ahead. I guess, by now, you shouldn’t have tried to find a short cut. I guess, by now, you’re thinking that you’ll stick to the paths in the future. And I guess, right now, you believe you have a future.
So you stumble towards the cabin. The trees seem to part, making the way through to it so much easier. The trees know more than you do. The tress know that if he can keep his wrongs within the walls of the cabin, then no more blood will be spilt on their roots. But again, so don’t know this. You’re hungry, but in a different way to him. You’re tired, and you’re cold. You think it’s kind of bizarre that in this day and age there would be a cabin out in the woods that was occupied. Perhaps a retreat of some kind for a fine day, but it’s a bleak evening, and the lights are on.
You knock on the door. He answers. A small boy, perhaps in his teens. His rags of clothes hang loose on his small frame. His hair hangs over his face, dirty, scruffy. Beneath the grime lies skin as whine as bone itself. He urges you in with arms, not words.
You speak. You don’t know that he can’t understand you. You ask where his parents are, and soon, perhaps, you’ll figure it out. They’re dead, of course. But he didn’t kill them, he’s no murderer.
He relaxes in a chair, and beckons you to sit by the fire. He stokes a log and it sparks to life. Heat spreads through the room. Your fingers begin to feel like your own again. Your teeth stop chattering. That’s when you notice the silence. It’s not that it’s quiet outside. It is, but that’s not the problem. Yes, I know you’d expect to hear the swaying of the trees, creatures moving between them. Late bird song or the early cry of the owl. That outside is silent would be eerie , but inside is too. The fire, dancing in front of you is silent. Your breathing is silent. And the boy fattens as you wonder what’s going on.
His face, full, round rests on one shoulder. A chunky smile spreads as you stand. The chair doesn’t creak as you get up. Your feet make no sound on the floorboards, and the boy grows fatter. His arms, barely more than bone mere minutes ago and podgy, and fill his rags which tear silently.
You move for the door. Your hand slips on the handle. You try to turn it again, but it won’t budge. You look back to the boy. His flesh is no longer milky white, but a healthy pink. Beside him the fire is still. The flames flicker not, but are frozen. Nothing is moving but you, and he. You are drawn to the flame. You can still feel its heat, despite its lack of motion. You put your arms on a chair, try to push it, but it won’t move. You think it does as it starts to give, but it’s just you moving through it.
Now that small boy, fragile and weak is no more. Before you is a pink chunky beast of a boy. His clothes, too small for this body lie at his feet, torn to pieces by his fast expansion.
He opens his mouth to reveal a row of hundreds of pin-like teeth. You’re caught in his stare.
And all of this. All of this. Is a diversion.
For in these woods, before there was a boy, before there were his parents, before there was a cabin, was a door. Not a door like the entrance into the cabin. This was a door into the darkness, an unseen door that could open at any moment.
It had remained closed for some time before the cabin, the roots of the mighty trees that stood over it were like an intricate woven barrier, stopping anything from crossing over. But without those trees that are now all around you as the walls of this cabin, there was no barrier. It opened as the boy was conceived. Perhaps it is why the boy was conceived, then it closed again until he was ready.
The mother was first to suffer, and the father days later. Since that time it has opened less frequently. Only when an overconfident traveller tries to cross the woods rather than follow the path round does it open, for they always find the cabin. You probably don’t know that it was the trees that lead you there. They held the door closed for so long, but it was people that unbolted it, and they believe that it is they that should suffer.
So here you are. A pink behemoth before you, trapping your very mind, and behind you, the door opens. Whilst the boy has fed on your curiosity, your fear, and your panic he has expanded rapidly, but the best meal of all is that that feeds his eyes. The sight of your bloody death, a death you don’t see coming is what returns him to human form. Strong, mighty, but already fading, ready to appear weak to the next traveller.
And if you really want to know what it is that’s about to kill you, well, you could turn around and look into its undead eyes. The very shock of the sight will kill you outright, but it’s better than the suffering that it will inflict upon you.
So dare you turn around?
But you don’t know any of this. All you know is that it’s cold, getting dark, you’re lost, and there’s a cabin up ahead. I guess, by now, you shouldn’t have tried to find a short cut. I guess, by now, you’re thinking that you’ll stick to the paths in the future. And I guess, right now, you believe you have a future.
So you stumble towards the cabin. The trees seem to part, making the way through to it so much easier. The trees know more than you do. The tress know that if he can keep his wrongs within the walls of the cabin, then no more blood will be spilt on their roots. But again, so don’t know this. You’re hungry, but in a different way to him. You’re tired, and you’re cold. You think it’s kind of bizarre that in this day and age there would be a cabin out in the woods that was occupied. Perhaps a retreat of some kind for a fine day, but it’s a bleak evening, and the lights are on.
You knock on the door. He answers. A small boy, perhaps in his teens. His rags of clothes hang loose on his small frame. His hair hangs over his face, dirty, scruffy. Beneath the grime lies skin as whine as bone itself. He urges you in with arms, not words.
You speak. You don’t know that he can’t understand you. You ask where his parents are, and soon, perhaps, you’ll figure it out. They’re dead, of course. But he didn’t kill them, he’s no murderer.
He relaxes in a chair, and beckons you to sit by the fire. He stokes a log and it sparks to life. Heat spreads through the room. Your fingers begin to feel like your own again. Your teeth stop chattering. That’s when you notice the silence. It’s not that it’s quiet outside. It is, but that’s not the problem. Yes, I know you’d expect to hear the swaying of the trees, creatures moving between them. Late bird song or the early cry of the owl. That outside is silent would be eerie , but inside is too. The fire, dancing in front of you is silent. Your breathing is silent. And the boy fattens as you wonder what’s going on.
His face, full, round rests on one shoulder. A chunky smile spreads as you stand. The chair doesn’t creak as you get up. Your feet make no sound on the floorboards, and the boy grows fatter. His arms, barely more than bone mere minutes ago and podgy, and fill his rags which tear silently.
You move for the door. Your hand slips on the handle. You try to turn it again, but it won’t budge. You look back to the boy. His flesh is no longer milky white, but a healthy pink. Beside him the fire is still. The flames flicker not, but are frozen. Nothing is moving but you, and he. You are drawn to the flame. You can still feel its heat, despite its lack of motion. You put your arms on a chair, try to push it, but it won’t move. You think it does as it starts to give, but it’s just you moving through it.
Now that small boy, fragile and weak is no more. Before you is a pink chunky beast of a boy. His clothes, too small for this body lie at his feet, torn to pieces by his fast expansion.
He opens his mouth to reveal a row of hundreds of pin-like teeth. You’re caught in his stare.
And all of this. All of this. Is a diversion.
For in these woods, before there was a boy, before there were his parents, before there was a cabin, was a door. Not a door like the entrance into the cabin. This was a door into the darkness, an unseen door that could open at any moment.
It had remained closed for some time before the cabin, the roots of the mighty trees that stood over it were like an intricate woven barrier, stopping anything from crossing over. But without those trees that are now all around you as the walls of this cabin, there was no barrier. It opened as the boy was conceived. Perhaps it is why the boy was conceived, then it closed again until he was ready.
The mother was first to suffer, and the father days later. Since that time it has opened less frequently. Only when an overconfident traveller tries to cross the woods rather than follow the path round does it open, for they always find the cabin. You probably don’t know that it was the trees that lead you there. They held the door closed for so long, but it was people that unbolted it, and they believe that it is they that should suffer.
So here you are. A pink behemoth before you, trapping your very mind, and behind you, the door opens. Whilst the boy has fed on your curiosity, your fear, and your panic he has expanded rapidly, but the best meal of all is that that feeds his eyes. The sight of your bloody death, a death you don’t see coming is what returns him to human form. Strong, mighty, but already fading, ready to appear weak to the next traveller.
And if you really want to know what it is that’s about to kill you, well, you could turn around and look into its undead eyes. The very shock of the sight will kill you outright, but it’s better than the suffering that it will inflict upon you.
So dare you turn around?
Meka, you spook-meister! I'm all alone and you gone and scared me now!
WOW.