13 Sep The Wrong Door

There’s an irony about life in a small community. When most people think of it, they imagine a quiet life, much more peaceful than the clamour and bustle of the city. In one sense that is true, there is less noise, and people generally don’t rush around, but there’s also less privacy. It’s rare for anyone to have even a day or two where they aren’t disturbed by a neighbour in need, the council leader arranging the next community cleanup, or just kids looking for someone to annoy and kill their boredom.

I live in a small community. Everybody talks, and everybody knows everybody else’s business.

Some people refer to me as a “shut-in”, others say I am a person who “keeps to themself”. They say this in a light-hearted way, as if tending to your own life needs a euphemism, like being happy in your own company is somehow wrong and should be glossed over when talked about. Only yesterday I heard Mr and Mrs Martin, a pair of local shopkeepers, talking about me from behind their counter, almost literally deaf to how loud they were being. They say things like “such a shame” or “it isn’t really her fault” and I smile it off because they are nice to me, even though my way of living confuses them.

It creates a distance, knowing how people think of me. We have pleasant chats, but only small talk, and I always cut the conversation short. I tell myself that I’m anxious to get back home to read or to take Chester, my little mongrel terrier, for a walk in the woods before the light fades.The truth is I’m always afraid of making a misstep, of saying something wrong. I may not spend much time with people but I’m sensitive to their reactions, and I know when I’ve said something awkward. That’s why I love Chester so much, he always seems to understand me in his own quiet way, and it never feels off between us. After tea we sometimes sit together and watch the sun go down over the trees behind the house.

So I’m an amateur shut-in, but I’m still a part of the community, serving my own purpose in my own way.

I live in a village called Woden Thorpe. It’s little more than a collection of houses with a church, a community hall, a handful of shops and a primary and secondary school. Most of what we need we get from the local shops, anything else we have to get by driving several miles down one of the country roads that lead out through the forest that surrounds us. There’s no police station, no hospital, and only one pub. By all accounts this is a sleepy village, unknown to anyone beyond a 15 mile radius.

Most people here take one public role or another, either running the craft fayre every few weeks, or the Guides troop. People are expected to take part in something, but not everything.

There is only one event that absolutely everyone is expected to take part in, and that is the Samhain or, as it’s also known, Halloween. This is the biggest event of the year for the village.

Of course other places also celebrate Halloween, mostly by dressing up as vampires or ghosts and going around asking for treats. The difference here is that everyone gets dressed up for Samhain, and not as those silly monsters, here the costumes are more traditional. People either dress as animals or wear cloaks and headdresses made of flowers, leaves, that kind of thing. It’s said that it’s a remnant of an old celtic tradition, a way of scaring off the evil spirits. It’s a big night, with feasting, dancing and bonfires. Every family keeps their doors open through the whole night to welcome home friendly spirits.

But the part that everyone most enjoys comes at the beginning, when they purge the evil from the woods. After emerging from their houses and showing off their costumes, some of which will have been worked on for weeks, everyone gathers in the meadow behind my cottage and waits for sunset. They huddle together in silence, no one talking, a sea of foxes, deers, twigs and flowers, all hushed and turned towards the forest, watching the sky, waiting for the sun to touch the top of the trees.

The sun lowers slowly, the silence deepest just before it sinks to the treeline. Then, as one, the whole village rushes towards the forest, crying out, their voices joining together into a deep thrum that seems to come up from the earth itself. The wave of people splits among the trees, the single deep voice breaking down into various hoots and shouts that echo everywhere. This goes on for about half an hour, until the twilight fades to night, then everyone returns, sweating, laughing and joking. Then they head to the community hall for food and music.

That is, everyone except me. I have watched countless times as the other villagers gathered, imagining the costume I would create, how beautiful and elegant I would look. I know from the stories I’ve heard as they walk back that most people don’t go too far into the forest for fear of getting lost. And besides, they all know that it is really only a bit of fun, a way of welcoming winter and reminding everyone that we are still together even as the nights become longer and the cold creeps in. No one actually believes that anything is in the woods.

There was a rumour that someone did get lost once, that they were gone for days, but most people admit this is just another story, told to make the night that bit scarier and more exciting.

Which is why I found it so hard to understand why my mother banned me from ever joining in the festivities. She would insist that I stayed at home, no matter what I said or how alienated I felt listening to the kids in my school talk about their costumes or how they were going to be the fastest and get to the trees first, all the while knowing that I couldn’t join them. It was only one night a year, but I could sense that everyone felt there was something wrong with me for not being there, that my absence was noticed.

One night before Samhain, I heard mother arguing with old Mr. Cassey outside the house.

I could only hear parts of what they said, but it was clear that Mr. Cassey was keen for me to take part in the festival, “It’s good for the village”, he’d argued, but Mother wouldn’t listen and dug her heels in as usual.

“I will take part. That was the agreement, and that is enough. Leave my daughter alone.”

Mr. Cassey was part of the council in charge of organising the festival, and all through October he and the other members would go around the village, checking on people’s preparations for the celebration, making sure of everyone’s attendance. Around this time Mr and Mrs. Martin would often grumble in their shop about him bothering them. Despite being born in the village, both of them seemed to resent taking part in the celebration. But each year I would see them gathering in the fields with everyone else, their costumes rushed, made with no real effort.

Mother always had the best costume. Each year I would watch her prepare – she always went as a kind of forest-guardian, with a wicker hat that partially covered her face and a long, intricately woven cape of dry grass decorated with fresh helenium, a bright yellow flower she grew herself in preparation for the night. She looked like some kind of nature queen to me as she swirled through the house, locking all the windows before giving me a kiss and leaving, being sure to lock the door behind her. Ours was the only house with its door shut on those nights.

The moment she left I would run to the back window of the living room that looked out over the meadow and watch her join the others, sick with envy I would wait for them to run. When the time came I would cry out with them, my own shouts drowned out by their singular roar, my voice the only one separate from theirs, lonely and weak, trapped in the walls of our cottage.

Until yesterday, when I finally broke mother’s rule and joined them in the celebration.

Mother has been dead for several years now. She carried on running in the Samhain for as long as she could, taking part for three years after her cancer diagnosis until it finally got the better of her. She died shortly after the first Samhain she ever missed. I stayed with her that evening while the others went out, comforting her. Despite my promise to stay, she insisted I lock the door and give her the key to hold. We listened together as the voice rose and fell. That night she made me swear that I wouldn’t take part, that I would always lock the house until daylight. I promised her that I would, but even as I said it I could feel that it was a lie.

It took a while for me to build the courage to join, each year I told myself that I would do it but as the time drew closer I became more and more afraid, my head ringing with mother’s voice insisting that I stay inside, “Swear it to me. Promise me that you will lock that door and stay in this house until daylight comes. Swear it”. Even Chester would seem confused when that time of year came around. He’d look up at me, wondering why we couldn’t go on our usual evening walk when everyone was outside. I wasn’t banned from the forest – I went there regularly with Chester by my side, and before that with our first dog, Charlie – so it was the only night in the year that I was forced to stay indoors.

I don’t know what finally pushed me into doing it. One evening when I was walking Chester, I came to the edge of the meadow and realised it was sunset. We had set off later than usual, and as I was about to leave the forest I saw the shadows of the trees on the grass in front of me, extending out from their bases, reaching towards the village. I stopped and watched the dark shapes creeping towards the village. It felt like watching the night grow. I stayed there until it was almost completely dark, then ran home as fast as I could. At that moment I knew that this would be my year.

The next day I started on my costume. I knew I was breaking my promise, but I still wanted to follow in my mother’s footsteps, so I collected long grasses for a cape and picked willow branches for a headdress. I couldn’t find helenium, but I found several autumn asters and decided that their blues and purples would be like my own signature on Mother’s costume.

Finally, after agonising over every tiny detail and several nights of sleep ruined by anxiety, the night came. Samhain.

I saw the first of the villagers start to gather in the meadows as the sun stained the sky a deep red-orange. Chester knowingly sat in his usual spot beside the armchair, facing the window. I put on my costume, and when I came down from my room he was still there, his small shadow cast behind him, his head low and sad, not turning to acknowledge me.

I walked behind him to the door and gripped the handle. My heart thudded in my ears. This was it. The door clicked and his ears pricked up immediately. With a yelp of excitement, he leapt up and ran to me. He was wagging his tail so hard I could barely tie his leash, and then we were out in the cool evening air. I filled my lungs with it and walked around the cottage, leaving the door wide open behind me.

We joined the crowd. Though no one could speak until the sun touched the trees, I could sense their confusion. Some seemed excited, others stared intently, their eyes fixed on me beneath stylised wolf heads and wooden masks. I could recognise some of the people despite their masks, like Mr and Mrs Martin the old shopkeepers.

I realised it was mostly the older people who stared the most, their old minds unwilling to accept this unexpected arrival.I swear one or two tried to follow me, intent on turning me away. Only Mr. Cassey and the council members seemed pleased to see me, smiling beneath their matching wooden half-masks.

I walked quickly, with my head high, gliding through the crowd as I had imagined for so many years before, until I reached the front of the line.

Most of the adults stayed at the back, allowing the faster teenagers to take the lead, but I wanted to be one of the first to cross the trees. I looked around at the other frontrunners, all young and as eager to start as I was. Beside me, what looked like a boy of college age stood coiled like an athlete, his stance set and ready. He wore black and white cloth and his mask was like a badger’s with black and white stripes completely covering his face. I matched his position, planting my feet in the soft grass.

I was ready.

My nerves buzzed as the light thickened and the silence became absolute. Even the rustling of the costumes fell quiet. All eyes turned to the forest. I breathed deeply and smiled at Chester. He was ready too.

The burning orange orb came down towards the black trees, its lower edge clear and defined in the cloudless sky. It sank over the pointed tip of a hemlock tree that pierced its edge like a black spindle.

My breath caught and for an instant, nobody moved. Then the moment broke and my legs burst into motion. We ran as one, feet pounding the ground, our voices rising gradually from the silence, a low hum building to a thundering roar. I screamed so much it tore at my throat. The badger guy was faster than me, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was running with him, with everyone. All these years kept from this feeling, and for what?

I crossed the meadow in what seemed like seconds and broke through the tree line, my feet smashing twigs and scattering leaves. I hollered and whooped with the others, yelling into every corner of the forest. The air was cooler among the trees, fresher somehow, as if I had been breathing stale air for years, finally free from my prison.

The others had fallen back but I didn’t care, I was where I should have been so many times before, and I kept running. The other voices faded until mine was the only one, reduced to weak yells between gasping breaths. I had never run so hard in my life. I doubled over, sweat dripping from my forehead, completely exhausted but happier than I had ever been. After a few moments I looked around. The dim light of the meadow was behind me. Seeing how quickly it was becoming dark, I turned to head back.

I had done it. After so many years, I had taken part in Samhain. My steps were light and happy.

My hand was yanked behind me so suddenly I almost tripped. My arm pulled backward, and I realised that Chester’s lead had become taught. He was facing into the forest, his paws dug in and refusing to move. In the failing light I could see the fur on his back was raised..

“Chester?”

He didn’t respond, only stood there, staring behind us.

“Chester, I know we had fun, but it’s time to go home.”

He growled, low and threatening, his gaze fixed. I had never heard him make a sound like that before. The sweat was cold against my body, and suddenly I felt small and childish, a silly fool dressed as a kid’s idea of a forest princess.

“Ok that’s enough,” I reached down to grab his collar but as my fingers touched the leather he barked angrily, startling me. He bolted, his lead snatched from my hand and vanished into the dark woods.

“Chester, don’t do that!” I ran after him, stumbling over roots and snagging on brambles that scraped at my bare legs. He was ahead of me, barking frantically. I told myself that he was probably chasing something, but I knew I was tricking myself. Chester never barked, ever. We had been in these woods countless times and he hadn’t gone after a single thing, even when a pheasant had crossed right in front of us he had just calmly walked past it.

This was nothing like him.

The light was fading fast and I struggled to see what was around me. Everything appeared grey and featureless in the dense forest. I staggered downward, deeper into the darkness, following Chester’s barks and growls. I shivered, it was getting colder.

“Please come back, Ches. Please Chester. We need to go home.”

I heard nothing but my own breathing.

“Chester?”

My foot caught on something soft. I reached down and felt Chester’s coarse fur. My hands shook as I hurried to grab the lead. He didn’t move at all

“Ok. Let’s go home.”

Something shifted ahead of us. Chester quivered under my hands.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

Silence, then a scraping sound, like someone dragging their feet in hard shoes. It sounded strange, out of place, but I couldn’t put my finger on why.

I was about to yell when the badger mask appeared in the darkness.

“Oh hey, it’s you!” I sighed, “God, you scared me half to death. Nice costume, even Chester got scared. Sorry about that, he doesn’t usually bark or chase people. Are you heading back?”

The boy stood unmoving. He didn’t speak or answer in any way, only stood there. His breathing was slow and heavy.

“Ok. We’re going back. And so should you, it’s getting dark.”

“Open the door” he rasped, stepping forwards. His mask and costume became clearer. It was definitely the boy from the front row, but his mask seemed different and there was something wet glistening around the mouth of it.

“I don’t know what you mean, but I’m going back.”

I spun to leave, but as I stepped I realised what had felt off. The ground beneath me was hard, like stone. I had explored this forest for miles and never come across any kind of paving or slabs. I reached out beside me and my hand pressed against a solid wall, its surface smooth and featureless. I could still see the sky above, so I guessed I was in some kind of trench.

“What the hell is this?”

I ran back, my hands outstretched. Within a few steps I hit another wall. Had I taken this corner? The hairs on my neck stood on end: I had no memory of coming through here. I remembered running in a near-straight line, there had been no sharp corners at all.

“Open the door,” closer behind me now, his voice sounded wet and guttural.

I glanced back. He was closer, reaching towards me with a clawed animal paw. His eyes weren’t right, they didn’t look like eyes behind cut-out holes, they looked like they were a part of the mask itself. Red streaks ran from them, along the white stripes.

Streaks of blood.

Fear pushed me backwards. The jaw opened, the jaw of the badger face, revealing sharp teeth, and more blood dripping from them.

“Chester, run!” I screamed, and bolted, following the direction of the wall. The thing’s claws scratched behind me. I held Chester’s lead tight. Using his lead like some kind of divining rod, I followed him around the blind corners. The sky above vanished briefly, and I felt sick panic at the thought of entering a tunnel with that thing following us. The click of the paws came closer, and an animalistic mewling sound, a sobbing growl.

I stumbled on something, found my feet, then pulled Chester back, struck by a sudden idea. Groping the ground, my fingers caught the cold edge of the loose stone that tripped me. As the thing approached, I turned and screamed:

“Don’t come any closer!”

A shape rounded the corner, a black silhouette on a grey wall, barely visible.

I swung the stone hard, the mewling rose to a shocked snarl, and something heavy slumped into the wall. I swung again, and the stone cracked in my hand as I hit the thing, then everything fell silent.

I didn’t wait to see if the thing would get up. I ran. And before long, we were back on the meadow and close to home.

***

The door slammed behind us and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Drenched with sweat I looked at my costume. It was ruined. Somewhere in the dark I had lost my headdress, and the long cloak had torn in half, now nothing more than a rough scarf. And all the flowers were gone. I threw it off, then slumped in my armchair and cried until my eyes ached. 

I had no idea how to feel. Running with them, shouting my lungs out, had been a release like I had never experienced before. I felt a true sense of belonging for the first time in my life, the very thing I had dreamed of on so many nights. I still felt that.

But something had come for me in the woods, and I didn’t understand.

Was it some kind of joke? The old villagers had clearly not wanted me there. Their eyes told me everything. I was welcome in the village, a strange but harmless woman, but this was their Samhain, and I had trespassed. 

I told myself I was being paranoid, of course they wanted me there. But none of them had welcomed me: we weren’t supposed to speak before the sun set, but they could have shaken my hand, hugged me, given me some sign that they were glad to see me. And before the sun had touched the trees, hadn’t I felt someone try to grab my cloak?

They were trying to stop me. Those selfish arseholes. They had sent that boy to try and scare me off, to put me off joining in again. They must have assumed I would turn tail and run without trying to defend myself. Well, they were wrong about that.

I could have seriously hurt him.

Humiliated and exhausted, I slipped into sleep.

***

I was back in the stone tunnel. Something was lying on the floor in front of me, something bleeding. The smell of copper and earth filled my nose. Cold air breezed past me from beyond the dying thing and I knew that out of sight, something was watching me.

“Who’s there?”

I slapped a hand to my mouth to stifle a scream. I had spoken the words, but my voice had come from outside of myself, from beyond the darkness. It echoed down the stone corridor towards me. I let out a whimper, and it happened again. The sound formed in my throat but when it left my mouth it came from somewhere else.

I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t dare let out another sound. My head filled with whispering, a language I didn’t recognise. I groped around in panic, slapping my hands against the cold stone that surrounded me. Suddenly I was trapped, the dark corridor was gone, replaced with blank walls closing on me from every direction. I screamed and heard my muffled cry, somewhere outside the stone. There was no way out.

Then I hit something, a handle jutting from the rock. I pressed it down, and the wall started to shift. It was a door, an escape.

Another distant voice, not my own but coming from the same place beyond the walls, one I hadn’t heard in years.

The voice of my mother.

“Keep the door locked. Don’t go outside.”

Confused, I lifted my hand away, the stone fell back into place. I looked around but still there was nothing but darkness.

“Why?” I asked, struggling against panic as I heard myself speaking from outside.

Silence. I waited for an answer, reluctant to ask again, sure that it was my mother’s voice I had heard.

My mouth opened and I spoke:

“Open the door.”

I smashed my hands hard against my mouth. A voice had spoken, and it had come from my mouth, but it wasn’t my voice.

Tears ran down my face. I breathed in shallow, panicked gasps. On the verge of passing out, I tried to lower my hands. 

It happened again.

“Open the door.” A deep, guttural voice, it pushed out of my throat like wet gravel.

I lost control. I battered against the walls, my hands smashed against the unyielding stone. My screams echoed outside as the hateful voice worked my mouth over and over.

“Open the door. Open the door. OPEN THE DOOR.”

***

When I woke, Chester was pressing his muzzle into my cheek, whimpering softly. The curtains were still open and I could see the looming black forest against the navy sky. I jumped from the chair and yanked the curtains shut. Then I sprinted to the door and slammed the latch across. With shaking hands I fumbled for my key and after repeatedly scraping it against the keyhole I finally twisted the door lock shut. The click of the heavy bolt broke my terror, relief washed over me.

The dream had been so real. So vivid. My clothes were damp with sweat, and my legs were loose and weak, like I had just run a marathon. I told myself that this wasn’t worth it, that maybe Mum had been right all this time. She must have known I was too sensitive for the festival. I decided that once was enough, and next time I would watch from the window.

Comforted by this thought, I stepped towards the stairs.

The door banged so hard it rattled in its hinges. I jumped back and stared at the sturdy wooden planks and thick black locks, fully expecting someone to break in. Chester barked madly beside me. It scared me to hear him bark, he really never made any sound above a happy rumble when having his back scratched.

After several minutes. nothing had happened. Convinced I was overtired, my tense state clearly spooking Chester, I turned for the stairs and the soft, warm bed that waited for me. 

The door banged again, three times, like someone was hammering against it.

“Go away please. I don’t want to take part any more. I’m too tired. I need to sleep.”

I thought I heard someone answer, but they were muffled and I couldn’t make out the words. I shuffled towards the door.

“I’m sorry but I missed that, what did you say?”

There was definitely someone talking. I pressed myself against the door, its wood cool against my face.

I heard wind through dry leaves, and someone whispering in another language, ancient and menacing. Whoever had banged was still there. I let out a shaking breath.

“Please, whoever you are, I want you to go. You can come back in the morning if you need to speak to me.”

More whispering. Nonsense words. Made-up words. I stepped back from the door.

“Look, I’ve had enough of this. I’m telling you to go and if you don’t I’ll be forced to make you.”

No one answered, but I hadn’t heard anyone leave either. I became sure that it was kids from the village playing a prank, the same kids that had been told to try and scare me out of the woods, the kids who had ruined my night. Heat rose in my chest: they were making fun of me.

“Right! That’s it!” I marched forwards and unlocked the door. With my umbrella raised high above my head, I swung the door open.

There was no one there. I stepped out, expecting to hear running feet and teenage jeers as the pranksters fled. The night was still without even a breeze. Silvery moonlight glimmered on everything in a thin film, showing nothing but an empty street.

I slammed the door shut and locked it. I rested my forehead against it and closed my eyes, it was definitely time for bed.

“You should open the door”, said a growling voice behind me.

“I did, but there was no one there.”

My eyes shot open.

I turned around, and there was Chester in the middle of the living room, his shoulders hunched forwards and his hackles raised.

“What did you say?” I asked through numb lips.

“I said, you should open the door.” His mouth contorted horribly, a dog’s snout trying to work like a human’s, snarling and drooling over bone white teeth. Vertigo spun the room and my stomach heaved to my throat. My words came out in a drunken slur.

“Chester, you shouldn’t be doing this. Y-you shouldn’t be talking.”

“Open. The. Dooooooor,” the final word dropped to a deep growl that rumbled through the room. Chester’s mouth opened wide and curled backward revealing a crimson maw packed with row upon row of triangular fangs. I lurched back and felt a crack. Warm liquid ran down the nape of my neck. With numb fingers I felt my scalp and when my fingers came back into view they were covered in blood.

In the room beyond them, the Chester-thing’s jaw grew and grew, lengthening out, as long as his body. A whip-like tongue lashed around the widening throat, searching.

Searching for me.

With nowhere to go I threw my umbrella at the gaping mouth and the tongue whipped to it, coiling inwards like a spring trap. I screamed and rushed forward, kicking wildly. The Chester thing gargled as I hit it side-on with all my strength. I kicked again and it whimpered wetly, spitting out the stand and bolting into the back room, dragging its jaw along the floor. I followed it and slammed the door shut, then slumped down and cried.

Then the front door shook. The door-knocker was back, hammering again and again, louder and louder, bulging the frame with each hit.

I ran toward it, but then the Chester thing battered against the wood behind me. I whirled in the middle of the room, each bang resounded in my head. Then something else, someone knocking against the back window. I threw the curtains back and screamed.

The frame was full of animal faces pressed against every inch of the glass. I thought it was the villagers, crowding around to stare at me, the town freak. But their eyes were like the badger-man’s, real animal eyes bleeding onto their fur. I could smell the blood from inside.

The front door started to splinter. They were coming in.

I bolted upstairs and slammed my bedroom door.

***

When I was a child I would daydream, my vivid imagination pulling me away from boring village life to unreal places full of strange animals and shadow creatures that sang my name as they danced around me. Often I would forget what I had been doing and find myself far from where I had started, unable to remember how I had gotten there, the song of the forest beings still ringing in my ears.

I could see the forest from my bed, through the small bedroom window. I would go to sleep watching the sky dim over the trees. Sometimes I thought I saw someone standing in the woods, a lone figure, their face a blur of white in the twilight. The shadows of the trees would grow towards my room, fingers of night reaching out to me alone, beckoning. The darkness would pool over the grass, and then the figure would run towards me over the meadow, impossibly fast. I would always lose sight of it as it dropped below the window frame and by the time I would get up to look, it was gone.

Once, the night after Samhain, I watched the figure run and disappear out of sight. I closed my eyes to sleep, but then I heard something whispering to me from outside, and cold air poured over me. When I opened my eyes, I was standing in the meadow, halfway to the trees in nothing but my nighty.

Mother jumped out of her skin when I walked in the front door. She wrapped me up and gave me a warm drink, asking question after question. It felt like an interrogation. I don’t know how she didn’t see me leave, since there is only one door out of the cottage, but she never explained anything to me, she just sat in silence, staring at nothing like she always did when I tried to ask about anything to do with Samahin.

The next day she painted over the window, and I never saw the figure again.

I replaced the window with clear glass the day she died.

I can see the forest now, swaying in the moonlight. Something is glimmering white in the trees.

They won’t leave me alone. They’re in the house now, they whisper to me from the hallway, using different voices to try and lure me out, but I won’t go. I’m not stupid. I dragged the wardrobe against the door, so they can’t get in either. I’ve tried to ask them to leave, but my voice is gone. I can’t make a sound.

The noise is unbearable. They’re banging on everything; every door, every window. I wrapped the duvet around my head but it did no good. It’s too loud to think. I can’t take it any more. They won’t leave me alone.

There’s no way out, no way for me to leave.

Except one. I could open the other door. The one from my dream.

It’s here, in my head. The huge stone door stands in front of me. There’s something pounding on it from the other side. My hand rests on the handle. I can’t hear mother any more. There’s no one to stop me.

I press down, and the door glides open.

A figure stands in the dark doorway. They’re wearing a mask of white bone, with two circular eye sockets cut out. Long fingers reach up and clutch the edges of it. It falls to the floor, revealing a familiar face.

My face.

In the stories, they said that the kid got lost in the forest. 

But now I know that I wasn’t lost at all.

I was home.