My tale has gone through a dozen revisions—and gross times more—each time, I erase it, start afresh. I’ve told it and retold it nine times—more, too. Each time I look over my words it all seems so—bizarre—unreal. Yet it must be real. I have my own body as proof—disfigured as it’s become—I have the memories of Brielle, Chess, Darla—the Gingerbread House. They were—are real.

Friends have all given me good suggestions—but it was my employer’s husband who gave me the idea to write as I speak—or to just record myself reciting the events as they happened and transcribe them. Although, I wonder if I’d sound just as mad on playback—maybe it’s just as well that I don’t. Still, it would be nice to know how the police, how my old neighbors—how my very family—may have seen me, may have heard me. It may be the most uncomfortable suggestion, I shall do just that.

It started nine years ago: a month before Halloween. Back then, there were nine of us—in some of the bigger, grittier cities like New York, Chicago, we would have been picked up as members of a gang or else demolished by the real thing—only Chess wasn’t that destructive, Donlo was too tenderhearted, Wanda’s father—the sheriff of our town—would have sent her to a nunnery—if Wanda didn’t write a biography or Sidler didn’t turn us in, first.

There were plenty of pastimes to keep us occupied—friendly and relatively innocent—despite the small size of our town. A movie theater was the town’s center, a clock tower was our northerly Polaris—a church surrounded by a cemetery guarded our western flanks. To the south—dependent on the east or west side—wanderers would came across an abandoned train yard—perfect for midnight dates—or a barren wasteland—perfect for smoking pot and getting high. Finally, there were the Woods—the tales of the Gingerbread House within.

It was the Gingerbread House that truly held our hearts—the entire town’s heart, to be frank, though. Tales of that calamitous structure were our favorite bedtime stories.

The way the legend goes, a hairy old man had lived in the Gingerbread House for years. He came out at night once every decade to snatch naughty children and eat them for their disobedience. Nothing original—still, we loved it.

Supposedly, the house had been burned down when the village discovered his sins. He had screamed as he burned, as his house burned around him. Unfortunately, he survived—hid his house through the dark powers he served. Of course, there was no house to be found in the Woods—and nobody ever had any recent stories to tell about it—the one hundred fifty-year-old legend was told, retold anyway. All of the teenagers would try to find this house—it was a local joke that one couldn’t grow up if he or she didn’t look—but all we would ever find at the hoary-treed hilltop were empty glades—perfumed by the smell of burnt hair.

But if we looked toward the tree-tangled hill at night from a different part of town, a green light could be seen, as a candle held to a window.

Yes, you’re right—Hannah—the mystery hasn’t been solved yet, though I hope it will. The colors add more than italics or bold script—to me. If it ever does spell something meaningful, would you tell me, please? It’s not intentional.

I’ll add more in a moment.

Legends of the Gingerbread House always abounded despite the ease in which rebellious youths debunked them. When “proof” was invariably found, adults would smile, tap the side of their noses—nod. Some took this as an induction into a cult-like secret that must be preserved—others just filed the Gingerbread House Legends away with the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus.

Nine years ago, our little group slowly began to dissolve after a child’s lifetime of adventures—Chess became too “cool” to hang with us, preferred to hang with new friends in the big city where we went to school. Donlo—as if he wasn’t big enough already—singlehandedly proved Goliath once existed through his growth spurt—his consequent athletic endeavors surpassed before, excelled after. Rhett began to tour beyond our homely boundaries in mathematical tournaments. Wanda took on a crusade to write a Pulitzer-winning essay on living green. Sidler locked himself in his room to expose others’ secrets—and keep his own safe. Nell found love. Banner noticed my weight—soon it was just Brielle, Darla, me—Darla quickly found the world of women upon puberty. I had found a part-time job at Mr. Hartman’s grocery store. Chess was the oldest at sixteen; Rhett was the youngest at thirteen—I, unlike everything else in my life—was a solid part of the median, had just celebrated my fourteenth birthday. Nell was the body—Darla a close second—even Brielle started showing curves. Wanda had always been thin, but still didn’t care. Me—well, I had always been in possession of my own set of curves to show off—the curves of balls and Sumo wrestlers.

I began to despair of ever bringing my friends back together again. Chess never stopped by anymore. Sidler resurfaced to regale us with his latest conspiracy theory—not founded in Deckerwood. Donlo dropped by after every home game, didn’t realize his comrades in football tried to steal beer. The others drifted in and out. School, work consumed my days as only feverish bonfires could. Halloween was only a month away and I was without a plan to get my friends together. For the first time in ten years, it would appear as if our little group would be divided this holiday.

One evening—nine years past on September 25, at the behest of Mr. Hartman—I found myself traveling east, toward the Woods. Mr. Hartman received a phone call from a couple of out-of-towners who reportedly came to his store last year and stocked up on all manner of goods, camp equipment—could they buy another sleeping bag? Of course, Mr. Hartman sent me. He was like that—kind, compassionate, the up and coming Good Samaritan—I was reliable.

The Gingerbread House, its tales was the furthest thing from my mind that night. The campers were right where they said they’d be—in the middle of the Woods. It looked like a college guy, his girlfriend beside him. I thought it best to give them the merchandise, ignore their invitation to stay the night, remember their promise to pay Mr. Hartman later, go home—my shift was over. Mr. Hartman had promised me extra for my service into the Woods, it was getting dark—just like any other night.

That meant I saw the light mounted atop the barren hill in the Woods.

One might have taken it for moonlight. Only, it was too early to be moonlight—the moon hadn’t even risen yet. The light was also green. Immediately, I thought of the legends of the Gingerbread House. There supposedly had been children to be snatched, eaten—but whom? Their names were never mentioned, in the history books in the town library. Even if the legends were true, I calculated various factors in my favor—I was fourteen. I had a part-time job. My friends likewise had adolescent endeavors, left me behind—plus, I weighed more than many a woman—or two thin ones. That counted for something, didn’t it? I was no longer a child.

Wasn’t I?

These thoughts didn’t comfort me as much as I’d hoped. It’s hard to feel confident in the dark, when evening shadows closed around me, with a green, otherly light behind my shoulder. I meandered through the trees while the night swelled around me, further calculated: I enjoyed the night. My mom and I often talked, gathered herbs in the moonlight in the summer. My dad and I often stargazed at night, talked about his tedious job. My parents were—are—like that. But my parents weren’t there that night. To gather herbs I needed something to gather—like herbs. To stargaze I needed to be able to see something—the stars. With the forest canopy, it was difficult to see—with the hazy, greenish light . . . I felt a chill as the light always seemed directly ahead, directly behind, to my right or left—as though the Gingerbread House followed me, waited for me just around the right corner.

In that case, I was trying to find the wrong corner. But it’s hard to find a proper path when it’s dark, there are no stars—when one is absolutely freaked out, felt parched, imagined old men with needles for teeth who tapped girls on the shoulder from behind, ready to grin and bite heads off when they turned around. While these thoughts haunted my mind, it happened—I heard a grunt. What can I say? I screamed like the girl I am and fled—or was about to flee, when I heard the voice in response.

“Hello? Is somebody there?”

Several factors contributed to my change of mind to investigate. One, the voice was feminine. Two, the voice sounded just as scared as me. Three, I was utterly lost, needed help—my parents were not the sort to equip cell phones to their middle daughters who possessed jobs. I had not bought one. Funny thing about justification, though, is that it doesn’t really change anything—not with outside intervention. It just leads us in circles. Yet how often we’ll let them lead us.

These justifications—sugarcoated into being called factors—led me to question the voice.

“Hello?” I timidly called out, shakily sliding one foot toward the voice.

“I need help,” the old voice cried out. “I was carrying the sacred water when my rheumatism acted up. I lost my grip, and the end of the bow gashed my wrist.”

Behind a layer of foliage, the feminine voice was revealed: she was on her knees, holding one wrist tightly. Her long hair was braided, white—unbelievably gorgeous. Sure enough, a bow lay across the ground—notched at either end to hold pails—or in her case, water skins with rope- choked their necks. The old woman was dressed almost ceremoniously—and she looked extraordinarily like an American Indian.

The scene of an old, strange woman hurt softened my fear, enlarged my sympathy. An overweight, frightened girl among other things—comforted her. She gave me a packet, was prepared to instruct me, drew silent with pleasure as I opened the packet—went to work. I dressed her wound with a poultice with the herbs found inside—if there’s one thing I knew—still know—it’s the use of holistic medicines—the use of plants, other flora for minor healing.

Her bow, the attached skins of water weren’t too heavy—I wasn’t all fat, despite claims to the contrary by mean-spirited classmates. I warily followed her toward the light. None of the Gingerbread House legends spoke of an old, mystic Indian woman. None of the Gingerbread House legends spoke about the old woman being injured. None of the Gingerbread House legends spoke of the old woman’s actions: she took friendly interest to my hobbies—she painted my forehead with sacred water before we walked into the Woods.

I nearly slipped and fell when we reached her home—the Gingerbread House. It was actually there. I was actually seeing a large edifice at night—almost, anyway. Despite the green light—or because of it—the only thing I could clearly see were short, stone walls circling a court of sorts—with the vaguest hint of a structure beyond. The house looked . . . wrong, somehow, as though I studied the gingerbread-stone building from behind a glass of water. Or heat waves barred a complete view of it. At times the old home looked almost—translucent? Echoes of Indian war whoops distantly brushed my mind. Strange figures stood immobile in the courtyard, waited, watched—me?

She didn’t invite me inside. In fact, she didn’t go through the gateless entry, either. She let me drink from one of her water skins before she carefully stashed them away in some nearby bushes—came out with a lamp in her hands—one of those old time ones. She lit it, gave it to me—promised me someday she would help me in return for my kindness—for her dressed wound, for her carried water, for the night made less lonely.

To be honest, I thought we were already square. She had given me a drink of water, painted my forehead, given me a way to get back home—on the not so heavily wooded hill, I could see the stars, but it was dark still—before I left, I asked her if another visit could be arranged again later—with friends.

I had a plan to get the gang back together. Unfortunately, it never occurred to me that she never actually agreed. Never actually lived in the Gingerbread House.

Halloween is quite the occasion in my hometown. We would decorate the entire area, meet at the clock tower at midnight and have a party. It’s nothing to New York or some of the bigger cities, but we did all right. But this year—I planned to visit a lonely old woman in a house that showed for me at night. There were only two snags in my plan, one certain while the other, possible—one, I was nervous others would have the same idea, after a fashion—others might search for it.

The impression was the house wouldn’t show if there were too many people.

The certain snag discouraged me—Chess didn’t want to come. Neither did Sidler. Rhett was away on some tournament, Donlo a game. The only ones who promised to come were the tightest girls—Darla, Brielle, and me.

But I was determined to make it work.

In hindsight, it was probably better that only three of us went. There were only three to die.

That evening, in the dark, as we approached, even more of the Gingerbread House was revealed than what had shown for me with the old woman—the two-storied construction at the top of the hill was surrounded by a topiary garden dotted with the strange figures—statues caught in the poses of life. They might have been sculpted out of clay, only it must have been fine stuff indeed—very flesh-like. We laughed, tried to scare each other enough to flee—pretended the eyes of the sculptures which flanked the front door—so realistic and detailed—moved.

If only we pretended.

We knocked, shouted trick or treat, giggled at the funny man that answered—when his back was turned He looked the part of an overgrown garden gnome: right down to the bulbous nose, the tufted beard combed into a leaf with curled end—starlit eyes. He smiled with especial kindness toward me, his pear stomach jiggled in commiseration to my bodily plight. After exclamations of delightful surprise to have visitors on such a lonely, cold night, he offered us a deal if we would come in and keep a forlorn, old man company for an hour. We giggled, thought dirty thoughts, took comfort in our three to his one. He looked at me and meant what he said.

“Instead of candy,” his eyes beat at me with the seriousness of his deal. “How would you like to be thin? How would you like to be beautiful?”

Do you think it—the large, funny man—might be a fairy? I’ve . . . never considered the possibility.

Maybe I should write more before I ask that.

Could you elaborate on what you mean by “eagerly read it,” please?

It’s not exactly a consolation, but thank you just the same. We didn’t know what would happen. I’m—not sure how I would change it, even if I could.

As a child, I never knew the term “witch” could be applied to both men and women. Traditionally, the witch in Hansel and Gretel was female. But sometimes I wonder.

I should have said, “NO” in response to his very real deal—fled—but that would have abandoned my friends to him—to it. There’s no guarantee that he—it—wouldn’t have followed. There’s no guarantee they would—or wouldn’t—have followed. Their fate would have been uncertain, rather than known—changed the Gingerbread House into that much more of a deathtrap.

Instead, we accepted his invitation, went in.

The décor in his house was original, after a synthetic fashion. The leather couch he seated us upon was beige, splotched with dark stains reminiscent of a large belly dappled in brown alcohol right before surgery—it quivered like a bowlful of jelly when we sat on it, continued to tremble long after its shudders should have stopped. Overhead, The Scream stared down at us. Or at least, I thought it was The Scream. But a different color scheme had been used. This Scream wailed in more viscerally intense despair. The sky was blood crimson, the robed figure bone pale and mirror-like to the original’s misery . . . very mirror-like. The mouth was so real—we almost screamed.

I looked down to our host. He watched the first of my friends, his smile a little less innocent, vents in his beady eyes showed a bit more raptorial under the genteel, lonely exterior. I wanted to ask him where his wife was—the old Indian. But I didn’t. The others must have sensed something predatory—the wrong kind of predator.

“You’re first, my dear,” he spoke. He beckoned with one finger. “Are you ready for the stuff of dreams?”

She followed him into a doorway that I don’t think had been there before. That was the last I saw her whole—sealed, alive—with natural breath. If she screamed, we didn’t hear. The couch shook with such violence we stood. Tried both doors, but they were locked. Tried her cell phone, but it was out of service. Tried her cell phone also, it hadn’t been charged—no chance of fetching police, then. Overhead, something moaned like a living thing. I didn’t look up—but the feeling that the mouth moved didn’t leave—gnashed his teeth, bit his tongue. Something minute—a drop of red perhaps—tapped my neck with the delicacy of a spider’s claw.

I tapped my neck where the spider touched—looked down.

One finger came back with a spot of darkness—the color of blood. I started to shake, refused to look up. The carpet was brindled in a myriad of colors: heart red, liver green, eye socket black—traced in patterns that could’ve been from a Zen rock garden.

The fat old man returned. His eyes gleamed yellow. He beckoned to one of us next—I wanted to shout, to scream—to run. But I was petrified. He turned his attention to her. And she didn’t suspect a thing save maybe I was a little dirtier than I was, followed him inside.

This time, I did hear a scream—partial, strangled. But it was too late. I tried the doors again. I searched the walls, refused to look at the ceiling. The carpet was speckled with a few more red flowers than it had just a few minutes ago. A very large bouquet of crimson roses was right below where I estimated the Scream to be overhead. I was sure not to step there.

I was afraid the dark redness would be damp.

The door opened, the old man came out. A rosary of saliva had grown at the corner of his mouth. His teeth showed carnivorous, sharply yellow. “Next,” he beckoned.

I screamed, but it did no good.

Your experience feels different than mine, Hannah. Yet—it’s eerily similar, too. So, if cold iron hurts fairies—faeries, fey?—maybe there’s a way to find out what the thing is.

And—I should have said it earlier and publicly, Hannah—thank you.

Even as he approached, my fingers scanned the speed dials on each of my friends’ phones—one in each hand—better results from my right hand, but not by much. I didn’t even know who I hoped to reach—police, friends, parents—everybody, anybody. I can’t quite remember. Not that it did any good. He snatched the cell phones from my hands, crushed them to pieces—they could have been made from empty peanut shells, for all the resistance they gave.

Then he took me through the door—into a hellish corridor. I saw some stairs descend, but fainted after the first face on the wall that stared at me, watched me pass—shrieked madly.


The old man—fairy, troll, demon, something else?—liked to play with his food. Starved, he ate my friends quickly. Me, he savored. He stapled me to a wall by my own bones—I’m not sure how. He used no tools. Crucified, I could only flinch as he peeled away my flesh, nibbled at my insides—always a little at a time. When he finished, he licked my skin, applied it to his foul, distended lips as a napkin—cocooned me back inside my violated flesh.

There was no night and day that I could see, but time still passed. A white tendril of moss grew over my head, became my timepiece. It was long, luxurious—beautiful—a window for a trapped prisoner. It grew in inches every day.

Somehow, I survived. I think the old man—creature—fed as much on fear as it did human flesh. To watch victims writhe, scream was a pleasure—for it. Body parts were left on the flagstones that it didn’t like, discarded as so much garbage.

When it was bored, it would weave bits and pieces into art or furniture. Sometimes these discarded bits were whole bags of skin—sometimes something as small as an eye was all that it left uneaten.

With malicious glee, the thing showed me the bones of my friends, left them to keep me company. It often gloated, conspiratorially whispered they still lived—that it didn’t like to kill.

When the bones twitched, I believed it.

It slowly ate me over a period of three months—felt like thirty millennia. It could have eaten me slower—the impression stood that it wanted to—but couldn’t resist. It started with my innards—fat must have been a true delicacy. It watched me thrash against the chains of my own bones—laughed. Sometimes, it flayed me apart, draped me over a chair like a curtain. It twisted me inside out, nibbled—braided my bones with my skin, smirked.

It returned me to . . . “normal” after I had torn my own throat out with my screams.

Eventually, my time drew near—it soon played more than it ate. I was nothing more than a watermelon to the foul thing—and my rinds showed. It used my bones to pick its teeth—returned them. Delirium came as much from pain as it did fear—nausea.

The luxuriant, white moss overhead grew thicker—when it wasn’t near—longer, to my ear. When the monstrosity came to eat, the moss hid somewhere.

When an eye slowly peaked out the white threads, I knew it wasn’t moss—it was hair. When the voice spoke in my mind, I knew it was even more.

—Never ago, you helped me, Sister. Now I will help you—

It was the old Indian. She called me “sister” for a number of reasons. Foremost was our shared pain. Perhaps I’ll share other reasons later. But for now, suffice to say, she wanted to help me.

Unfortunately, there was only so much a lock of hair—no matter how long—could do. In return, she had a final request.

—You must help us one last time, Sister. In return—

At that point, my choices—like me—were severely exhausted. I quickly agreed.

—Take all the bones you find within. Friend, enemy, stranger; take them and bury them. In return, we will help you escape. We will give you—

She never specified what else she would give me. But escape was enough.

Before the creature fed again, the Indian wound her hair into my bones—gave me that much more. When it came, ate—nailed me back to the wall, I dropped free of my bone constraints—thanks to the Indian’s hair. Some magic must have lingered in the hair. She also gave me back my own bones. It was about all I had left.

I gathered the others, held them close. Likewise gathered clothes, ruined jewelry—all tokens, evidence of the dead—put them in an old rucksack. With each new treasure—for I called the discards treasure—there was a greater sense of being—of presence. I wasn’t alone in this journey anymore.

Chances to survive a fight with the thing were still remote, but the prospect of escape looked less infeasible.

Her clothing looked traditional—like a shaman or mystic—with some slight modifications. Besides the bow, the water—nothing else seemed out of place.

She gave me that lamp, but it looked ordinary—hasn’t exhibited anything special, as far as I can tell.

To tell you the truth—everything about her was special. At first, I thought she was the thing’s wife. Now—years later, after some research—she could have been a warrior or something.

When she stashed the water away, it looked like there might have been a cache of weapons, too. She never did tell me about the water—or her name.

It’s been one of my biggest regrets.

I could feel it in the stink that should have been air. The weighted, fetid stuff shifted, roiled—a macabre mirror of my own softer breaths.

The Gingerbread House was not large—two-storied, riddled with refuse—decorated with the remains of victims, composited to look natural. At least, as synthetic gingerbread is natural. But each clawed room was a hollow to make me blanch, swallow bile—I shall speak no more of the . . . cells, for now. Needless to say, it was very difficult, in more ways than one.

I was at a large, stone landing of sorts. Behind me, stairs fell into the diabolic . . . cells—that had taken so much from me. Before me, stairs lifted—to it—beyond that—my—our freedom.

To my left, ten feet away in an alcove, a heavy ring of brass keys hung on a hook—I’d rather not guess at the materials of its manufacture. To my right, seven yards distant, a skeleton—the only whole one I’d seen in my tenure here—hung impaled between ribs on a rack.

I’d always thought “tired to death” was just an expression—before the Gingerbread House.

Not so.

Woodenly, I lurched for the skeleton. Once—never ago—my friends— we laughed at movies, zombies’ slow, clumsy gait as they shuffled for their victims—I wonder if my friends would have laughed at the way I limped ahead.

Five feet away, I reached out.

—No—

I jerked to a halt, confused—went over the Indian’s instructions in my clogged mind. I was to take all the bones—all the bones—all the . . . bones. She had said nothing about skeletons.

The skeleton’s fingers twitched. I had seen like motion before, in the hellish place below. After, it lifted its bony head, stared at me—I hadn’t seen motion like that.

It lunged right as I twitched to the side—alarm, adrenaline woke my tortured body to a speed I had forgotten. It swiped, I ducked. It slashed, I dodged.

There is an expression—“fighting fire with fire.” I didn’t know about that adage. I hadn’t played with fire before. Nor did I carry a torch—the skeleton that attacked wasn’t aflame, either.

But I did carry a rucksack full of bones—my foe, a skeleton—close enough.

I hefted the rucksack in my arms over one shoulder, sidestepped the thing’s next lunge. Brought the rucksack over my head with both arms, everything I had behind it. Prayed the bones inside would survive unharmed.

The blow struck directly on the crown—amidst shattered skull, the body fell.

Unnerved by the short melee, I limped back for the keys—my leg hurt fiercely from the fall to initial freedom. When it had impaled me with my own bones, it had done so from ten feet above the floor. Not terribly high, but I’d landed poorly.

Once I pocketed the keys, my attention was grabbed once more by the far right alcove opposite my position.

The headless skeleton crawled toward me.

That makes sense, I suppose. I didn’t expect her, but the link is there—perhaps more light will be shed on it later.

If its . . . beheaded . . . state wasn’t enough to kill it—again?—how was I supposed to destroy it—beyond a quest to smash it to pieces so small anything still animate would be inconsequential? As far as I knew, bone dust wasn’t poisonous.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t time—or resources to do it. My rucksack had proven useful the first time around—but I didn’t want to risk damage to the contents again. I had been lucky.

Atop all these other reasons, it was one floor above me. Asleep, I believed. The headless skeleton didn’t make any more noise than could be made as it dragged its bony carcass across stone—which seemed almost as good an alarm as any to my exhausted ears.

With rucksack slung over one shoulder, assorted treasures pocketed, my back grated to the wall, I edged cautiously toward the ascendant stairs. The skeleton’s clack paused. The loss of its head apparently vanquished its senses of sight, hearing—smell, if it had any to begin with.

Now it scraped its clawed hands and feet against the flagstones in an effort to feel for me—no. It didn’t feel for me—the headless skeleton knew my approximate position. It felt for the base of the stairs.

Once there it settled, spiderlike, at the base—waited.

Emaciated limbs twitched at my approach. How its senses work could only be described as the otherly. I swallowed the fear that pounded up my throat, ignored nausea, the heavy oppression that breathed in my face as it breathed, subconsciously urged me to quit.

Despite my weight, I had been in decent shape while fat. I could run, stretch, swim—I even wrestled with my brothers. However, I had never been good at long jumping. Or pole vaulting.

As I cautiously slid my feet on the stone to garner distance between me and the skeletal stair guardian, I knew I would regret that deficiency.

But that was never ago. This was now. And I had changed during my captivity. I ran—jumped higher, farther than I had ever gone before.

High enough, but not long enough—I landed heavily on the rough stairs, sprawled, the rucksack atop me. The skeleton wheeled about—claws reached, tore at my leg and rucksack.

Frantically, I kicked at the hideous thing—all the while tried to maintain silence, to keep the rucksack—its precious contents—whole. Finally, it fell away.

The sounds had been muffled, about level to the nightly sounds as wood creaked, expanded—but if the house itself was evil, who knew how the groan of wood affected it?

The air was still oppressive with the creature’s malice—but the burden of the added gravity was not yet heavy with its consciousness. It still slept. I cautiously checked myself, the rucksack—bruises, a fright only—no broken bones.

The skeleton should have attacked again—there was no way my kicks had damaged it—but it didn’t.

I breathed deep, shuddered at the stench, climbed to my palms, calves—crawled, body splayed along the stairs. Progress was slow, necessitated by fatigue, the rucksack, increased oppression in the air, my—hopefully successful—attempt at subterfuge. The faces on the wall stared, silent.

At the top, I nearly cursed in despair—the fickle door was gone. But—I clawed up until my body leaned on the spongy wood that served as this landing’s dead end—little strength resided in me. My hand shook so badly I feared the keys would drop—nearly did. Close perusal was next.

The cut of the knob I had barely seen never ago had been capped in brass. As a similar key was found, its demeanor subtly shifted to my view.

It glowed indistinctly—so faint it was the difference between night blindness and adjusted sight in the near ink-darkness of a bedroom not pitch-black. The key matched the absent door from memory. Wood on my skinned back altered—shifted like lips pressed to mouth silence against flesh.

When I turned, a door met my lost gaze. The faces on the wall grinned spitefully.

Caution was not forgotten in my haste to unlock the door. While eternal moments spent in torture had strengthened me, my escape attempt had exhausted me. The door flung open to my meager weight—I fell hard.

It was like a fall into a field of bodies—tortured bodies that yet lived. My face met with the bloody flowers—poppies—stitched to the carpet, seeded and grown with each new victim. But the fall was silent, painless—the flowerbed cushioned me, kissed my fevered skin.

Because I took their bones from the dungeon that else would be a tomb they would never reach.

The parlor was as it had been, minus my change, minus my friends. My head felt too heavy in weakness to view That Scream—but condolences were offered—shared sorrows, pain. The couch jiggled obscenely, the weight it bore terrible. The cloud of oppressive air rumbled, curdled to thunderclouds.

Its snores blasted, forced my hair to dance cadence to the oppressive air, stirred easily as a witch’s cauldron. I crawled slowly—didn’t dare breathe, wished control over the volume of my heart as it screamed—wormed to the door. The distance wasn’t three yards—but a mile to a worn inchworm.

“Painstaking” didn’t describe the process. I thought I could sense the fiend’s eyes on me as I dragged my body ahead, but I also thought—should that happen, I’d be dead already.

Finally, my nose was to the doorstop. I set rucksack to the floor, hoisted my body upward. My arm shivered with the effort—strained—lifted to my feet. Black spots licked my vision—I gingerly chose keys. For a panic-drowned moment, mismatched keys passed—without mate to the hole under the doorknob.

Then I found the tiniest, most grotesque key yet. Fitted the sickly thing in, turned—

Unlocked—

“Leaving, are you?”

Even frightened as a cat ready to be drowned, I didn’t wish to die a coward. Nigh frozen, I slowly turned—expected to die the moment I saw it.

Its bloat was hidden by shadow and hair—tiny scales grew where the ancient fire had burned, healed. Two dots of red stared through the black—crimson eyes dilated in hunger. It slowly stood. If it touched me—death.

Its power didn’t lie in tremendous strength—which it possessed—or an armored hide—which it had also. Even its claws—deadly weapons—paled compared to its touch. Somehow, flesh was malleable as clay under its malicious fingers.

It glided snakelike toward me—horrors refreshed in my paralyzed mind. The creature often took out my eyes—forced me to watch it pervert my body—let me wonder which horrors stayed, which melted away.

Its attack came nearly alongside my anger—so deep it blushed at the utter helplessness I had felt during past tortures. The anger was so impressive—for my disposition—that it scorched away the numbness, seared aside the paralytic fear.

Instinct—deep, raw, remembered—bid me duck, roll to the left. Claws bit deeply into the wall. The wall parted with inhumane speed and size—just small enough to trap me had I tried to squeeze through.

A roar of thunder rent our concentration. Tears broke out through the dark gouges like transparent blood.

It rained darkness and wet outside—it was night.

The House groaned in pain. The Creature spat angrily—still haven’t found a suitable name derogatory enough—swiped a second time—serrated claws snagged, tore my already tattered clothes. Hem corner screamed, ripped—enough to overbalance my foe.

I ran. The Creature surged, flailed as its claws hooked the carpet, slashed—fabric bled. The delay was enough. I was at the door, found the proper key, jammed it into the hole—flung it open to freedom.

The key—whether in fortune or misfortune—snapped in my hand. I grabbed the bones, the tokens—all inside the rucksack—held it around my shoulder. I dived—past the clay— flesh statues. They tilted drunkenly.

The Creature charged after me.

Could the legend of the Hairy Man—the creature from the Gingerbread House—be a Fleshsculptor, or perhaps inspired by one? Are they ruled—metaphorically—by trees or other wood?

I’m not entirely familiar with that story—I read it online, but it’s not the same thing as growing up with the tale. Are you more familiar with “Raw Head and Bloody Bones”?

I didn’t look back, just ran. Fetor blasted my neck—its panted exhales—I thought for certain it had me. But no—rank breath suddenly turned cold. Between the rain, the only sounds were my own steps as I ran. Its hasty brake was explained at the gate.

A tree grew large, bore white flower clusters, red fruit—its trunk wedged between the stone walls’ gateless entry. Low-hanged branches enabled me to scuttle up faster than doubt. They were strong enough to hold me—the rucksack too—without difficulty.

The Creature made no move to go nearer—just watched me, a snake before a treed mouse. Its frown was a shark’s grin.

There were branches precisely at the right angles for me to climb down to the other side. The flower cluster’s warm, fragrant scent soothed my jangled nerves, despite the storm around me—I ate some of the berrylike fruit, can’t describe its taste.

At the lap of the tree on the other side, I looked back at the Gingerbread House, the grounds—to see nothing but an empty glade at the top of a hill in rain-scorched Decker Woods.

I think fainted—I was woozy, the world spun a circle about me. When I could refocus my thoughts, the dark sky was clouded, dark—the storm dripped to an end as I sat up.

The tree had vanished as well.

Wind breathed, chill. It bore the faint scent of burnt hair.

“Fey” . . . another name for a fairy. Perhaps most creatures that go after children—otherly creatures—have fairy blood?

The first thing I did when I stood again—realized I was free, was travel to the cemetery across town. Buried most of the bones I had taken—they lived in the Gingerbread House, died outside—because they needed it for closure as much as as I did.

The second thing I did was travel home. The door was locked, the hidden key no longer in the planter. I aroused my family with a score of knocks, told my story—showed them the evidence.

None of them recognized me. Still, they treated me kindly—offered me a bath, a clean change of clothes that nearly fit—the guest room for the night. In the morning, they gave me breakfast.

Then they turned me away—wouldn’t believe proof of the Gingerbread House’s reality. They believed me mad—treated me as a stranger—one of them called the police.

The police didn’t believe my proof, either. They closed their ears—told me they would arrest me if bothered my family again.

I tried others: the Hartman’s, the Pfleger’s, the Calloway’s, Mrs. Catterly—Squalling—my friends’ families—even Tobias, the town drunk.

No one believed me. Tobias offered me a drink. My friends had all moved away.

So I did, too.