The snow crunches lightly beneath your feet as you move between the trees. Stands of birch, maple, and cedar reach up toward the night sky. A light breeze gently blends these familiar scents in the crisp air. Nights like these are where you feel your best. You are alive.

Pockets in the shadows nearing total blackness still hide from the near quarter moon. Your eyes having adjusted long ago, find little trouble seeing the way forward. Many are often wary of traveling these parts after fresh snow blankets the forest floor but you enjoy the sense of newness. Your mind contains the map you are following. To the right is the tree long ago toppled by the wind leaving a cavity in the earth that you’ve hidden in when young. Behind you was the small cluster of beech, dark yellow leaves still holding tight to the branches. And soon will be the small section of stream that moves swiftly enough to not fully freeze over in winter.

You know these woods well, you grew up among these trees.

On the air you catch a scent. Smoky. Campfire? No, not at this time of year. Slightly sweet. Is that apples? Cinnamon? Ah! It’s grandma’s baking. You’ve almost made it.

You salivate a little in anticipation of your next meal.

The trunk of a downed tree provides a natural bridge across the icy water. Turning right to follow the stream, you increase your pace a bit to cover more ground. Here the forest is more open, thinned from the stream’s seasonal rise, letting you see further into the trees. When you reach the remnants of the small rock wall, you return to your normal pace. No need to hurry anymore, you are almost to grandma’s house.

Grandma has been a part of your life as long as you can remember. During your youth she was far more active, often chasing you around the property and into the woods, playing a game of cat-and-mouse special to the two of you. Now, with age, you have both become more measured, conserving your energy for when you each need it most.

Approaching the edge of the clearing, a new light begins to slip between the trees. Amber in colour and with more warmth than that from the moon. Shafts of light cast glowing paths through the forest, inviting you forward towards the cabin.

The path you take through the forest, you arrive not directly at the front but off to the side. You easily hop over the small wooden fence and move out of the woods into the open space where the garden will be planted come Spring. As you arc your way towards the front, you discover the gate to the lawn area has been left open. Odd, she’s usually very fastidious about these kinds of things.

You know the property well. You know every tree that lines the perimeter. You know the best places to hide when grandma is searching for you. And you know the fresh baked pies will be around back on the kitchen windowsill, a ledge once out of reach to you but became accessible as you grew.

The home is small, quaint. Perfect for grandma. Shutters, usually closed against the winter’s cold, stand open for the occasion. You take in the little things; you’ve always noticed the details. A bit of leaves from Autumn remain in the gutters. A small crack has appeared in the foundation near the corner. The yellow of the paint, once as vibrant as grandma but, as she aged, so too did it. Time is beginning to show on the cabin.

Approaching the door, you hear an odd scraping of sorts from inside. A moment’s pause, head involuntarily cocking to the side, you take in what you are hearing, curious of the foreign sound. Something metal and, by the sound, with ample weight is being drug across the floorboards. Then a pause, a few clinks of metal on metal, a soft groan, mechanical click, and then silence inside once more.

Your ears hunt for more sounds until a chilly breeze passes, breaking you from your stationary position.

With a breath of the cold air, you reach up to the knob.

You were quite young when you learned how to open the door, surprising both your parents and grandma alike. You had always been clever, easily figuring things out early on, employing a strong sense of how the world worked. As an adolescent you taught yourself how to plan and lay traps you would then chase the forest rabbits into, catching many a night’s dinner. Your family thought you were gifted, grandma called you cunning.

With a gentle press down on the lever above the door handle, a soft click communicates its release. The door gently moves away from the from the latch, opening into the living room. Hinges, not having been oiled in a few years, let out a soft, resistant creak.

The space has changed little since the last time you were inside. Furniture still in the same arrangement, a teacup in its customary place next to the reading chair. A new blanket has been added, tossed casually across the back of the sofa. You note the splash of red it brings to the room. In the center is still the oval rug of varying shades of blue, faded since you first saw it. A toothy grin falls across your face recalling how you were chased out of the house, deep into the woods when you came inside with muddy feet.

All is where it should be.

Except grandma.

The scents of dinner fill your keen nose. Fragrant warm bread, chili made of stewed tomatoes seasoned with cummin, the brightness of freshly steamed peas, and the caramelly sweetness of just baked apple crisp. You make your way towards the kitchen. Expecting grandma to be occupied in the preparation for the feast and not wanting to alert her to your presence, you slowly bring your head around the doorway until you can see the entirety of the space.

Bread on the counter covered by a light-yellow kitchen towel, stew pot on the stove simmering over a low flame, the crisp cooling on the windowsill. Again, you find things as they should be but without the home’s sole inhabitant. You move into the room, continuing your search.

What is that for?

At the end of the counter, where vegetables are usually prepared, is a large baking dish. You recognize the vessel, you’ve seen her roast the chickens she raises and venison from the woods in it. In the bottom lay the fresh vegetables and herbs she often uses. Celery, carrots, onion, thyme, all accounted for. However, where a carefully prepared and seasoned cut of meat should be resting, there is only an empty rack. Where is the main course?

The back of your neck begins to bristle. The hair stands up, a shiver travels down your spine.

Freezing in place, you peer through the entryway before you into the dining room. There is nothing to be seen, no movement you can make out. Slowly and silently, you began to move again.

Eyes fixed into the adjacent room, you make your way around the end of the counter where you pick up a new scent: moldy, damp earth. The sickly smell of decay wafts up from the basement through the ajar door. Nudging the door open, you peer into the dim space below.

Carefully, cautiously, you descend the old, wooden stairs, eyes reaching into the shadows. Your adversary will be trapped down here, you will win the game.

In the corner, behind a stack of boxes, you spy a small bit of exposed fabric. The light blue material, softened over years of wear, belongs to grandma’s house dress. Silently, you make your way around the edge of the room coming aside the boxes. Body lowering, legs bending, ready to leap forward, a small trickle of saliva wets your lip in anticipation.

Scrraaaaaappppeeeee……

Above you! From the living room, the sound of metal across the floor again. The unoccupied dress was a distraction, a decoy! You suddenly realize you are in a room with only one way out.

Bounding up the stairs, the cushioning under your feel softening the footfalls. Stopping just short of the doorway, only your nose barely breaks the plane. Dining room still void of life, you dart under the shelter of the table. Attention focused on the living room, you move towards the other end of your makeshift cover.

There, in the living room, is grandma. Her figure bent by the weight of time, faces the window Hair, thinning, wild, and matted obscures her face from you. You ever so slightly shift your weight to your right and, as you do so, her head slowly turns.

The skin of her face hangs from where her cheekbones once stood out. Almost non-existent lips barely show the line of where her mouth should be. Dark eyes, sunken deep in their cavities beneath the white of eyebrows, stare directly at you.

Time stops as you stare at each other. Unblinking eyes lock, bodies tensed. You remain this way until ever so slowly the ends of her mouth begin to curl up. The smile is not welcoming, it is knowing.

You take a step back. The pain is immediate and intense on your hind leg. A yelp escapes your mouth and instinctively, you bite at the trap but your teeth are useless against the steel. Blood begin to wet the fur of your leg as the trap’s teeth dig further in. Snapping your head back towards the living room, she is gone.

A glint of light from the kitchen whips your head to the left. A large cleaver, the one you’ve seen used to break down deer, is moving towards you carried in the right hand of grandma. You lunge towards the oncoming figure, snapping your jaws, but the trap has you chained in place.

Quickly, at a speed unexpected by the age of the bearer, the cleaver flashes under the table. You snap at the attack but miss again. You sink away, seeking more protection under the sturdy table. A coolness begins above your left shoulder, just at the base of the neck. A few drops of wet land on the floor. Back in the kitchen the baking dish has been slid aside, replaced by the heavy block of wood you’ve watched her use on other forest animals. She is unmoving as she watches you.

Weakened from the blood loss, you lower yourself to your belly and then to your side. The soaked fur feels cold. Your eyes, still locked on grandma, began to lose their shine. She continues to watch.

No longer able to hold your head off the floor, it lowers, coming to rest in a pool of sticky, dark red. Slowly grandma begins to approach. Drawing near, her bony arm lifts from her side, carrying up her outstretch hand. Crooked fingers part your jowls and force their way into your mouth. The putrid taste of death coats your tongue. Picking at a space between teeth, the yellowed fingernails dislodge something. Pulled from your mouth is a bit of red fabric, a remnant of the cloak worn by your last meal.