The Woman in the Woods

I have heard tell that once upon a time, in a deep dark forest, there lived an old woman. Many believed her to be a witch, because of her long greying hair, always unkempt, her crinkled eyes and her hooked nose. But this old woman was no witch, she was something else entirely.

It was said that she had lived there as long as anyone could remember and had leant a kind of presence to the woods, a watchful sinister kind of presence. So much so that people, people in the know anyway, rarely entered the woods. Especially after the disappearances.

The disappearances happened about 10 years ago. Old man Parsons from the next town over had decided to start clearing the woods, in part to provide wood for his Timber Mill and, to clear some land for his daughter and her new husband to create a home. The Pastor had warned old man Parsons that it was not the best idea to clear these woods because of the old witch woman, but old Man Parsons ignored the advice and sent in his workers any way.

It began on a cold grey day in late November. Winter had brought a granite sky and mizzling rain. The workers, men from Parsons Mill, had decided to stop work for the day because the woods had seemed to close around them and a mist had risen to blanket the trees in an unnatural miasma. They were camping just clear of the tree line, their small campfire blazing, throwing shadows around them. They felt that the woods had been watching them. Watching them with malevolence. 

Parsons had told them to camp there, near the woods, to reduce travelling time, but none of the workers were happy as they stoically settled down for the night, wrapping themselves in thick blankets to protect them from the cold and whatever else lurked.

They were all woken in the small hours of the night to the sound of Howling, not just the disgruntled howl of a dog but a deep foreboding howl that pierced the night. The fire had burned low and darkness had closed in on their little camp. Noises of leaves rustling and bushes crashing came to them from just inside the first ring of trees. One of the workers quickly grabbed a lit faggot of wood from the fire, brandishing it toward the trees as if it were a weapon. All fell silent. The night settled once more, until another soul tearing howl split the night. They got little sleep.

The old woman returned home, shook herself and went to make some tea. How dare they! How dare they come to desecrate her woods. These were her woods and no one was going to impose on them. What to do? She had spent so long resisting the urges that came with her nature, resisting the urge to rend human flesh, and now, they were here. Chopping and burning. Desecrating her woods. What to do? She would scare them off. That’s what she would do. It had worked with the local villagers, it would work with these invaders.

The workers arose, groggy from lack of sleep. Breakfast was a meagre affair of bread and cheese that had been supplied by the mill. They ate in silence, no-one wanting to acknowledge the fear they had felt the night before. Slowly, they roused themselves to start their day, another day of clearing the woods, chopping the logs to manageable pieces and burning the waste. Again, the weather turned, by 4pm the skies were as granite and a weak drizzle had started. Again, the workers settled around a blazing campfire, silently agreeing to build the fire higher than the previous night, in an attempt to ward off what ever had visited them the night before. Again, they wrapped themselves in blankets and huddled close to the fire.

The old woman waited. Waited until the small hours of the morning. Waited until the darkness of the night had just begun to pale, as the moon slipped silently to its’ rest. She would make them regret coming to her woods. Desecrating her woods. She approached silently on padded feet and sat quietly, watching them as they slept. They seemed to stir, uneasy in their sleep. Good. She would work on that. The fire had burned low, but she had been this way long enough to know that fire in itself could not hurt her. She moved to a tree just shy of their camp and let out an ear-splitting howl. Ah, it was very satisfying to see them wake in panic. She retreated, making as much noise as possible as they lurched for a large lit branch from the fire.

Again, they were woken with a soul tearing howl, this one much closer than the previous nights. Again, they heard the noise of movement from just inside the ring of trees. What is it that threatens them? A pack of wolves? A hoard of monsters? Again, they get no sleep for the rest of the night.

On the dawn of the new day, the workers decide to send a message to Parsons’ Mill, beseeching him to send others to do this task or, better still abandon these woods all together, declaring that the woods were haunted or cursed with an unidentifiable horror, but to no avail. Parson has his mind set, and once it is set, it is like stone. Desolately, the workers once again set camp, built up their fire, ate their meagre meal and huddled fearfully in their blankets, waiting.

They were there still! Anger and frustration raged through her. Why had they not heeded her warning?! This night would be their last.

Again, she padded silently to the edge of her woods, watching quietly as they inevitably drifted to sleep. She knew how to kill silently so as not arouse the others, and there were only three. If she stored them well they would feed her for a good many days.

It was a few days before anyone noticed that the workers from Parsons’ Mill had gone. Most of the locals believed that they had realised their folly in clearing that set of woods and gone to less dangerous pastures. Old man Parson believed that the three had deserted their posts, remembering that absurd story they had come with about the woods being cursed. Well anyway, his daughter had complained that the land was too far distant from her family home, so he had chosen to purchase another plot already cleared closer by. He didn’t need the woods any longer.