The Demon in the Woods

The Demon in the Woods

May 1, 1804 - Let me attempt to explain myself:

Only a lunatic would live in the forest.

With wild boars, wolves, and wayward highwaymen lying in wait, it is a most unsavory place. This forest is also home to a demon. He can appear as a friendly stranger one moment, a woodland creature the next, and then the devil himself in the blink of an eye. “What a strange fantasy,” you say. “What a ridiculous superstition! Surely wild animals are responsible for the mauled and dead villagers.” This is when the villagers go quiet. They know better.  

Only a lucky few have lived to talk about it. 

One not so lucky was William - a sweet boy with golden curls. His mother, Edna, was a dear friend of mine. My own little Mirabel was just a year older than William. He was six when he chased his puppy a short way down the path into the woods and disappeared. Weeks later, Mister Hurgens found the boy, his pale arms spread wide and both legs gnawed clean off. Edna’s unearthly wails are forever etched into my brain. The local tragedies always end this way, a villager disappears and is found much later, eye sockets hollowed, limbs torn, bones snapped. Those who survive whisper of a demon that charms and fools. A monster that leads astray with lies and idle chatter until it is too late to escape. No one dares go there.

And that is why I moved into the forest. I raised my daughter, hidden deep within the cover of the trees, far from the prying eyes of the village. I had my reasons to hide. Now grown, Mirabel lives with her husband in the village and I am left alone. She doesn’t visit as often as I’d like. A husband wants his wife at home to tend his needs. But when she was young, we had such fun climbing trees and splashing barefoot in the creek! It wasn’t all play. After her father died and we were left alone, I taught her to hunt and cook, brew medicines, and mend clothes. I knitted us beautiful sweaters, and capes with hoods and pockets to keep us warm. At night, we shared long stories by the fire.  Mine were full of pirates sailing to faraway islands. Mirabel’s tales were full of silly characters. 

“Mother, you be Stinky Pinky and I will be Higgledy Dee.” She  would say, “Stinky Pinky, what a huge ax you have!” 

I would answer, threateningly, “The better to chop you up with, Higgledy Dee!” 

She would scream and laugh. We became master storytellers to keep our minds off our fears. Because there was much to fear in the woods. My days are quiet now. I don’t laugh easily anymore. Today I passed the Death Cap mushrooms poking their heads out of the moss.

Beware yellow Death Cap 

White gills always kills

Three days dig a grave

One bite, die in the night

I gathered wood mushrooms to make soup for my dinner. There’s a chunk of bread left for tomorrow and plenty of firewood. Tomorrow will be a good day. But for now, the moon is just a sliver and the sky is growing dark. The wind whistles through the windowpanes. The tapping makes me nervous. Is it the wind or the demon coming to torment me? 

May 15, 1804 - Good riddance, Gerold. And a new life

We left the village when my husband Gerold died. He was a mean man, cruel and selfish. My old life is a hazy memory, but I do remember his death. Mirabel was eight. The sky was heavy with rain and murmured with thunder. Gerold was laid up with a bad ankle, injured on a hunting expedition. He was angry, and we were short on food. I took Mirabel out to forage for dinner. When we returned, our shoes were caked with mud and our woolen coats soaked through.

Gerold awoke at midnight, violently ill. It must have been a fever or a blood poison from the injured ankle. He was better the next morning and we were relieved. Two days later, his health turned. Death took him unexpectedly.

We moved to our little cabin, and before the curtains were sewn or the hearth blackened with soot, the demon found us. I felt his red eyes burning through the window glass. I kept little Mirabel close, but he seemed more drawn to me than her. I would lie awake, straining to keep track of him, snuffling at the cracks, scratching at the door, whispering lies outside the wall by my head. 

Why didn’t he kill us straight away? I don’t know the answer. I’d like to believe I’m too clever for his lies. Too strong-willed to be sucked into his evil trap. He enjoys tormenting me, maybe he doesn’t want that to end. When I’m out walking, I often hear the crack of twigs behind me. I catch his dark shape out of the corner of my eye. His furry back rushes for cover as I turn to look. 

He is always close.

June 22, 1804 - I will tell you the first time he fooled me:

It feels good to lie in the open meadow, outside the shadow of the trees. I am safe here. The demon will not venture this far into the sun. 

I know because I have been fooled by him before. We were hunting for rabbits the first time it happened and Mirabel was lagging. I went back and found her talking to herself amid the blackberry brambles. I scolded her for not keeping up. We continued. Hours passed. She remained sullen all day, silently glaring at me. We stopped to eat a lunch of hard cheddar, apples, and walnuts I had wrapped in cloth. She began to laugh most frighteningly. Her teeth seemed so large and jagged, her eyes so dark.  “Mirabel, stop it. Calm down..” But she wouldn’t stop. And then I saw her. The real Mirabel came running out of a dense thicket, tears streaming down her cheeks, scared out of her mind. I turned to this jagged-toothed Mirabel sitting beside me. The laugh melted to a deep, rolling, growl. The demon, in a state of bestial transformation, lunged at me. I sprang up, grabbed Mirabel into my arms, and ran as fast as I could, all the way to the cabin. I could hear him tearing through the underbrush behind me. He could have devoured us easily if he had so desired. He was playing.

Mirabel had no friends growing up. No one would allow their child to venture into the woods. She was content with me when she was very young, but needed friends as she grew. I felt guilty that she had none. Mirabel has no recollection of the danger of the woods. In her memory, I didn’t want her to have friends. I do not talk of the demon because it upsets her. 

“Mother, there is no evil in this wood. You are superstitious like the old people in the village.” 

I don’t want her to carry this memory, so I do not argue. But I know what is real. 

August 11, 1804  - Winter is coming.

The demon torments me. He talks to me endlessly. He comes to me as an attractive man, as a reflection of myself, as Mirabel. But I know who he is. 

He asks me questions, “How are you today? Where are you off to? What do you have in your basket?”

He is making me lose my mind. 

He wants to destroy me. He wants to break my guard down. To get me to relax. To not pay attention. To give him a moment’s passing. So he can pounce. 

When Mirabel was twelve she developed a friendship in the village. I let her walk to visit her friend, staying with their family for days on end. She told the family we were from the next village. She kept our secrets. I didn’t want her to suffer punishment for the past. 

Once when she was gone to town, I shot a wild boar. I saved the ears, snout, and tusks, and made a mask out of them. Maybe that is strange, but I had a plan. I wanted to kill the demon, and I thought the mask could protect me. Once it was complete, I loaded my gun, donned the mask, and spoke out loud to the forest. 

“Demon, you cannot mirror my face back to me anymore! If you look upon me now, you will only see the boar’s long snout and sharp tusks. This is who I am now. A demon, just like you.” 

But I was not successful in my hunt.

The demon was relentless, always whispering, scratching, taunting. Over the years, he ripped the limbs from many villagers. I have heard screams in the night. I’ve come running to help, my face behind my boar mask. Seeing my gruesome mask, the villagers become even more frightened. The rumors grew that the demon was a boar creature. No one ever sees Mirabel with me, I have made sure. Her fate is not tied to mine. No one remembers the little girl who ran into the woods with her mother so many years ago. 

My days stretch long and hollow. I cook small meals and wash my little bowl. I toss and turn with disturbing dreams and wake before the sun rises. My body aches. I spend too much time alone thinking. I’m so very tired. 

When I was young my struggles felt righteous. To be free from the tyranny of my husband and take my daughter somewhere safe. But I traded my life with Gerold for a lifetime of sparring with the demon. I pray for a time when I am free from fear. 

August  26, 1804  - Pointless

I have watched my hair turn grey waiting for my luck to turn. I now doubt that good luck will ever come. How stupid I am. Scared old woman. Evil and scared. Running about the forest, trying to save my sad little life, and for what? Another day of eating soup from my little bowl? Of talking to my reflection in the pond? 

What a pathetic life to fritter away. 

 December 4, 1805 - Bless me, Father, for I have sinned

I gather wood and pass under the oaks. I stop at a patch of plump yellow Death Cap mushrooms. They say they taste delicious cooked in butter. I hunker down and pluck one, brushing the dirt from the stem. Perhaps I should try it. Perhaps I should end it all now, on my own terms. Admit that I will never win. Never be free. Never be happy. Never escape. I waited too long to act, believing there was always more time. I have been too cautious. My time has run out. My life is winding to an end and it was all lived in fear. 

There is no escape. I’m getting old. 

December 23, 1804 - I must remain strong

I don’t want to be here alone anymore. He knows it. 

I sit by my door at nightfall watching the sky grow dark. He comes to me as the village woodcutter. He touches my hair. He tells me I’m beautiful. He kisses my neck. I’m lonely and tired and I let him. He asks if he can sit with me by the fire. He just wants to lie with me in my bed. Just wants to touch my skin... But I know when to stop this game. I lock him out before the sun has gone. Before I lose my judgment. He snarls and claws at the latch. He is wearing me down. I’m losing the will to fight. 

I do not think he will wait much longer.

December 24, 1804 - Christmas Eve alone

I fear Mirabel blames me for growing up without a father. I only wanted to make her life better. I made so many bad decisions, so many sacrifices, all with good intentions. I regret them all, and yet how could I avoid them? I had no idea things would end up like this. It is the cruelest part of motherhood. As if my very touch has thorns. As if I truly am a demon myself, devouring her with my love, which only destroys. I am so sorry, Mirabel.

December 25, 1804 - Christmas

Mirabel invited me to her home, but I did not go for fear I would be recognized in the village. 

I need a blacksmith to fashion a new latch for my door. The clasp has broken. I tried to make a door-stop out of wood, but I don’t have faith it will hold. 

I walked all day, and I felt him following me. At one point I was so despondent that I even turned and waited for him to catch up. I could hear twigs breaking, and the padding of his demon feet. Then to my surprise, I saw myself walking up behind me. I was catching up with myself. How fitting.

December 27, 1804 - My confession:

The villagers began to gossip. That is why I had to leave. I paid the woodcutter to build us a cabin deep in the woods. Although he was afraid to venture there, I paid him handsomely. When the cabin was finished and ready, Mirabel and I disappeared for good. No one would come into the forest to look for us.

Even living so close to the demon, we were no longer afraid in our home as we had been living with Gerold. We ate blackberries and sang songs and only did what we felt like doing. We didn’t have to hold our breath when Gerold’s footsteps approached, worrying what his disposition might be. We did not need to tiptoe about the house to avoid his wrath. But the dark shadow of the past will never let go. 

The makeshift door stop is in place. The windows shut tight. 

Nevertheless, I am afraid. 

December 28 - 3:00 AM

A gust blows through the bedroom - the door has given in. I listen with every fiber of my being to tiny creaks of the floorboards as a predator moves closer to my bedroom. I’m hot with sweat even though the room is cold. Should I try to run? I fear that any movement will only make the inevitable come faster. No one is here to protect me. I pray that Mirabel won’t be the one to find my body.

The demon knows my secret. He has whispered it to me through the walls many times. Many times. He knows what I did as clearly as Mirabel herself knows. She will never speak it, but she knows. Whether I had good reason or not, whether I did it to protect her or save myself, the truth is, I fed Gerold the Death Cap mushroom. 

I poisoned him. 

I knew which mushroom I plucked from under the oaks. I knew what I was doing when I cooked it in butter and placed it gently in the bottom of his bowl alone. I knew what would happen. I have committed a mortal sin. This is what I deserve. I have been left to the devices of hell.

We had not lived here long when Mirabel wandered underneath the oaks where the dangerous mushrooms grow. She knew better, what was she doing? She leaned down, her stubby child’s fingers pulling a Death Cap from the earth. Time stopped for a second. I thought I might faint. My ears buzzed and my skin felt hot.

My voice cracked, giving me away, “Mirabel, you know the rhyme”.

Beware yellow Death Cap 

White gills always kills

Three days dig a grave

One bite, die in the night

“Why would you pick that? Throw it away quickly!” 

She stared for a long moment, watching my face. “But you pick them, Mother. I saw you.” 

I slapped her, “I’ve never done such a thing. I know a Death Cap when I see one.” 

Lord forgive me, I wasn’t myself, I was in a panic. She threw the Death Cap into the ferns and walked away from me. What does she know? What does she know? 

A gust of cold air has blown out the lantern, pitch black now. I can no longer see to write. Red eyes appear in the doorway. He growls. Maybe I deserve this. These are my last thoughts before I die. Of my guilt. Of the child I would give my life for.

I love you, Mirabel.

December 29, 1804 - Sunrise

The sun rises, and I am devoured. How I am still able to think and feel is something God has decided is my punishment. Maybe I am in hell. I see through the demon’s eyes. I feel with his pads and scratch with his claws.  I taste his stinking breath that reeks of my blood. 

Today my daughter travels to my cabin to bring me belated Christmas cheer. I cannot warn her to stay away. I am screaming inside this thing of evil. Trapped. 

December 29, 1804 - Sunset

Mirabel arrives and lets herself in. 

She looks lovely in the soft hooded cape I made for her, beautiful scarlet against her fair skin. 

She has brought wine, bread, and flowers. She enters the bedroom and looks at me in my bed. She is puzzled by my demon form. Wolf-like.

“Mother, what large teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear.”