The Beast of Yeller Wood

Chapter 2

                That was so long ago, going into the wood on papa’s shoulders to hear a story about a beast. He died seven years ago when I was ten years old. He swore on his deathbed that I, his only child, would see the beast myself and take it down for him. But he was delusional with a raging fever that seized his mind, and then his life. He left mother and me with a decent inheritance, as he was the only blacksmith in the village. The whole workshop sits cold and empty, as our home sits right above it. Weeks after his death, Buckley Rowe opened a blacksmith down the road from us. It wasn’t as good as papa’s.

                I walk down the village road, past the edge of town into the forest. Mother has forbidden it, but she is in the neighboring village of Nool for her sister’s giving birth; again, only God knows how many cousins I have. I wander aimlessly through the trees; I honestly have no clue on how to get to the beautiful clearing. Besides, all the flowers wilted away in the early frost, and the leaves are long gone. I wrap myself, shielding my body against the late-winter chill. The snow crunches under toe and the bare branches shudder in the icy wind. And then I hear a sharp snap, I whip around to see nothing. I have wandered out far enough to not see the lights of the village. Once again, the wood is silent except for the howling of the wind. It doesn’t feel as alone as this dead-silent wood should; it’s like almost feeling a comforting warm breath on the back of my neck. It is close enough to feel, but not close enough to truly know if that is really what is there. Not liking the eerie and freezing wood, I make my way back to the edge of our village.

                I wind the cobblestone path back to my home. The cedar shingle front, straw roof, and the tall river stone chimney billowing out pillows of black smoke, that was home. Deep inside papa’s workshop below the house, peeking out of the darkness was the glow of a single lantern. Concerned for thieves, I grip a pitchfork that was leaning against the door frame. My knuckles are white, eyes wide in fear as I shuffle my feet through the hay the darkness swallowing me in a thick blanket. The workshop is cold; it hasn’t been used since father’s death. There is clinking and someone muttering.

                My voice is high and shaky, “Leave or I will call for the sheriff.”

                I nearly drop the pitchfork as a deep voice responds. The lantern shifts, and a figure is revealed.

                “Ma’am I apologize, your mother actually sent me here. Mrs. White,” it was strange hearing my mother called that, “sent me here for work.”

                “Then where is Mother? She isn’t supposed to be home for another week.” I shiver as the cold is getting to me,

                “She didn’t think you would buy my story, she gave me a letter to give to you.” He sighed,

                He searched through his jacket, his hands frantically looking for the letter. Then he sighs in relief, and with a sure hand gives it to me.

                “Well, I cannot read in this light. Come upstairs, I’ll get you a cup of ale.” I gesture with my hand,