The Wicked Woods

Chapter Four

"It was probably a homeless person."

"A homeless person that eats croutons?"

"If they're desperate."

"They were much too fast for a homeless person, Demetria."

"Maybe they used to be a professional sprinter or something. Don't worry about it too much."

"Somebody broke into our house and stole our food. I'm calling the police."

"Just put the damn phone down."

I carefully lower my phone and put it down on the kitchen counter. My heart is still racing.

"It was a person."

"And now they're gone." She shrugs. "We probably scared them off. Can you just please calm down a little? I know you're on edge but... well, nothing happened. They ate our croutons and got tanked on our basement floor. There are worse things in the world, Lysandra."

I take a few deep breaths and finally manage to sit down. Adrenaline is still screaming through my veins even though I know Demetria is right – nothing happened. Still, I don't like the idea of someone being able to break into our house that easily. I know some windows were broken, but... well. It just feels unsafe.

"We need an alarm system," I mumble.

"We'll get one. Soon. First we have to make this house murder-free."

I cringe. "Could you maybe not phrase it like that?"

Her gaze softens and she sits down next to me, putting her hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. We'll get an alarm system, okay? And... I'll board up the windows. Should keep some of the cold out, too."

"Thank you."

"Good. Go to sleep. We'll continue working in the morning."

To nobody's surprise, I can't sleep. I twist and turn until my nightgown clings to my body and my hair resembles a bird's nest. I sigh and mumble like a cartoonish ghost. I'm exhausted but I've never been more awake. Angry and frustrated, I get up and step outside of my room again. Where do I go? Outside is too unnerving at night. It's like the woods move closer when the sun is down.

For reasons I can't possibly fathom I wander into the living room. In the dark the stains on the walls and floor stand out a little less and still I feel sick when I step over the threshold. I can see it again. I can see the two bigger stains on the walls where my parents' heads hung sixteen years ago. The curled up horns made out of twisted twigs that stuck from their skulls, rammed in there with a strength that seems supernatural. Did I make that up? Did that actually happen? I've never had the courage to ask my sister about it.

I reach up to touch one of the stains. The smaller one. My father's stain, his poison-green eyes staring into nothing, seeing nothing, dampened and without light. Before my fingers touch the surface a loud bang makes me jump.

"The wind,' I tell myself.

Another bang, softer this time, and what sounds like a high-pitched muffled voice. It's coming from...

"The basement?" I breathe.

The amount of time it takes me to decide to run upstairs and wake up my sister is embarrassingly short. She is, of course, fast asleep and mumbles to nobody in particular, something about horns and coat hangers. I roll my eyes and use one of her fifteen decorative pillows to slap her awake.

"Ow! OW! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Someone's in the basement."

She groans and covers her head with her blanket. "No, there isn't," she says, muffled. "We chased whoever that was out. Can you please go back to sleep?"