PROLOGUE
The afternoon sun hung low, gilding the tops of the pines. Down by the lake, smoke curled slow from the grills. Our parents laughed as they turned barbecue skewers, the rich scent mixing with wild clover and the cool breath of water.
Near the shore, the lake was shallow and warm. Arnold and I waded out until the water brushed our knees, while Maya and Olivia splashed closer to the bank, their laughter bouncing between the trees. Then something brown darted from the ferns—a rabbit—and we forgot everything else.
We gave chase, crashing through undergrowth, Jordan right at our heels. Luke followed behind, slower, his step sharp with irritation. He was older, too steady for this kind of wild running, but he would never let us wander out of sight.
“Wait,” he called. “This is far enough. We should go back.”
We didn’t stop. There it stood, half-hidden between trunks: a small cabin, its wood weathered gray, its roof slanted like it might bow right down to the earth. We pushed the loose door open and stepped inside.
The air smelled of dried herbs and damp rot. Tables were cluttered with twine, twisted roots, and shapes carved from wood and reed. Light filtered thin through dirty glass, stretching shadows long across the floor. It felt exactly like the strange, quiet houses we’d seen in old stories.
“Can I help you, little ones?”
The voice came from the darkest corner, and we all jumped.
Luke stepped forward at once. “I am so sorry, ma’am. We meant no harm. We didn’t know anyone lived here. We’ll leave now.”
The old woman smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “Curiosity takes you where caution won’t.”
Maya leaned close to Olivia, her voice half-teasing, half-shy. “Your house looks scary. Just like in the tales.”
Olivia giggled, and Maya joined her.
“Forgive them,” Luke said quickly.
I had drifted to a side table. There sat a figure woven from grass and reeds, its face stitched still, its limbs too long and thin. “This looks wrong,” I said.
They came over, and we saw the table lined with more—some no bigger than a palm, some nearly as tall as we were. Some had hair of woven moss, some none at all; some wore scraps of faded cloth, others were bare.
“Do not touch those,” the woman said. “What brings children so deep in the woods?”
“We’re staying nearby,” Luke told her. “With our families.”
She nodded slowly. “Then they will wonder where you are. The light fades fast. Go home.”
But Maya had already reached for the smallest figure. It came apart in her hands, dry stems snapping soft. Olivia laughed, and tugged at another, and soon they were shoving each other playfully, stepping back toward the tall wooden rack standing against the far wall.
They stumbled against it.
The whole rack tipped forward.
Every jar sitting on its shelves shattered at once, glass exploding across the floor. Inside their spilled liquid floated twisted roots, pale bones, things we could not name, spreading dark stains over the planks.
“No,” the woman whispered, hurrying forward, her voice breaking. “No, no—all my work.”
Maya and Olivia stepped back, eyes wide. “We’re sorry! We didn’t mean—”
She turned then, and her eyes burned bright with rage.
“Run!” Luke shouted.
We bolted. Arnold and I went first, Maya and Olivia close behind, scrambling over roots and mud. But Jordan’s foot caught, and before he could rise, her hand wrapped tight around his wrist. He cried out, twisting to get free.
“Let him go!” Luke lunged forward, grabbing Jordan’s other arm.
The woman looked straight at Luke. Her lips moved, whispering sounds that felt like stones grinding deep underground—words no one there knew. Then she shoved hard. Jordan and Luke tumbled back into the thick, wet grass.
Arnold pulled Jordan up, holding him close.
The old woman leaned down, her face level with Luke’s, her voice dropping so low it felt like it came from the ground itself.
“Something terrible will happen tonight.”
The words hung heavy, cold as frost. I felt the hair rise all along my arms.
Luke went pale, his hands shaking as he scrambled to his feet. He herded us past her, not daring to look back.
“Go,” he said, his voice thin and tight. “Just go.”
I glanced over my shoulder once. She stood in the doorway, smiling a wide, jagged smile. Then she laughed—a sound like dead branches snapping in a storm.
We burst out near the lake minutes later, clothes torn, knees caked in mud, faces streaked with dust and tears. Our parents called out, asking where we’d gone, what had happened. But none of us said a word. Not about the cabin. Not about the dolls. Not about the words that still hung in the air behind us.
We ate our barbecue quietly, watching the sun sink below the treeline. And we waited, every one of us, for the dark to come.
