A road through falling autumn leaves, narrows quickly ‘tween the trees
One path into two divide, right you’ll live, left you’ll die
I sighed, and shivered. It was mid-November in Kentucky, and Pa wasn’t done chopping wood for winter. He said he couldn’t come with me anyway, but I couldn’t stray from the path. Pa had a talk with me a couple hours before, and it still reverberated in my skull. Shelby, my stupid, melon-headed, brother had been bitten by the witches fox—been cursed, and now Pa was sending me to make a trade.
“Why can’t Shelby make the trade?” I pulled my flannel coat on with a pout.
“If he goes, he ain’t comin’ back Charles,” Pa said, not looking at me. He just got done nailing Shelby’s window shut. “Hag put a curse on’em. Calls’em to her.”
I came to a small clearing on the trail and stopped. Up ahead of me, I saw the trail splitting. The right was traveled, hardly any leaves littered the path, and travelers had hacked back some low hanging branches to make it easier to walk. The same couldn’t be said about the left road, if I could call it that. Overgrown and barely noticeable, there was a narrow trail between tall tree shoots and dying grass. When you reach the divide, go left. Pa’s voice echoed in my head like a shotgun.
“Is’e gonna die?.”
“If you ain’t careful,” Pa said beside me, staring out into the woods. I looked back and saw Shelby looking out his window, gaze duller than usual.
“Why can’t you do it?” I turned back to Pa, waiting for his answer. He stared into the forest before us.
“I need to be ‘ere protectin’ him,” he said, twitching his nose like he always does when he lies. He wasn’t gonna tell me the truth either, so I gave up and dropped it.
I heard rustling and cracking around me as I walked ‘long the trail. I thought I heard a scream, like a woman in pain, but I knew it was only the foxes. That’s what Pa said they sounded like. Hearing them made me nervous; what if the witches fox was one of them? What if it came and bit me too? What if I got cursed? I shook my head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. The sun was above the tree-line still, but I had to hurry. I had to make it to the Hollow and back before dark; it wasn’t safe otherwise. It wasn’t that safe now.
Take the left and rightly follow, ‘til you reach the witch’s hollow
At paths end on the right you’ll see, a hundred year old apple tree
Winding along the forgotten trail, the forest grew denser, blacker. Shadows moved all around me, and I didn’t like it one bit.
“Pa should be doin’ this.” I muttered.
“We gets one trade, boy. ‘Member that.”
“Why can’t you use yours then?” We were closer to the woods now, but I was putting off the journey as long as possible. Pa just shook his head, eyes distant.
“One trade boy, only one.”
He made the trade sound important. And here I was using mine up at the ripe old age of twelve because my little brother was a moron and got himself bit. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t really his fault; Pa said the witch must be looking for young blood, and her fox found it. Up ahead there was a big tree branch lying straight across the trail with a couple frogs croaking on top.
“Stupid Shelby,” I muttered, kicking the rotten tree branch and scaring the frogs.
My foot broke it open instead, stomping on moist, rotting wood—termites poured out. Brown bodied, black eyed, termites crawled out of the branch by the hundreds. I jumped back, falling on my backside; the army of termites crawled toward me, enveloping everything in their path. The two frogs that jumped off were hopping away from the swarm, but were quickly covered. The termites made quick work of them, eating bones and all. I yelped, scrambling to my feet; these weren’t normal termites. As they got swarmed the path, I hauled myself up onto a low hanging branch just off the trail, hoping they wouldn’t follow me. I watched as the hoard crawled along the path, but didn’t break from the trail. I sat on the branch long after the termites had vanished from my line of sight, trying to slow my breathing. Is this what Pa meant by not careful? I hated this journey; I wanted to go home, but I couldn’t. I was apparently the only one who could trade.
“Shel…by” I froze. That wasn’t my voice. That barely sounded like a voice at all, but I heard it. Didn’t I? It felt like it was whispered directly into the hollow of my ear. I shook my head and quickly dropped down from the tree branch. I made sure not to touch the log as I hurdled over it. Through the trees I could hear echoes of ‘Shelby’ winding through like a curse. I picked up my pace, hoping the trees would quit their whispering.
But they were everywhere soon—from every angle. Every tree seemed to be saying Shelby, calling for my little brother. Calling him to the hollow, to the witch. Is this why he was looking to the forest when I left? Could he hear the trees? Could he hear them as clearly as I could? Any direction I turned, the whispers got louder, closer. I couldn’t see nothing through the thickness of the forest, but everything seemed to grow darker.
I ran. Through the wailing willows and shrieking sycamore I ran. I ran until the blood was pounding in my ears like a ghostly drum—until I thought my heart was gonna explode, and I’d be the next victim of the witch. The trail wound around and around ‘til I thought I was gonna be sick. Up Bunny Hill, through Crooked Creek, around Deadman’s Tree, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. My chest was heaving. Wetness prickled the corner of my eyes. Choruses of trees, echoing calls for my brother fell to my back, but snaked into my ears. If I could just make it to the clearing—maybe then they would stop. Low hanging branches from Honey-locust trees caught my coat and hands, cutting the soft flesh. As the path grew even narrower, and the calls grew louder. I saw the clearing a few more feet up ahead of me. I swatted more thorny branches caught on my coat and struggled through the last bit of forest. The whispers started to subside, so I bolted straight for the clearing, praying they would slither out of my ears.
Everything stopped when I tumbled out of the forest. I tripped over my feet, landing hard on my side, but got up, kept running. No way was I gonna let the voices catch up to me now. When I made it to the end of the trail, I stopped—eyes blurry, hands bloody, lungs burning. I fell to my knees and vomited the remains of my dinner.
I really want to go home, I thought, wiping my mouth with my coat sleeve. Sitting on my knees, I stared at my hands—they weren’t as bad as I thought, but they still hurt. I didn’t have no bandages. I looked towards the west, the sun was setting through the thick forest canopy—I had to make a trade and get out fast. But how much farther was it? I looked up, and I saw it—the apple tree.
From this tree hangs apples low, big and red and beating they grow
Pick the ripest and offer a trade, if it fits her right a deal is made
I got up on shaky knees and tip-toed over to it, careful to not make a sound. I didn’t want a repeat of what had just happened. This was the biggest apple tree I’d ever seen, like it had been growing for centuries. It had a few apples, which was weird for mid-November. As I padded up to it, I noticed the smell—rotten. I heaved before covering my nose with my sleeve. How was I supposed to make a trade with one of these nasty things? Pa said I’d know by the feel, but one rotten apple feels like every other rotten apple—gross. I walked around the tree, trying to find the least disgusting apple, but with no luck. To my left was a small shack. The witch’s hollow, I thought. No turning back now. I saw small mounds of dirt piled close to the base of the tree, like someone had buried something. Planting seeds maybe? I ducked under some lower hanging branches to get a closer look, but stopped—I couldn’t waste much more time. And there was something wrong with this tree, besides the few gross apples— bark was too dark, leaves looked different, long, slender with spider web veins, and I doubted the dirt piles were for seeds. I crinkled up my nose and stepped back, closer to where the few remaining apples hung.
I decided to grab one. A once red apple, now rotted black and brown, oozed a dark, reddish liquid over my cut up hands. I threw it on the ground, disgusted, and grabbed another one. Same result. Another one. Same result.
With shaking hands and frustration growing like roots in my belly, I found the most disfigured and rotten apple I could reach. It was drooping with softness and slime—two large holes on one side made it look like a skull. I took a deep breath, gagged, and grabbed it. Red liquid seeped onto my aching hands, and I squeezed it gently, splitting the top open releasing an awful smell. Then I felt it—the pulsing. This apple, or what was left of it, had a soft pulse, like a beating heart. This was the one. Pa was right—I would know.
“How’s an apple gonna work?” I asked, interrupting Pa’s instructions. He sighed.
“ Let’er take it from you,” he continued. “An’ she’ll tell you what to do.”
“Accept the trade—no matter what. You only gets one.” This is the most I think I’d ever heard Pa talk at once. “She’ll give you ‘er red knife—”
“But the apple—”
“Temporary.” Pa ran a hand down his face, tired. If he was worried, he didn’t let on.
“Listen to ‘er, Charles. Once a trade is agreed…” he paused, his gaze drifting to the forest once more—towards the trail I would travel. “You can’t go back.”
I looked back to the west and saw the sun had sunk even lower. I approached the shack with shallow breaths. Different flowers, herbs, and feathers hung on the walls of the rickety wooden building. Smoke was rising from a small chimney inside. There weren’t any windows on this side, so I couldn’t see in. I could hear some chanting coming from the other side, but I couldn’t make out the words. As I came ‘round the corner of the shack, my legs froze—I couldn’t do it. I could still turn around. Shelby was probably lying anyway—he always lied ‘cuz he wanted attention.
I turned away.
“What are you doin’ ‘ere?” a hoarse voice squawked behind me.
I turned back around slowly, eyes wide, hands shaking. The witch was an old woman with an antler headdress on, a crown of sorts—buck antlers, six pointer. Feathers were dangling from the horns and from her hair, while some kind of flower was tucked behind her right ear. Wrinkles etched onto her, and loose flaps of scaly skin hung from her neck like she sewed it there herself. Her hands were knobby and long, with chipped, jagged nails on each finger. Gray, scraggly hair fell to her collar bone, thin, bloody lips set into a frown and cloudy eyes—the witch was blind. She took a step forward, her bare feet as knobby as her hands, blind eyes piercing into mine.
“Well?” Her voice was like cinders and snakes.
She wore a dark shawl that trailed down to her hole ridden, patchwork skirt around her shoulders and neck. Her arms were bare, covered with freckles, scars, and faint faded tattoos. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She took another step; in her right hand she held a twisted cane made from dark wood and stained with many streaks of red. I tried to find my voice, but I must’ve left it at the apple tree. Another step, she narrowed her eyes, creating a ripple effect with her wrinkles. My hands were shaking, red slime twitching, dripping onto my dirty shoes. She reached out her left hand; her nails looked like knives from my angle. She’s going for my throat. I could smell her stench now—she smelled like the apples, only stronger; I held my breath. Another step—I was within her grasp, and my legs were welded to the ground.
Run by the path you took, eyes ahead, behind don’t look
If she smells your pulse you can bet, if a heart she wants, a heart she’ll get
“Come for trade, Charles?” she put her hand on the apple I held, feeling its pulse. She smiled, letting me see her teeth, or lack of—only black gums and rancid breath. I held back my urge to vomit whatever was left in my stomach, and shook my head vigorously, apple ooze bouncing with my movement. The woman made a huff or growl of some sort.
“How…” my voice had wandered back from the tree. “My name…how did….” I trailed off.
The sky was setting into navy, purple, and splashes of red in the west. I felt something brush up against my leg. I looked down and saw a fox with an all-black tail—her fox. I gasped. At least Shelby wasn’t lying. She smiled, looking me directly in my eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was blind anymore—her eyes knew…saw too much.
The witch ignored my poor attempt of a question, and plucked the apple from my quivering hands. She held the rotten apple in her left hand for a moment, then she held out her cane to me. I hesitated, but took it as I watched her. She lifted up her shawl, and that’s when I saw the hole. She wasn’t wearing a shirt—her sickly gray, wrinkled skin hung on her body like a hangman’s noose. But there was a hole in her chest, gaping and oozing the same slime the apples created. Without a word, she stuffed the apple into the gaping hole and dropped her shawl, covering her chest up again. I felt bile rise in my throat, as she grabbed the cane from my outstretched hands.
She stood still for a moment, frown still present on her face. From the corner of my eye I saw a rusty forty gallon drum filled to the brim with something I didn’t wanna know. It was set on a mesh gate of some sort, a fire burning under it. Guess that’s her caldron.
“I’ll make your trade,” she said, jolting me from my thoughts. Some wrinkles seemed to disappear from her sagging skin. Her left eye started to regain some color—it looked almost blue.
“But I’ll needs a replacement.” Her low hoarse voice sounded higher, less strained.
“Re…replace…ment?” I choked out. The witch huffed, her thin lips still set in a frown.
“Since I can’t have Shelby, I’ll needs someone else.” Her hair regained a slight blonde tint.
I looked at the sky once more. Darkness would set within the hour, and I needed to leave.
“Tomorrow.”
I snapped my head back down, looking at her.
“Brings me one this time tomorrow. O’ else.” She thrust a red handled knife into my hands, and pulled back her lips, gums now filled with sharp white teeth. I swallowed hard, confused. What’s the knife for? Her eye started to cloud over, and wrinkles started to sag her face once more. The blonde tint in her hair faded. I could smell the rot in her chest now—red slime dripped onto the ground around her feet. She couldn’t mean….My urge to gag increased. I stepped back, but didn’t turn around.
“Tomorrow.” Her voice got all hoarse and strained again. She pointed at the knife.
“Bury it ‘neath yonder tree,” she continued, digging the air with her claws, “where the rest are.” The witch turned around, hobbling to the drum which had begun to boil. She used her staff as a stirring stick, causing some of the contents to splash out, onto the ground. I stood in my spot, still shocked at what she expected me to do. So that mound I saw under by the base of the tree….That was….No. No way.
“What if…” I swallowed, cottonmouth making it difficult to talk. “What if…I don’t…?” The witch let out a soft cackle, a voice like praying frogs. I felt something sharp sink into my right hand, and jerked it away—too late. Her fox had bitten me between my thumb and pointer finger, leaving two small puncture holes filling with blood; it burned. I looked back at the witch who was smiling at me, blind eyes carving a hole in my chest. The curse…
“Then your heart’ll do jus’ fine.” She ran her tongue over her lips, eyes narrowing, and turned back to her drum. She took the flower behind her ear and dropped it in the center of the swirling liquid; it sizzled for a moment before bursting into small, green flames, drowning in the vat. The antler headdress seemed to widen, the base pushing them outwards instead of curving them around and in. That’s when I heard it—the trees, the whispering.
“Char…les…” it hissed, prickling the hairs on my neck. My arms had gooseflesh rising even though I was wearing a coat. Cold breath seeped into my skin as sweat dripped from my forehead, but my hand burned, like I stuck it directly into her boiling drum. Is this what Shelby had felt? My right hand was trembling as the red handled knife slipped from my fingers, chest heaving. Tears prickled the corner of my eyes as my knees went weak and hit the ground, but I couldn’t let her see me cry.
“I’d hurry if I’s was you,” she said, not bothering to look at me, her cane still stirring the bubbling liquid. She pulled it out briefly to slide a small bundle of sticks to the fire and stuck it back in, adding some fallen leaves and dirt to the brew. I clenched my teeth so tight they hurt, scooped up the knife, and stood back up. I cut a small piece of flannel from my coat, ripped it in half, balled it up, and stuffed each half in my ears. Hopefully it would keep the voices out for a while. Darkness had set; the only color left in the sky now was black. I had trouble seeing the stars through my faltering gaze. I stuffed the knife into my pocket and faced the swaying forest. Pa was right. I couldn’t turn back now.
Tia Cowger is a graduate of Eastern Illinois University. A poet at heart, her work has been published in Eastern’s literary journal The Vehicle, Bloodpuddles, Gone Lawn, and more.