𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞 - a short story

"The Line"

Everyone knows you should never go in alone.

You might feel brave enough if you are with others. But I have enough sense to know that there is a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and once you have crossed the edge of the forest, you have crossed that line. All because you were too proud to see it.

If you do dare, whether you are alone or surrounded by other fools, you will feel the devious lure of curiosity eventually — they all do.

I know not of what lies beyond this forest, simply because I do not care. It doesn't matter to me, but it seems to matter to everyone else. Perhaps beyond it there's a new world, where lost souls can try to salvage what's left of their pathetic lives in this decrepit village and begin a new chapter. Although, the catch they always miss is that they have only turned the page — not erased it.

Nevertheless, as I make my way through the first line of trees and into the forest's shadows, I slowly pick my way through the tangled roots and make my way deeper into the forest. My footsteps and my walking stick crunch the leaf-litter on the ground with each step. The trees looming above me are like eager gossipers, leaning closer and closer to me, giving me the uncomfortable feeling they could hear my every breath. The sun was setting now too. Darkness was beginning to spread throughout the forest like a fog, and the temperature was already starting to plummet. The cold should've snaked its way through my cloak and frozen my core, but I didn't feel it. I kept walking.

Sometimes, children decide to come in here to play. Sometimes their parents come too and are convinced they can keep an eye on them, all while they pray the stories about what lurks behind the trees aren't real. I suppose that's the problem, though. Stories aren't inherently real or inherently fiction, so nobody in this pathetic village really knows the truth except me.

I've seen all kind of folk walk through the forest like I am doing now. Drunken men trying to win a bet against other drunken men, laughing and guffawing like morons as I watch them from the shadows without a sound. Once, I even saw a mother and father try to leave two children in here for hours. They never came back for the little dears. I wonder why.

Like everyone else who's ever come through here, I finally find the house. Their curiosity stops them in their tracks, but curiosity is such a greedy thing, it pulls them all towards it. The house is a small cottage surrounded by a little fence and puffing out a small stream of smoke from its chimney. It would've been completely ordinary if it weren't for the candy.

The roof's chocolate shingles reflect the dim light from the sunset sky. Little candy-apple lanterns sit upon the fence. The light within them glows softly enough for me to see that obnoxiously large candy cane by the door and the biscuit bricks forming the walls. I push open the creaking gate of the fence, but I frown when my fingers come away with powder on them as I realise the sugar is coming off. Still, I dust off my hand and I gently push open the heavy door of the house to make my way to the oven's fire. The oven should be warm by now.

With my joints straining in protest, I collapse into the rocking-chair by the crackling flames. There I waited, and there I would wait for hours, until my supper arrived at last.

After all, it wasn't my fault they crossed the line.

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