Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24325 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 122(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
The answer is that we didn’t. We saw them, and we were scared, and we kept going, because—
I shiver and pull my cloak tighter around me. My left side pressed against Hansel as I huddle under the cloak. Everything is warm enough but the tip of my nose and my toes. But the bits of me that press against Hansel feel safest of all.
The path leads us deeper and deeper into the forest.
Hansel urges his horse down a branching path, and then another. It's a good thing he's here. I don't remember taking these paths before. They all look the same to me.
But then Hansel calls the horse to a halt.
The horse stops beside a gap in the trees.
Hansel hops down, but I stay frozen on the bench seat until he comes around and offers me his hand.
"It's fine, Gretel," he says, but the look in his eyes says it’s not.
"Promise?” I whisper and he nods, “I promise.”
I'm the one who asked him to come here. So I take his hand and hop down.
My shoe sends a small pebble flying off the path. There's not much snow beneath the branches, but the pebble disappears into it.
Back then, we left stones along the path we took so we could find our way out. They were the same sorts of stones that have been appearing outside my house now. White quarts with a crystalline shine. They looked so pretty in the light back then. But now all I see is the sharpness of the stones.
Hansel curls his hand around mine, keeping the reins in the other, and leads Cinnamon through the gap in the trees.
At the sight of the shelter, my heart races. My blood goes cold. I can barely breathe.
The witch's cottage is in the middle of a little clearing. It’s a small, wooden cottage with a peaked roof, all of it deep brown, like tree bark. I can’t see in the front windows. They’re too dark.
It looks…lonely. Almost abandoned.
Hansel ties his horse up to a post in a small, covered area attached to the house, but takes the harness off and rubs him down a bit with gloved hands. There’s a trough on the other side filled with melted snow, and from a covered wooden box, he grabs dried straw. Hansel rummages around in a wooden trunk nestled next to the house and comes up with a thick blanket, which he puts over the horse’s back. It’s almost like he’s been here before. Like the cottage was prepared for him. Although my feet are firmly planted, I feel the need to run. Fear tramples through me.
The horse, though, is calm. He eats the straw without worry. Huddled under a roof and seemingly content with its shelter.
Hansel must think his horse will be fine here, because he pulls off his gloves and bends down to scoop some snow off the ground. Hansel uses it to clean his hands, then pats them dry on his shirt. He tucks his gloves into one of his pockets. With a nod, he gestures for me to follow and although it’s difficult, I move one foot after the other.
“How did you find it?” I ask Hansel as we approach the cottage. “When you first went back.” His knuckles brush against my hand. I'm quick to hold it. Our fingers thread between one another. Each step brings me closer and closer to a place that holds such horrors.
He squeezes my hand. “It took a while.” The pain in those simple words brings on memories I’ve tried my hardest to avoid since we came back.
I haven’t forgotten anything. Not a single thing, other than the way to get here.
The witch’s face, terrifyingly happy to have us there with her. The stew that bubbled in a huge cauldron over the fire. The sound of Hansel’s muffled gasps. The way the screams felt as they ripped themselves out of my throat. How heavy the chains were around my wrists.
I swallow hard, my stomach turning. My skin prickles with goosebumps. The witch was a monster, and she was nothing like the scary stories my father told when I was young.
She was real.
I pull on Hansel’s hand until he stops, mere feet from the door.
“Hansel.” My mouth is sticky with fear. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we shouldn’t—”
His hand tightens on mine and he presses his lips into a thin line. “We’re going in, Gretel. You need to see that she’s not here. There’s no one here.”
I don’t want to. I never want to go into that cottage again. But I don’t think the witch is dead, and if Hansel’s right—
I need to know if he’s right, or if I am. I need to know how to fix this.
Hansel tries the door.
It must not be barred from the inside, because it swings open with ease. All the while my blood rushes in my ear. There’s a small scream in the back of my head begging me to stop. To not go back. He drops my hand when I don’t move. Paralyzed by fear.