#astro ficition

[multifandom-hoes]

The Witch’s Hut

Member: MoonBin // ASTRO

Genre: Horror, Adventure, Dark, Fantasy

Words: 6,7k

Once upon a time, when superstitions were held at higher stakes, on the lands where monsters and devils roamed, there was a little village so old its name was long forgotten, but by the myths that surrounded its never-ending summer, the valley was instead renamed the Witch’s Hut.

Sun blazed down on its occupants all year round, growing healthy crops and providing clean supply of water, yet just outside of the Witch’s Hut there was an eternal white blanket of winter forest. It became one more reason for the people living outside to name the village what it was.

Standing proud on the valley between two grand mountains, the people of the village had been shut out of the outside world entirely and so the superstitious belief grew and manifested into something more. It came to the point where crows cowed on the old crones’ shoulders as the old women cackled, calling themselves seers of all things and trying to make a coin or two for their living with their prophecy. It worked all the time and the eldest woman was believed to be the descendant of a real witch.

Peasants, all of them, the crones with their home-bound crows and the villagers with their stupid fear of the winter forest. What drove the superstitious belief was the fear of the outside world and what it might entail. They believed it was the mercy of the gods that gave them year long summer to enjoy and in turn, they were to be locked down in that little Witch's Hut, cut out from the world. 

Yet, even as a child, the boy of ethereal beauty, with his curly brown hair and clear skin, caramel eyes and plump little lips, had never believed in a word of the old crones- never even stumbled at the sight of the crows on their shoulders as how other people had flinched and scurried off. But as his unflinching belief was strong, so were the old women’s words as they crowed along their black birds:

“Don’t go out into the forest, little boy, for the witch of winter will take you away. Out of your pretty brown locks she will sew herself a blanket to keep her warm in the winter’s frost and her long, bony fingers will stroke those sewn locks day in and day out, taking their softness to her pleasure.” The smile on their face was terrifying, yet little Moon Bin had not flinched, even as a drop of sweat slid down his brow.

And so, the years rolled by, each with plenty of sunshine and children playing. Moon Bin was a happy child with a loving mother, a loving father, and plenty of friends he had managed to make. Since the village was a small little thing, he was sure he knew all and more, striding down the hut-lined streets with his head held high, both as a little boy and a grown teen.

It was nearing the annual summer fest, which was usually set by the old crones themselves, since they claimed to read the cycles of the moon and listen to the whispers of the gods that told them the day of the fest. So the villagers let them do their thing while they went on harvesting the crops with even more vigour, abandoning their children to their mischief.

With more embarrassment towards the fact that he had yet to find his date rather than the fear of the old women’s prying, Moon Bin had been restless for weeks. He had someone in mind. Of course he had, and he was quite certain that the lady would agree to his offer to attend the fest together, yet his stomach had knitted tightly every time he was near her.

With his looks, those soft curly locks grown straight and silky, caramel eyes catching a shine of a youth and lips as plump and sensuous as ever, he had tried to boost his confidence, and the knowledge that he was possibly the most handsome man in the valley was certainly reassuring, but when the girl, whom he claimed he loved, was near him, the reassurance was gone in an instance and an ugly blush always managed to steer him away from her.

As he pushed and pulled himself away from her, he missed his chance entirely, to a friend of his own nonetheless. Sulking and kicking the pebbles off the road as he walked back home from yet another scouting day around the village, he had stumbled and nearly knocked one of the crones off the road leading to the winter forest. He stuttered an apology, but received no word of acknowledgment apart from the cowing of the crow as the crone spoke:

“Don’t go out into the forest, little boy, for the witch of winter will take you away. Out of your beautiful brown eyes she will make herself a midnight snack of crunchy delight, and as she devours one after another, you will be there, seeing yet unable to move since you will serve to her delight and nothing more.” He had only sighed at the old woman’s words, too used to hearing them with each crossing they made.

It was barely days to the annual fest when the intangible happened, something that had his mother almost passing out, crying in his father’s arms as she blamed their hut for not giving enough attention to the gods and now having to face their wrath. A blight had struck, as she had said, due to their paying too much attention to the crops rather than thanking for each of the day they had spent in the sun. A blight so terrible the crops were wilting too fast to be saved and now the village was running short on supplies.

A mass meeting had been called, each head of family gathered at the centre of the Witch’s Hut, conversing in loud shouts and trying to figure out as to how they were going to produce the supplies to provide for their families and keep the village going as if nothing had ever happened. They also needed to set out a new schedule exclusively for thanking the gods and asking for their mercy.

Moon Bin knew that the meeting had not went well as his father had returned pale, quite a big contrast to his usual tan physique. He did not ask questions, as it was considered inappropriate and outright disrespectful towards his parents. Howwever, his eyes had asked all the questions his mouth could not and would not say. Yet his father stayed silent and only embraced his mother, whispering something into her hair. He then patted Moonbin's head and gave a troubled smile before ascending the creaking wooden stairs, disappearing until nothing was left but his fading shadow.

As it turned out later in the week, after missing the annual fest to instead spend it praying for mercy, the crones and their crows had decided that it was the best time to send out both men and women into the winter forest to hunt, as the better of the farmers would try and save the land from the blight, tending to their gardens and producing any crop they possibly could.

The children were kept inside the village, too young to go anywhere near the winter forest and too scared to wander into it anyway. It was due to all the myths and lies they were fed, about children-eating forest that would spare no one in its stead, and yet Moon Bin had always wandered too close when his father had went hunting, had watched too attentively out of curiosity, and had been caught by the same crone that had threatened him all the time :

“Don’t go out into the forest, little boy, for the witch of winter will take you away. Out of your plump little cheeks she will make herself a bun for the settling of her raging heart, a bun so sweet a normal man would get a cavity, yet she would be delighted by it, soothed by it, and you would be there, feeling her teeth sinking into your cheek, tearing flesh from bone, and would do nothing for you could not move against her shackles.” He wondered just how wicked the witch had to be in the crone’s imagination before shaking his head and walking back to his hut to help his mother.

If his mother thought that the blight had been a curse from the gods for their lack of attention, then what happened following that must have been wrath so bad even the gods lacked such horror. A person had wandered into the winter forest and since then there was silence from him. The man, the father of the girl he liked, never returned and the terror that settled over the village was like nothing before.

Even the eternal summer seemed to freeze over, not bringing any pleasurable warmth but instead making everything tensed. His skin crawled every time he looked into the forest, and though hatred settled in his stomach, he did not join the searching party that was pulled out for the lost man. His shins were trembling in fear at even a thought of stepping anywhere close to the winter forest and the cackles of the old crones paired with the crows had finally begun to settle into his head- he had come to believe and fear them.

The search party found nothing - no footsteps, no threads on the trees, no sign of any human life besides the wandering animals that were now hunted as the villagers’ food since the crops had yet to be cured from the blight. The hope for the man was lost and together with that hope went down his funeral, with prayers towards his mourning wife and daughter, a close friend whom he adored so much it hurt to be near her.

But the days seemed to continue, time not waiting for anything but itself, and the man’s doom had been but only a whisper of promise to gods' wrath if they dared to forget their daily plead of mercy. Moon Bin had none of the peasants’ talk and stupidly refused to beg and plead for forgiveness for something he had no hand in. A stubborn fool, he was called every time he walked by the bulk of the old seers jeering in his direction with their teeth missing and blackened. He spoke nothing back. He dared not to. Since it was only the witches that seemed to go back and forth between the forest and valley without any harm done to their withered bodies and minds.

Maybe they truly were the witches, then, Moon Bin thought, or even worse, gods disguised as witches, the old crones. Knowing every step the villagers took, whether they prayed or not. Their prying nose into others’ business had always seemed less than necessary and even annoying, but now Moon Bin questioned even that- maybe it was them who made the man disappear, and yet as he lay in bed that night, about to fall asleep, somewhere from the corner of his mind he heard a soft tune accompanied by a voice of a young lady singing, smelled a delicious smell of sweets making him salivate from the lack of food he had for the past couple of months. But amidst all that goodness he heard the old crone’s voice:

“Don’t go out into the forest, little boy, for the witch of winter will take you away. Out of your beautiful little head she will peel away the scalp and then clean your skull with your own clothes, making your skull into her drinking vessel so that she will sit poised like a queen on the bones of those she captured and skinned while drinking liquid thick and red, smelling of rot and decay. You will be there, helpless and shackled, doing as how she tells you to do.”

The years passed, and together with them had risen the number of those who wandered into the forest and never returned, the winter giving their head a claim of a lifetime. The boy’s circle of friends had lessened, since the ones claimed by the winter had been young and healthy, kids of youth and happiness. Now the happiness was gone and dread settled over the village- even the crones seemed to stop their cackling. There was no more snarky remarks and toothless grins full of vileness.

Moon Bin’s mother had gone gray only in an instance of a year, the stress and mourning getting the best of her, weakening her frail body and putting her on a sick bed all together. Not only the young ones were claimed- men and women, though few, had gone missing during the years the blight had taunted the Witch’s Hut’s crops. Among the grown men was his father, gone to hunt and reported lost to the forest’s thick winds full of snow. As the last time when the father of his now lover had gone missing, Moon Bin had not joined a searching party that was thrown every time a person was claimed by the forest. He revelled in the fact that he had to care for his sickened mother, yet in reality the fear was too great for him to even move anywhere beyond the threshold of his family’s hut.

Yet he had to force his legs to move daily- day in and day out, getting out of his skin to help and keep his mother well and healthy, to try and better her health. He had to and so he did. He had joined the hunting party and with dread over his heart, he had stepped his foot into the winter.

The cold was far worse than whatever he had ever imagined as a child, biting at his feet, fingers, and nose, sending a sheen of red over his cheeks almost instantly. The cold wind did not help any bit as even his hair got coated by thin ice. As a child who grew up in eternal summer, winter seemed like death itself, but he pressed on anyway, for the sake of his mother and his lover. He pressed on and tried to see the usables through the snow; a track of paws, the droppings of some animals- anything to keep their belly full and warm.

The day seemed to move too fast to his liking and just as the winter had seemed like another antic of the old crones coupled with familiar smell of sweets and voice, he had to get back home and prepared food to take care of his mother. His plans crumbled out of his head as he approached his family’s hut, the heavy winter coat on his arm as the winter cold was replaced by the sudden summer evening heat. His lover was standing at the veranda of the crumpling hut, her skirt fluttering in the breeze and on her face he saw regret and grief of the worst kind.

He was quick to push past her, stumbled into the shadows of the second floor, and kick open the door leading to his mother’s bedroom. It was empty. Bed long gone cold, as it had seemed. His mother was gone and the terror was crawling on Moon Bin.

“Where is she?” he asked quietly, his cracking voice hard to control. The only answer he got was a hand on his shoulder before he crumpled to the floor and tears spilled over his cheeks. The only words in his head was the crooning of the oldest crone:

“Don’t go out into the forest, little boy, for the witch of winter will take away from you. Before you’ll get a chance to notice it, she will already have someone in her grasp, someone you know and love dearly, be it father, mother or lover. Out of their skin she will make herself a rug and gift it to you so you could sit on it like a good puppy you will be, unable to speak or argue, sitting on the remains of your loved ones as she sat on the throne of bones.”

There was no more search parties. The peasants of the Witch’s Hut had accepted their fate, begging for mercy daily from their gods who had long turned their backs at their forsaken valley of death. Summer no longer brought joy into Moon Bin’s eyes and the only place he had found peace had been in the winter forest, where he smelled the sweets and listened to the beautiful singing as he hunted for the sake of his lover and his unborn child.

His time spent in the forest had grew longer and longer. He dreaded returning into the village in fear of his lover being long gone, his child together with her, and him finally being all alone in the wide world. He didn’t want that and to avoid such confrontation, Moon Bin camped out in the forest.

The chanting of the seers had stopped bothering him long time ago- years ago when his mother had gone missing. His fate had left together with his mother, and though he loved his lover truly and faithfully with everything he had and possibly more, his heart had long been buried in the cold plains of the forest.

His worst fear came true, together with the rest of his family had went his mind. He set up the searching party himself and though nobody joined, Moon Bin proceeded with scouting the forest. He cared about nothing for he had lost everything anyway.

As he walked into the unwelcoming dark of the forest, the blizzard had seemed to turn against him, begging him to turn back and return into the hut, to huddle himself in warmth and a shredded heart of all he had once been. He ignored the warning of the wind and instead settled into his haunches, pushing himself farther- now stronger than ever as all hope was lost.

He wandered for hours and though he felt as if his nose had not been a part of his body anymore, his fingers so cold and numb from the frost he was sure he had lost them, he couldn’t go back either. There was no path leading back. The blizzard had buried his steps, leaving nothing behind.

His eyes swam with unshed tears of frustration, yet he held himself from crying, knowing that the contact of liquid against his skin will only make his remaining lifespan shorter, cutting him off from surviving entirely.

Moon Bin was foolish to believe he wanted death. As much a stupid peasant as he claimed everyone in the valley to be. Nobody wanted to die and he was no exception. The face of death had been a scary one, a feminine one. Huddled by black so thick it seemed to blend into the night, it made him sure he was seeing things, the cold getting into his head, but before he could close his eyes he saw the cold beauty smile with hunger.

The man’s eyes had yet to be opened when he smelled the familiar scent of sweets wafting through the air, drowning him in all that was good and peaceful before the dark times when he prowled the winter forest or when his father had gone missing. The heat of summer surrounded him as he jittered in the fluffy bed of fur.

His eyes had been flooded by light as soon as they cracked open and what greeted him was the back of his lover cooking him dinner, humming that same familiar tune he had heard when he hunted for rabbits and foxes. Moon Bin’s eyes squinted- his loved never hummed or sang, not after her father and then mother had both gone missing, not with her terrible voice.

His voice was small and raw as he spoke, “Where am I?” A meek attempt at conversation, voice trembling with pain of being used. Then the fear settled in- he had been searching for his lover in the forest, shuffling in the snow like a lost lamb divided from its pack trying to find his way back home before seeing the face of cold beauty with hungry smile in front of his face.

But as the woman turned to face him, his heart stopped, caramel eyes going wide as he took in his lover’s face, the pregnant belly nowhere in sight and only a soft, graceful, and regal smile on her small face. “You’re home, honey…” Her velvety voice purred, settling the dishes onto the table between himself and the kitchen, the stoves nearby bubbling over.

Though her face was so familiar, so missed, and the relief that flooded him was real as well, there was nothing of his lover, his wife, in that cold face of the woman in front of him. He shook his head and caught a glimpse of his surroundings in the process. He was not home. It was a wooden hut, simple and small, crammed with little toys carved out of wood, stuffed with dried garlic and flowers, herbs, skins of animals. It was not his home. “Where am I?” he asked again, his voice now a little stronger, fire burning in his eyes.

The woman only sent him a sheepish smile, pouring soup into the dishes she had laid out on the table between them. “You’re home, honey…” she had repeated, her eyes surprisingly calm at his silent accusation. Yet he knew deep down, it was not his home, not his wife, and not his village at all. He was far, far away, possibly already dead and seeing things. He didn’t know what else to believe as he stood from the bed and swayed towards the table.

The warm food looked inviting as he sat down, breathing in the smell of fresh mushroom and meat, seeing the cut potatoes floating in the soup. He stuffed himself full, asking for seconds and then thirds, casting a wary glance in the direction of the stranger bearing the face of his lover, his wife.

His hunting knives that he took with himself to the searching party were stripped from him when he had slept, he concluded after. His knife being gone from view entirely made him feel exposed and vulnerable.The small hut had no crows and no black cats, meaning the woman was no witch, he had hoped. He needed not any knife- he was safe. He tried to reassure himself, but failed to do so.

Days passed and the winter outside the hut had not seemed to relent in its blizzard. The snow was falling endlessly and the dark clouds were getting darker and darker, making Moon Bin believe that there was not only eternal winter in the forest, but also eternal night. It was that same winter that did not give him any opportunity to leave the strange, warm, and lovely smelling hut. He continued asking, day in and day out, where he was, and the answer was always the same “You’re home, honey…” in that velvety voice of his wife.

It wasn’t long before Moon Bin lost count of days, lost all grip on time. He ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner plentifully, getting back his strength that he had lost during the months of the blight in the Witch’s Hut, his real home. Sometimes, he wondered whether there were still villagers in the valley or not, picked away one by one by the witch in the forest. He shuddered to think that the witch who ate children and adults alike was the one whom he was living with, the one who bore the face of his wife.

More time passed and Moon Bin was allowed to all the little rooms of the hut in return of his own service, cleaning the steps and paths of the clearing towards the forest from the flooded snow. As he wandered around that clearing, he understood just how the woman managed to get all of that food into her small house- traps stood all around the trees, some with prey already caught, some only waiting to be stepped into. At the sight of such mundane thing, his nerves eased, yet he still questioned why he saw his wife every time he looked at the woman.

He dared not ask the woman for her name, for he knew she would answer with his wife’s. It seemed like the woman took him as a joke, nothing more and nothing less, and though it annoyed him to no end, to not get a proper answer and be mislead all the time, he dared question nothing although he was curious as to why the woman let him stay there at the first place.

He feared of being kicked out into the cold winter forest, left with no knives and no food- left to starve and became the food of the animals living in the deadly forest. So he lived, like a quiet bug listening to the woman’s singing and being fed by her delicacies. It was on such a day when he gave her his service, cleaning the steps that he heard the jingle of bells from somewhere within the forest and for once the humming and singing stopped, only the smell of sweets remained in the air and around him, reeling him back inside with hurried steps, shutting the hut’s door.

The woman barely motioned her hand towards the table, meaning for Moon Bin to settle down and keep quiet as he was trained to behave anytime the woman had visitors- which was an unusual sight. It was rare moments that a man dared approach the hut in the winter forest, but every time it had been a magnificent sight. Sleighs of red wood and oak, the material so sublime it was a miracle to even catch a sight of such a thing. They were pulled by deers, wolves, or dogs, some even by snowy white mare. The people riding were incredibly rich and full of show off, with rubies on their fingers, emeralds binding their clothes, trading wealth for information and favours. It was in time like this that Moon Bin realized that the woman allowing him to stay in her hut had indeed been a witch.

What was more queer was that the men never called her a witch, but all the different names of women he never knew, never heard of- all queens and princesses of kingdoms far beyond his valley. They called her delicate little house the `Witch’s Hut`- the same name as his valley was called, and a shiver raked down Moon Bin’s back every time he thought of the witch’s age- how old and wise must the woman be, to be sought after by kings, lords and princes.

As he sat in front of the table, munching on his breakfast, he spoke to the witch again, this time with no fear and only curiosity. “Where am I?” his voice had become stronger through the days, though talking had been awkward since there was so little conversation going on between the two of them.

She kept quiet, her back turned to him as she tended to the boiling kettles and smoked meats. As her shoulders twitched, Moon Bin braced himself for the usual answer, yet he got none of that as she spoke, no more velvet in her voice, “You’re in the Witch’s Hut, honey…”

His head fell to the side, hand unwillingly abandoning the bun in his grasp as he leaned onto his forearms. “And what is that?”

“My home, a hut of miracles and curses, a place to avoid and a place for mortals to not step a foot in.” Her voice was calm, no longer his wife’s lovely velvety voice, but an old crone's drawl, meant to terrify children and scare them into oblivion. A chill snaked down his spine as he realized the meaning of the witch’s words.

“But then---“

“One can ever only leave if granted access. You can go, if you want. Go and never return, but where will you go if your village is no more, your wife and still-born long buried in the snow and you’re all alone in the whole wide world?” Her voice turned stone cold and instead of fear, pain struck his heart.

The old crone was right, he had no one anymore. All alone left in his grief and blind wandering. He was a fool for stepping into the winter forest, and yet it was one of the two possible ways he had to die. Either die of hunger from the blight that had struck his village, or die after living a pointless life in the real Witch’s Hut. It was his world now, the witch and her hut, cleaning the steps and paths of the clearing, observing her work from afar and keeping quiet- like a dog, he realized with a shiver- like the dog he was promised to be by the oldest crone in his village, years and years ago.

Nightmares began to plague Moon Bin’s sleep, so vivid and real he had decided against sleeping altogether. He spent his nights perched on the window sill, staring into the dark of the winter and the raging blizzard that never seemed to get old. Watching the yellow eyed wolves as they prowled just outside the closed door of the Witch’s Hut. Always so close yet so far, so human yet so wild.

The energy that he had managed to get back from the good food had begun to plummet again. The breakfast’s sweets, lunch’s soups and meats, and dinner’s snacks were no longer welcomed as there was a knot of fear in his stomach. Fear of what, he could not place- maybe it was the hunger in his wife’s eyes, maybe it was the fear of abandoning all that was left and giving up to the seemingly empty threats of the old crones back in his village. He could not place himself on only one kind of fear, being surrounded by a lot.

Anxious, sleepless, and restless, Moon Bin had begun spending longer times out in the woods all over again, yet the scent of sweets never left his nose, the soft humming ringing in his head as he saw her cooking over the pots and kettles, ovens full to the brim with cooking meat. They never left him. She was the witch that the old seers had talked about. She was the reason for the blight. She was the one who marked his father, his mother, and then his wife and child. She was the demise and fall of their village, as much as she was the beginning of the summer valley.

He despised her, feared her, and worshipped her all along. Worshipped her for his fear of being eaten, of being fed to the wolves outside her hut.

He returned each evening to the same phrase out of her plump lips as a greeting, “Welcome home, honey.” He gritted his teeth in defiance- he was not home, he never would get back home, there was no home anymore- yet he nodded in solemnity and simply strode towards the bed, abandoning the dinner and pretending to sleep, listening to her soft voice carrying him to a land far away.

Yet days passed, his legs not carrying him farther away than a border of trees around the plains, where wolves howled what almost sounded like a pleadingly painful promise. But he prowled on, returning to the Witch’s Hut each day, shivering at the hungry glances of the witch and praying for his end to be a painless one. What was the point of running, he had asked himself, when there was nowhere left to run? So he had hoped to die at her hand, eaten as he had once been promised, and all that would be left of him would be his bones on which the witch would sit on. So be it. It was his final moments of strength and he was contented with them.

So it went, on the night of his nightmares, he stirred awake, yet his body could not move. Pinned by shackles of silver shimmering against the moonlight, Moon Bin cried and pleaded to all known gods to be spared, yet the witch only grinned, her hunger evident not only in her eyes but her face, her posture. It was the first time he resented his wife with everything he had, there was love no more and all he could think was to pierce one of his long lost hunting knives through the witch’s heart.

But she bit into his cheek, ripping flesh from bone as was once promised, and he felt no pain, only crumbles of bread falling along his skin and down to his neck. She bit into his fingers and he screamed in terror as she ate him as if he was made of sweets himself, the familiar scent wrapping around him like a candy, the bread of his fingers became crumbles on her plump lips and face. “What have you done to me?!” Moon Bin had screamed, thrashing around the chains, crying in terror and grief, not understanding a thing that was happening.

The witch only cackled, the face of his wife scrunching into a terrifying grimace. “One does not enter a witch’s hut without getting cursed, foolish boy. One does not eat from a witch’s table without becoming food himself.”

She had cursed him, made him food, and now she ate him. There will be nothing there left to remember, no bones, no clothes, not even a strand of hair as she would consume him whole.

And so she bit into him, one by one, tearing each finger off with a delightful hum of pleasure, and he cried silently, watching out the window as the wolves howled, greeting a little pup surrounded by furs of a coat studded with emeralds, so like the coat of the king who had visited the witch only weeks ago. Nobody stepped into the Witch’s Hut and got out of there without an access to do so- no kings, princes, and lords had ever stepped out under her command to leave. They were all fools for believing otherwise- all cursed to wander the forests.

With a terrified pang, Moon Bin realized that the howlings of those wolves outside the ring of trees and forests had indeed been pleadings, begging him to leave and save himself, and a promise- a promise that no good will come out if the boy stayed in that cursed hut of hers.

Yet he was a fool and stayed all on his own accord. Listening to his own selfish wishes, and staying by his wife’s side, getting fed by the animals of the forest, wolves of the forest- he screamed right where he was, but all that came out was a wheeze. Without a sense to realize what was happening and what was being fed to him, Moon Bin had thankfully ate the wolf meat that was presented to him, the cursed meat of humans turned into animals. Moon Bin was no longer surprised at being cursed- he deserved to be cursed.

And still the witch paid no mind to the crying and retching boy made out of sweets. She bit into him, leaving nothing but white bones behind, leaving his eyes behind- the soft caramel now looking molten from the heat of fire in the oven.

As much as she ate, the witch seemed to never lose appetite, and by the time there was nothing but bone and eyes left of Moon Bin, she relented. With her stomach full and a grin on her face of cold beauty, no longer his wife’s but somekind of vile character from a tale of monsters, she had fed his bones to the fires in the oven, making them burn bright and scalding. She put the seeing eyes into a jar of water and set it on a mantle above the ovens, letting him see but not speak- not argue against the wishes of a witch.

He was a manipulated fool, for stepping into the forest for the first time, then the second, and a third, for getting himself lost as he searched for his wife, and most importantly he was a fool for believing that the village where he was from had been long gone, because as his eyes had been left to see, he saw his best friend, the one he had lost to in the annual fest all those long years ago. He was being dragged into the hut by a wolf of grey fur, placed on the same fluffy bed where Moon Bin himself once lied, and lived through the same fate. It happened over and over again, everytime with a new familiar face.

Yet he could do nothing against the witch, only listen to her beautiful humming of a wretched song, her face taking on the face of the woman the men loved, each different and each beautiful, each a lie and a curse.

Moon Bin could only curse himself for his stupidity.

And yet to this day, rumours of a cursed man with skin as pale as snow, locks as soft as the finest silk, and eyes of the purest caramel had been the tales to scare children. It became bedtime stories for most and a joke between adults for others.

The tale of the all-seeing eyes being placed atop the mantle of the ovens was so powerful it became a whole new peasant superstition, albeit a working one - told to bring luck into one’s house.

Around some more clustered villages, on the borders of forests surrounded by eternal winters, people could only whisper of such superstitions as some swore they could still hear the cries of a man who lost everything he loved and was devoured by the witch of winter. The cries of pain and terror, of realization and shame. No one dared step foot into such forest in fear of being devoured by the gluttonous witch in her little Witch’s Hut.

And yet kids continued to go missing, adults after them. What was left of the lost were the scent of sweets flowing around the house and a lingering woman's voice singing a tale of the fallen ones, of a throne of bones atop which she sat.

[theyaoiparable]

*arises from my coffin and stretches * good morning