Page 4 of Just Right
Grabbing the hem, I shimmy it down so that I’m covered. Once again, I remember the strange warning about the monsters. About how Gunnar specifically said that they’ll do whatever they want if they find you… and that, if you’re right for the forest, you’ll let them.
I thought he meant that, if some large predator scented me in the trees, I shouldn’t fight back. Maybe play dead or act defenseless and they won’t attack. But add that to the skimpydress I have on, plus the cup load of pills they made me swallow this morning, and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s what he could’ve meant.
After all, the village seemed to be looking for women petitioners. Blondes specifically, almost as though the beasts of Blackmoor might have a preference. A preference for what, I wonder. Did blondes taste juicier? Or when Sandy said that the monsters in the woods might want to eat me, she didn’t quite mean asdinner?
Good going, Goldie. That’s something I should’ve thought about before. Because if I basically signed up to be trafficked to the mythical monsters that call the dark forest home… yeah. That might explain why the village goes to great lengths to vet anyone allowed into their woods. Because the prize is priceless—and because it has to take a desperate sort of woman who might be willing to fuck a monster in order to get that prize.
And, okay, maybe I’m a little delirious from thirst and hours of disoriented walking before being chased by a swarm of bees if I’m even thinking about having sex with some kind of beast. I’m at the point that breaking my recent year-long celibacy streak with Bigfoot might be a small price to pay to find Charlotte.
That’s besties for you. I’ll sleep with a monster for you, Red, because I know she’d do the same for me.
Right now, though?
I just want tosleep.
The temperature has started to dip. My nipples are pebbling against the thin material of my dress; my bra doesn’t do much to hide how visibly chilly I am. Goosebumps cover my bare arms. My feet ache, and the couple of beestings I suffered are throbbing as I begin to admit that I might be spending my first night outside, sleeping fitfully beneath a tree.
Just a little longer, I tell myself. My gut says that, this deep into the woods, there must be some sort of shelter I can makedo with. If not a pre-made structure, then a lean-to, or a tent, or maybe even a cave. As long as it’s monster-free, I could totally do a cave at this moment…
I’m not sure what catches my attention first. The vague scent of something sweet in the air, or a hint of soft grey smoke peeking out through the gaps in the leaves. It’s off to my right, and before I think better of it, I veer in that direction. Fire, I think. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and I’m wishing I had a coat right about now. Anything to warm up.
As I draw closer, the sickly sweet aroma is overpowered by something stronger. Somethingmusky. Like it belongs to a wild animal, but when I tiptoe in my stockinged feet, expecting to find one of those caves I thought about, maybe a ring of fire, I’m stunned by what Idofind.
It’s a cabin. A two-story wooden cabin with a narrow chimney that’s emitting a whisper of smoke, as though the fire inside is dying. The windows are awash with orange light, bright against the dusky darkness of the woods. It’s definitely lived-in, and thankfully human-sized, though that doesn’t really mean anything in Blackmoor.
They said there were longtime residents apart from the monsters that call the woods home. Is this one of them?
And, more importantly, do they have a room they can spare?
With two floors, I’m hoping the answer is yes, though I have to swallow an annoyed curse when I knock at the door—repeatedly—and there’s no answer. Someone might live here, but if they do, they’re not home; that, or they’re ignoring the stranger at their door. Which, fair, I would do the same thing, but I live in an apartment complex in Central New Jersey, not a cabin hidden in a mythical forest.
That thought gives me pause. Do I really want to find out who lives in there after all?
Just as I’m about to back up and resume the search for another shelter, a loud, baying howl tears through the night sky. It has the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, every instinct inside of me screaming at me to get the hell out of here.
There’s only one place to go.
Figuring it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, I grab the doorknob. A quick twist reveals that the door is unlocked. I shove it in, rushing inside, then slam the door closed behind me, separating me from whatever howls like that.
No one is home.
At least, no one answers me when I call out a cautious greeting. The room I entered is clearly empty, too. Well, of people, at least. On the wall, I see a pair of sharp-seeming axes, with an empty pair of hooks beneath it that suggest that someone—or someones—are currently using them. There’s a massive wood-hewn couch with large, fluffy cushions and piles of furs on one side, a cozy-looking armchair opposite of it, and a large yet spartan stool with a carved, wooden back that’s probably hard as a rock standing somewhere in the middle, facing a massive fireplace.
There are dying embers in there, the source of the gentle smoke I saw. That tells me that the fire was roaring at some point, but before the people who lived here left, they put it out.
It smells like burnt wood and lingering heat in this large front living area, but after a few careful sniffs, I notice I catch the scent of something else. It’s semi sweet, though not as sweet as the aroma I noticed earlier as I approached the cabin, butmy rumbling belly tells me something even more important: it’sfood.
Those two apples, plus my simple breakfast back in the village, are a distant memory. I’m hungry, and before I give my feet the command to move, I’m heading into a small room that has to be a kitchen. A handful of small lamps illuminate the space, focusing on the three bowls placed on the table.
They haven’t been touched. Three spoons are tossed on top of the table, the chairs angled in a way that suggests that their occupants had sat down to eat, then hurriedly jumped up before they had the chance.
Well… ifthey’re not going to eat them…
I grab a spoon, dipping it into the first bowl at the head of the rectangular wooden table. It’s gloppy, like oatmeal, but I’m hungry enough not to care. Scooping up the mushy meal, I take a bite.
For the first two seconds, it’s pleasant. Room temperature because it’s obviously been sitting out here for a while, but while the texture isn’t the greatest, it’s not that bad.
But that’s for the first two seconds.
