A Ruin of Roses (Deliciously Dark Fairytales 1)

Courage now, folks. Everyone remain calm.

I turned slowly toward home, carefully lowering my feet one at a time. I didn’t want my feet to slide on the crusty dirt. Breathing slowly helped, too. I needed air to fuel my brain and my muscles. I needed to think or run, or both simultaneously. Blind terror never helped anyone.

My pocketknife made a snick sound as I closed it and the blade lodged home. I paused, gritting my teeth. Silence reverberated around me…until a wail rang out, like an old woman grieving over the lost. Loud and low and full of bitter agony.

I jumped. My pocketknife tumbled from my fingers.

Fuck! I dropped the fucking knife. Hold on to your dicks, folks, this is about to get hairy.

Another cry, this time like an infant. It rattled my senses as the knife hit the ground in multiple thumps.

This new creature’s sounds came from the north. Directly north. Fifty yards, maybe, possibly a bit more.

Loud grunts followed. Hunka, hunka, hunka.

Same direction, similar distance. It was obviously the creature from a moment ago, some sort of mockingbird of terror. What the grunts were supposed to attract, I did not know or care.

I bent in a rush, trying to peer through the deep shadows to find my knife, and then ran my fingers against the ground, searching. Dried grasses brushed my palm.

Another owl blasted its warning— or maybe the same owl? I didn’t know. Were they tenacious fuckers who followed trespassers like grumpy old men? I needed to look that up. Regardless, its call was much closer this time. Thirty yards, maybe less. Southwest, in the direction of the large predator.

Fuck the pocketknife.

I straightened up swiftly, adjusted the sack of leaves, and put on a burst of speed around the birch. It shivered like it had on the way in. This time, though, the movement seemed more intense. The leaves clattered together like dancing skeletons. Branches creaked, waving in the absence of wind.

What in the double fuck was up with that tree? Had I cut down its cousin or something?

The mockingbird of terror abruptly stopped its grunting. It had heard me. It knew something was here.

That goddess-damned birch would join its cousin if I had any say. I’d dance naked around the flames.

Swallowing a swear, I hurried forward to put some distance between me and the freaking-out flora. A patch of brittle grass between two thick trunks awaited me ahead, and I slowed. My vision had narrowed to directly in front of me, and my heart pounded adrenaline through my body, signs of the flight reflex. I slowed further and sucked in a breath. I could not blindly run. I could not. I had to think this through. I had to be smart.

The falling knife hadn’t been that loud. The creatures in the area didn’t know I was here. They only knew that the birch was a diva dickface looking for attention. And even if they did know there was a trespasser in their midst, they wouldn’t be able to track me. My scent was hidden due to the hand-crafted herbal brew I’d drunk before leaving the house, and the ground was too hard for my feet to make distinct tracks in the darkness. Right now, I was still an unknown.

I eyed the grass ahead while listening. The birch finally settled down, leaving a gaping absence of sound in its wake. No movement caught my ear. No screeches.

My chest felt tight, strained with the pressure of staying calm. I focused on my breathing and started moving slowly forward again, easing the dagger from its sheath as I did so. The grass issued some light crackles before I met hard dirt again, only cut through with patches of dead grass. I barely stopped myself from heaving a loud sigh.

An owl screeched overhead.

I jerked and jumped at the same time. The blade of my dagger thudded uselessly off the tree trunk to my left. The owl called its warning again, and I wished I had my bow so I could shut that thing up right now. Get off my lawn, owl!

The old woman’s wail sounded again, slicing through me. Northeast, tracking me.

I moved faster now, careful with my footfalls. I had about a hundred yards to go to get out of this place. Maybe a bit more. Not very far in the scheme of things, but how fast could that creature run? I was fast, but it was almost certainly faster. And the village border only meant something to the beast. Crossing the boundary line wouldn’t be enough to escape this creature. I’d need to get inside my house and lock the door. That was plenty of distance for it to catch me.

Walking would be a lot slower and not much quieter. The alternative to walking was to stand my ground with a half-starved body from years of barely getting by and a medium-sized, somewhat dull dagger. Nice odds.