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.
“Dark in there,” Hansel says, and steps forward, holding the door open with his shoulder and peeking in. “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s here. Come on.”
I glance back at the horse. We have a way out this time. We have a horse and a wagon. We’re older now. We’re not trapped. She’s dead. I repeat the truth, she’s dead. She can’t hurt us anymore.
I take a deep breath and let Hansel lead me inside.
I jump when the door thumps shut behind us, whirling toward it. But it's only Hansel.
He pats the door with the palm of his hand. His blue eyes shine with sincerity as he waits for my heart to calm
"Just me," he says. “Now we won’t freeze while we’re looking around.” His lips lift slightly as if offering a smile but it falls short. His stubble is rough, his skin thicker and it’s only now that I realize just how handsome a man Hansel’s become.
I would rather keep the door open, even if it means we freeze, but Hansel’s right. We should do our best to stay warm. He turns the latch and tugs on it, testing its strength.
It doesn’t come apart in his hand, so I hope it can keep the door closed to any intruders. As if there’s anyone else so far deep in the wild woods.
The main room of the cottage is as it was—dim and dusty. It’s surprisingly neat in comparison to my memories. We didn’t make a mess, but we went through a nightmare, and I expected the cottage to match the despair I felt. But it’s quaint. It’s not exactly how I remember although small bits of it reflect my memory.
