by Sylvia Hall

“Don’t even think about coming back until suppertime!” warned her mother. “I’m mopping the floors and don’t want anyone tracking them up with dirty feet!”

Fern flew off the porch and ran to the back pasture where Rusty, the family cow, was staring forlornly at the loaded apple tree. Fern took one look, clambered up the tree, and tossed an apple to the hungry cow waiting below. She stuffed a few more apples into her overall pockets and dropped onto Rusty’s back. Rusty gave a small “ooff” and looked over her shoulder at Fern while chewing slowly on the apple.

“There are more for you if you give me a ride, Rusty,” said Fern as she reached back and took hold of Rusty’s tail. Giving the tail a little twitch, she soon had Rusty moving toward the back of the property to the forest she loved to explore. Fern threw a second apple in the direction she wanted to go, and Rusty eagerly chased it down as Fern gripped her furry sides with her knees. The old cow’s back was boney and more than a little sweaty, but she was a gentle soul and accustomed to children riding on her back. Soon they both were out of sight of the house and heading closer to the woods. When they reached the back fence, Fern slid off and rolled under the barbed wire while Rusty looked on.

Fern picked herself up and wiped off a few shreds of grass while searching for the path she knew was nearby. Between two fir trees with branches that touched each other was a small game trail that had been worn through the grass and brambles that made up the forest. Soon she was deep in the woods, and the sun was almost hidden by the thick fir and pine trees.

After a good twenty-minute walk, the trail connected with an overgrown dirt driveway, and Fern took a turn to the right. She walked a further ten minutes and arrived at a little stone cottage that was next to a deep, dark pond shaded by tall trees.

She had discovered the abandoned cottage a week ago, intrigued by the utter silence and the still, black pond nearby. The mysterious feeling she felt when she had approached it had faded as it began to get dark. Mother would give her trouble if she didn’t show up for supper. Fern promised herself she would come back and explore further, after she had determined that the cottage was indeed abandoned. One look through the window had revealed a table still set for a meal, with dust and cobwebs draping the rooms.

Today she gingerly tested the doorknob and found the door unlocked. Slowly turning the knob, she pushed the door and walked in. There was a small living room with a stairway leading upstairs to what appeared to be the second floor. The wooden stairs were blackened as if by fire and gave off a faint smell of charred wood. Glancing up the stairs, she shivered and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She quickly bypassed the stairway and headed into the kitchen.

An old woodstove held a teapot and a dusty cast iron skillet with several dried insect husks inside. Dishes and silverware were all laid out in preparation for a meal for two, and it looked as though whoever had abandoned the place had planned on coming back. Dusty jars of fruits and vegetables lined shelves near the stove, and a short stack of dishes were neatly lined up above the sink.

Cobwebs festooned the room, with a thick layer of dust and dead insects covering the surface of everything in sight. Her eyes were drawn to an old wind-up Victrola that still held a thick record. She blew off the dust and wiped the record on her shirt to clean off the dust. Winding up the machine, she placed the dusted record on the turntable, placed the heavy needle on the record, and pushed the switch. Suddenly the room was filled with a loud, scratchy rendition of “Claire de Lune”. Fern jumped and looked around, uneasy, imagining that someone would hear and find her playing in their home. Turning off the Victrola, all she heard was silence.

When her heart rate slowed down and she heard no one, she decided to explore further and walked back to the stairway. The wooden steps were charred and blistered, yet still intact. She took one step, then a second, and the smell of charred wood grew stronger. As she took a third step, a massive wave of dread rolled over her. Her foot paused on the fourth step, and terror overtook her. She whirled around and ran out of the house as fast as she could. When she was a safe distance away, she looked over her shoulder at the now-distant cottage. She gasped when she saw what appeared to be a face at the upstairs window.

Fern ran as fast as she could all the way home, surprising the family cow as she raced by her in the pasture. Panting, she climbed over the pasture gate and stumbled into the farmyard. As she slowly gathered herself together, her mother came out of the house with a basket of clothes ready to hang on the clothesline.

“You’re just in time to give me a hand hanging these clothes,” said her mother. “Why, you look as though you have seen a ghost, Fern! What have you been up to?”

“I was exploring in the woods by the pasture and I…I heard something in the bushes. It scared me and I ran home as fast as I could,” said Fern shakily. “I don’t know what it was, but I didn’t wait around to find out!”

“Well, at least you had the good sense to come home. I swear, if you’re not holed up in the house reading all day and turning into a mushroom, you’re out getting dirty and nosing about where you shouldn’t! You stay closer to home, you hear? Bad things can happen to little girls in the woods!”

Fern crossed her fingers behind her back and replied, “Yes, Mother, I think I will from now on!”