“There he is! Grab him!”

Luhan’s head whipped to the left. His eyes registered long, blurred lines around gleams of serrated teeth and he bolted, one leg after another, propelling himself into the looming cover of the forest’s darkness. He reached the edge of the tree line and plunged in, all too aware of the wolves hot in his pursuit. He didn’t dare to glance back, afraid that he would stumble over the sight of long limbs and flying fur, looking to bowl him down. He was sure though, that he would be able to survive, at least for the next few minutes, for he had always been the fastest runner in the village.

His surroundings were dark and different; Luhan had chosen a path different from the way he’d come. The trees here looked more menacing, the boughs bowing out, reaching for him with bony fingers. He kept his gaze on the loam before him, intent on keeping himself upright, at least long enough for him to put a considerable distance between himself and the cottage.

The wolves were gaining on him; he knew it. It deeply unsettled him how they could move so soundlessly, how their bodies were built for the pursuit of fleeing prey while his had been shaped through years of immersing himself in his father’s craft. He wasn’t made for the forest and its secrets; he wasn’t made to blunder through its maze, arms stretched out, blindly feeling his way through its tricks and traps. He was made for shaping wood and hammering nails, hacking away on sticks and timber for month-long projects.

Just as the thought came to him, something launched itself at him. A set of strong paws slammed onto his back, forcing his shoulders to hunch and pushing him to the ground. With the addition of extra weight Luhan lost his momentum and stumbled, pitching forwards until his body met the damp, squishy earth. But the ground wasn’t even; there was a slope.

With the wolf on top, clinging to him, they rolled helter-skelter down the incline. Luhan’s head kept smashing to the ground and pebbles and rough specks of soil pelted his body. The feel of the wolf’s weight on him prevailed despite the pain, paws digging into his wound.

Luhan kept seeing the stars in the bare sky blink in between moments of darkness.

Minseok crouched, shoulders hunched, pulled in close to his body so that he was as small as possible. He dropped his head so that his mop of inky locks fell over his pale face, melding it with the shadows. He could feel the rough ridges of the roof’s tiles pressing onto his bare skin: his elbows, wrists, even his exposed stomach when the hem of his shirt had ridden up. His thoughts were churning and all he could do was curse Luhan for this plan, for risking his life in a cause that Minseok himself secretly wasn’t sure he would be able to achieve.

“That’s crazy!” Minseok had sputtered, the minute Luhan stopped to catch his breath.

“It’ll work,” the other boy insisted, his hair a pool of silver in the pale moonlight. “I’ll give you a boost. You’re a good climber; you’ll get up there easy. All you have to do is crouch and wait and after I’ve lured the wolves far enough, you can look for your rifle.”

“That’s exactly why it’s crazy. You’re asking me to do nothing while you let yourself get chased by bloodthirsty and potentially murderous beasts!” Minseok was sure that his control was slipping; he hadn’t yelled at someone for ages. “And what about your chest?” he continued. “Your injuries.”

“It’s just a graze,” Luhan said, letting his fingers brush over the cuts that slashed his skin in red lines. “The vest protected me from the worst. Look, there’s no time for discussions. Just trust me on this!” Luhan finally exclaimed, frustrated, before launching himself forwards and pushing Minseok so that his back hit the wall of the cottage.

“Get on,” Luhan said, crouching in front of him and offering him his shoulders.

Minseok opened his mouth to protest, but he heard howls ripping through the still night and instinct told him to climb. He wondered if Luhan would be able to hold his weight –the other boy had always looked more than a little slight and fragile –but was surprised yet again when Luhan was able to rise to his feet as though Minseok weighed nothing.

Minseok grabbed blindly for the vines and trellises that climbed the sides of the witch’s home, curling his fingers and tugging at them to see if they would hold. Much to his surprise, they did. Assured, he lifted his feet off Luhan’s shoulders, found purchase in the ridges of the clapboard wall, and climbed until he reached the roof.

Now, he lay on the gable roof, over the tiles that had once glowed red when brushed by the burning light of the witch’s fire, now no more. The slope was precarious and he had to hook his feet onto the tiles to keep from slipping. His thick-soled hunting boots did the job of keeping him alive rather finely, he mused at the back of his mind. Minseok had climbed all the way to the top when he heard the witch come, diving onto the other side just as she screamed for the wolves to give chase to Luhan.

He watched the wind whistle past her, rustling her skirts. The hem rose up like smoke, winding upwards as though it was begging for the wind to whisk it away. She looked wide boulder swathed in cloths of dark moss. Her scraggy hair flew over her cheeks as she gazed at the wolves trailing Luhan. Three wolves were hunkered at her sides.

“Chanyeol, Jongdae” she called.

Two wolves, the large mahogany and the one with the ink-tipped tail, stepped forward.

“Find the other one.”

They dipped their heads in what appeared to be a bow and left, bounding into the forest with light leaps and lashing tails. Only the black one remained now, body quivering with contained energy. The lustre of the moonlight over its fur reminded Minseok of a large lake below a full moon.

Minseok watched, brows furrowed, as the witch turned to it and said, “Where’s Kyungsoo?”

To Minseok’s surprise, the wolf responded. It flicked its head to the left, training its burning eyes onto the round glass of the porthole before dipping its head again.

“Injured you say?” she said, thoughtful. Her voice was calm, authoritative. “We’ll see to him later.”

The wolf whined in what appeared to be a questioning manner.

“Baekhyun will do fine. He’s injured, but not entirely maimed. What he can’t do, Zitao will be able to pick up the slack.” She bent down and the wolf between its charcoal ears. “Just be patient, my sweet. I promise that it’ll be worthwhile chasing after your dinners.”

Minseok wouldn’t lie. Despite the years he’d spent trying to coax away the fears, despite the time he’d spent hardening himself to the face the darkest of the forest’s secrets, he still felt chills down his spine.

The witch’s boots clumped over the soft grass as she made her leave. The buckles clicked and her skirts swished at her wake. Minseok detected purposefulness in her strides and the way she held her chin high. The wolf followed like a slinking shadow, padded paws floating over soft grass. Its lean, lithe body was a contrast to the witch’s wide, hulking frame.

They disappeared over the corner and Minseok shuffled to track their position. He tried to make himself as light as possible, afraid that the tiles below him would give way, unaccustomed to added weight besides pattering rain water and withering dead leaves. He craned his neck, but it appeared that the witch and her wolf had already ducked into the cover of an eave. Not long after, he heard the soft click of a closing door.

Minseok let his grip loosen, forcing gulp after gulp of fresh air into his lungs. It was a cool night; the tiles held no more warmth and shoots of ice were zapping up his fingers, stinging his palms. Strong winds had brushed away most of the dead leaves, though the stubborn ones –the ones with tips still wedged between the tiles –fluttered like wings around Minseok.

He wrung his hands together, leaned in further onto the bitter cold tiles and forced himself to think. Where would the witch keep his and Luhan’s rifles?

Would she deign to keep them? he wondered, and then answered yes. She was a killer, a murderer who feasted on her victim’s flesh. Minseok didn’t think she’d leave any carnage, for most of the bones could be broken apart and then fed to her pets, her beloved wolves that she held so dear. So if such an enterprise left little to almost no remains, wouldn’t she want to keep something as a reminder, as how a hunter would after a encountering a magnificent buck with branching antlers? A museum perhaps, dedicated to those she terminated.

The idea wedged itself in Minseok’s head and refused to budge, even when he tried to broaden his perspective by examining different angles. With a sigh, he relented to its persistency. He would look for the witch’s trophy room and her treasure trove of trinkets.

The first thing he did was edge himself lower down the roof. The bumps and ridges slowed his descent, but the heat of the friction still burned into his pants. Minseok gritted his teeth as he hooked his fingers onto the tiles, digging his nails into whatever cranny he could find. He managed to lock his boots onto the bottom tile before he could fall any further. Ignoring the uneasiness churning in his abdomen, he gripped the tiles harder, flipped over so that his back was to the cool night air and slowly began to shift, using his stomach as pivot for the rest of his body to turn.

The queasiness of such a low drop began to settle in as his head began to inch closer to the lower part of the slope, replacing his feet. Minseok’s hair was falling all over his face now, tickling his cheeks and brushing the soft bags beneath his eyes. He gripped the tiles until his knuckles turned white and shimmied closer to the edge of the roof, letting his torso slide over the side and his head to loll down into the pooling darkness.

Blood rushed to his head and he could barely breathe, but Minseok got what he wanted regardless: to view through one of the witch’s windows for a better inkling of her cottage’s floor plan.

It was a grimy window with a sill of disintegrating wood, but it was wide and allowed Minseok a spectacular view of the room within. It was dark, but Minseok could just make out the hulking form of something huge, crouching stoutly against the right wall with four poles that rose upwards and dropped soft veils onto the worn floors. Excitement and trepidation rose up in him when he realised that he’d gained access to the witch’s bedroom.

He pulled himself up again and tried to quell his erratic heart. The stunt left him breathless and dizzy. The roof buoyed him in rolls and sways that gave him the queasy impression that he was on a boat, bobbing up and down on scarlet waves of melted slate. Blood gushed from his head to his feet and he saw the world haze and blacken without having to squint his eyes.

It took a while for Minseok to regain enough of his bearings to dive down again. With as much dexterity he could muster, he tentatively reached a cold hand towards the window, using only the tips of his fingers to slide it open. It took more effort than Minseok thought, but in the end, he still had a small crack to show for it after he withdrew on account of his ringing ears.

From then on, he had to undergo the gruelling process of bringing himself upright and lowering the lower half of his body down the edge so that he hung only by his fingertips. Minseok tried not to flail when his fingers slipped, bringing him an inch closer to the ground. He could taste the blood that poured into his mouth from the small hole he punctured with his teeth. He wasted no time trying to wedge his boot into the small opening before twisting so that he got better leverage. With a grunt and a heave, he pushed the window open with all the strength of one leg.

Minseok was panting by the time he swung in, landing heavily upon the bare wooden floors as his arms burned from having to hold his weight. His fingers were sore from the escapade but otherwise functional, and Minseok took a bit of his already limited time to massage some feeling into it, all the while silently examining the witch’s sleeping quarters.

It had all the odds and ends of an old woman with strange fancies, with large tomes lined up on the dresser, jugs and urns bearing strange viscous liquids alongside colourful bottles labelled in illegible handwriting, and an odd collection of metal trinkets that clinked as the wind swept across the room. Minseok inspected everything mutely, brows furrowed, his other hand kneading his finger a bit harder than it should.

He never expected anything good from the witch, never once thought to associate her with anything that might implicate she had some sliver of humanity. His memories of her had been of hysterical laughter and yellowed teeth, of hungry eyes and a worm-like pink tongue slithering across pale withered lips, and somewhere at the back of that memory was the burst and bubbles of a boiling pot, along with crackles and roars of a fire coaxed to life. He shuddered and pushed himself off the cold floor. Nothing in the world could convince him otherwise.

Perhaps it was the survival instinct kicking in, but Minseok found himself making a beeline towards the door, as though his inner conscience couldn’t wait to escape from evil’s lair. The door opened smoothly, without a creak or a click, to an empty hallway suffused with the scent of baked goodies.

He poked his head out cautiously, before sliding one booted foot out of the door and into the hallway. He stood as still as a statue, gazing around. The witch’s cottage was small; the hallway was narrow and she only had two rooms upstairs. One was the room where she slept. The other stood directly across Minseok, concealed from view by a rough oak door with a gingerbread man painted on it.

Something gripped his chest as he tiptoed across the hall: anxiety for his cause, worry for Luhan and fear for himself. The barrage of emotions poked at his concentration, made Minseok’s efforts at a hunter’s tread more difficult. The image of Jongin at the back of his mind kept him at it though, and Minseok almost sighed in relief when he reached the door and pulled it open.

The room was dark and musty, very much like the witch’s prison chamber. The window on the other end of the room disgorged moonlight onto the carpet, tracing the swirls and angles of the pattern inked onto its surface. All around the room were shelves, hooks, cabinets –anything and everything that can hold and display her collection.

His chest tightened and his chest constricted. It was all Minseok could do to try and breathe properly. All these trinkets, all these trophies, all her prey…

His stomach was turning; Minseok fought the urge to retch. He leaned against the door, breathing heavily. The air here smelt strangely bleak, like lost memories too far gone to be recovered. It was bitter, Minseok realised, bitter with human scent, with impressed tears and bone chilling fear.

He gritted his teeth and shook himself off the tremors, pushing away all the dreadful childhood memories that threatened his sanity. He strode across the room purposefully, head held high, refusing to look at anything for more than a few seconds as he searched for his rifle. His boots were making more noise than he would have liked, but it was beyond him now that he was reining in every last bit of his self-restraint to control his emotions. The minute he spotted his rifle, mounted onto the wall by two hooks alongside Luhan’s, he dove for it and snatched away.

He swung around –barrel set on his shoulder, finger on the trigger –and aimed it at random on the witch’s collection. He didn’t know what he was doing, just that he had to destroy it.

But something caught his eye, something small resting on a long shelf. It was something of a cord –two cords –fashioned and twined together like a bracelet, just large enough to fit a child’s wrist.

Minseok’s rifle shook so much that he had to set it down onto the floor, ground it onto something stable.

Once again, he took deep breaths, and then padded over the carpet to reach for the little bracelet, to see if what he thought was right.

There was no mistaking it. The bracelet was Jongin’s.

Minseok jammed his fist into his mouth to keep from uttering a sound. His teeth dug crescents into his skin, but despite the abuse his right hand suffered, his other hand remained gentle and careful as he toyed with the bracelet. He turned it with his hand (it was too small to slide any further than halfway through his fingers), falling in a trance with the memories that slowly filtered in.

Jongin had loved this bracelet, worn it every single day ever since their father had fashioned it for him out of the cords of one of his animal traps. Minseok remembered undoing the clasps and taking it off for him when he had to take a bath and when the games they played got too rough. But at the end of the day, Jongin will always beg for someone to fasten it back onto his wrist again. He had worn it that night when they got lost in the forest, and Minseok had lived the next few years thinking that he would never see it again.

The cords were thick and smooth, strong and lasting, just as Minseok had remembered seeing them. The clasp was cold against his skin, as if it had been dipped into the chilliest of winter puddles. Minseok remembered how easily the cords had fallen over Jongin’s tanned wrist, a bit limp and always threatening to slip out of his hand (their father had always said that he would grow into it). It was a simple thing, but Minseok always thought it mirrored Jongin’s benign innocence.

He didn’t realise that he had been clenching his fist until he felt the sharp protrusion of the clasp bite into his palm. He would kill the witch for Jongin. Nothing in the world could have tipped the scale, fuelled his vengeance more.

And then suddenly, the door swung open, revealing a set of bared fangs on a black shadow of a beast.

The witch’s cackle could have shaken the forest in its glee, its coursing note of triumph.