![]() ![]() ![]() He is bent and grizzled, this Monster of the Woods, but I can see that his eyes are bright, cunning and shrewd, reflecting the evil of his race. The old Jew peers up at me, squinting against the rain that swirls around me. There is the creak of a chair, the sound of something-a pot, maybe?-crashing to the ground, and then footsteps slowly approaching the door. I have to knock a few times, hard and loud, before I hear movement in the hut. I take a breath-a shaking, shuddering breath-and raise my hand to knock. Then, almost without realizing it, I find myself by the door. I can taste my dread, sick and acrid against my tongue, and my hands tremble with fright. As I near, I start to hear the thump-thump-thumping of my heart, its steady beat carrying over the shriek of the winds. Soaked to the bone with rain and exhaustion, I walk to the hut, my legs propelling me forward. A tiny hut stands in the middle of it, barely visible in the gloom. I need his help.Īfter what seems like an eternity, I reach a small clearing. It’s madness to willingly go to him, but I have no choice. I’ve grown up on tales of the Monster of the Woods, of his evilness, of the horrors that befall those who anger him. I trudge slowly through the dark forestĪs I near my destination, I become less and less aware of the rain and wind, their importance paling beside the fear bubbling inside me. I stumble on, squinting through the dark to see the dim path ahead of me, wishing I was home, wishing I was anywhere but here. The heavy rain and howling winds slam into me, threatening to toss me from the dirt path and worming the cold insidiously into my bones. I trudge slowly through the dark forest, huddled deep in my coat in vain pursuit of its meager protection. Somewhere in Russia, mid-19th century . . .
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