The woods aren’t allowed. That’s what my Mom said when I turned 4, it’s what Greta said when I turned 5. When I turned 6 no one brought it up, because Greta had broken the rules. Greta had gone in, and she never returned.

So when I turned 7, I went in. 7 was an odd age. Everyone treated me like the porcelain doll my pale, burnt skin implied I was. But Greta, with her olive, sun kissed skin, and brown hair, was the real broken China doll everyone was afraid to repeat.

One day, I packed some cornbread and ham in a cloth. Inside the large apron pockets of my child sized dress, I set forth for the woods. I must find Greta, she’s in there fine. That’s what I told myself.

The old man who saw me walk into the woods said the legends were real, that the monster of the Wild Woods can get me. If I couldn’t see it, I couldn’t believe it.

The crunch of leaves, the babbling brooks only lasted a mere hour into my trek before it was replaced by dead trees and still ponds. No longer did the birds sing, but they screamed. No longer did leaves crunch under my feet, but dead animals.

Once all the cornbread and most of the ham had been digested through my stomach, I sat down for a nap. No signs of Greta.

SCREEEEEECH

The birds awoke me before the sun, screaming like banshees. Soon, a hoard of black ravens were circling me, and then descending. Claws, beaks, the whole package were scraping at me.

Pushing and pulling my hair, picking me up, dropping me a few feet away from sharp rocks or ledges.

Suddenly, the old man from outside the forest appeared. Tears streamed down his face, confusion streaming down mine.

“They got you kid. I’m sorry. I tried to warn you all,” he shouted over the bird caws.

As I opened my mouth to reach out to the man, seemingly my saving grace as a young child, the ravens plucked me up.

Fighting for my feet to touch land, the ravens tossed me over the side of a rocky, grassy ledge. As I was falling, an invisible net caught me.

Floating down, old man guided me to the ground. Uncertainty choked my words, and the path to a grove led me to consider why I was here.

Greta. Greta! She was standing in the grove, years older than before.

“Oh Eliana, no! No! You didn’t come for me!” Greta begged, asking that it wasn’t true.

“I thought you would want to see me. I came for you!” I replied, as doubt clouded my unconditional love for my sister.

“The ravens took me, now you. They need to feast. Children aren’t good for them, Eliana,” my sister explained, as she pulled me into a tight embrace.

“We don’t know why. But all I know is that my family protects them. My family has the technology needed to control them. Except for when someone comes to them,” the old man said with a grimace. It was obvious his distaste for his life.

“I cannot let them take you. Two missing children will bring more people into the woods to investigate. More people will mean more lambs to slaughter,” he insisted, mechanics in his head already moving to plot my escape.

“Just kill the birds if you control them,” I said stubbornly.

“They don’t die. Have you seen a single dead raven?” he prodded.

Shaking my head, I knew what would happen. I knew Greta, in her strong-willedness, wouldn’t return. She wouldn’t be able to.

So that’s why I’m telling you this now. Because if the ravens, or the man, find out I remember what happened, that their concoctions didn’t make me forget, then I will become the next they feed on. It’s been long enough, my life is no longer valuable.

So protect yourself, protect this writing, and most of all, do not go into the woods.