Knock knock

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The group couldn’t help but notice, as they came here regularly, telling ghost stories about that very dilapidated shack, and what may lie amongst the cobwebs, behind that rotting wooden door.

They approached, sweeping through the dry, cragged ground, unsteady on their feet for once in a place they usually knew like their own homes. Daring each other to knock, to open the door, to see what awful creature was managing to exist inside.

After much deliberation they crept up toward the cabin together, adrenaline ringing in their ears, alert in every sense, nobody would believe this, they weren’t sure if they quite believed it themselves, and yet here they were, that dim light glowing, but not comforting, more so eery, ethereal.

Two hard knocks on the door, echoing endlessly through the woods, calling all the monsters to their location, it creaked open with the second knock, and they stood there for what felt an eternity, before a husk voice rang out to them, making them jump but not quite enough for them to bolt…. “Well, are you coming in, or standing there with my door open all night?”

They hesitantly took up the offer, and upon entering, became able to make out a broad figure, limping through the flickering light of the solitary candle toward them, steps oddly knocking against the bare boarded floor, “what brings you here tonight young ones? Are you the group who frequent these woods?” He asked bluntly.

“Yes… I think you mean us” they stuttered out between them, still unsure if they were really living this moment.

“Well now, I’m surprised you bunch aren’t a bit braver, hearing the stories you tell, all those stories about ghosts and werewolves, demons and ghoulies”

“We’re not scared” said one

“Well perhaps you should be, there are no ghosts in these woods, nor werewolves that I’ve seen, but there’s certainly monsters out here, I’m surprised you haven’t encountered any, all these visits, you must’ve treaded very carefully” he spoke ominously, every word raising the tension in the room.

“So, do you want to know, young ones, why this left foot is such a different shape to the other? Why I limp?”

Of course, in unison, they all said yes, nervous energy filling them like electricity, hairs raised as they gathered round this strange old man with the unusual hobbling gait, awaiting a brand new tale, one unheard by any of the group, that would leave them wanting to run through the woods to their homes, and yet, not wanting to risk taking a single step.

He began.

See there’s certain patches in the dirt out here you need to look out for, a slight difference in colour that you need to keep those peepers peeled for, and a slight cracking indentation, perhaps leading to the depths of hell itself, that you never want to step on. Or you could end up like me too, and perhaps much worse, it’s where they reside, waiting for unfortunate souls.

See once you hear the crunch… It’s already far too late, they’re in, you have maybe a flash of seconds to remove your shoes, possibly even your socks if you want any hope of escape, because the next thing you’ll feel is a biting pain, gnawing away at the very ends of your toes. Working it’s way up, feet are incredibly sensitive body parts, you’ll already be screaming, and if you have the misfortune to actually see the swarming evil at work, you’ll be screaming all the louder, they look like tiny, pallid scorpion like insects, but as though created in Hades itself, with long spindly legs, and hooked little claws in the ends to latch on, tough and resilient, wriggling deep into your flesh before you have time to stop it, planting eggs inside the tunnels they’ve dug, and they spawn so damn quick it becomes a writhing, demonic ocean in seconds, their pale itching skin, and beady eyes all over you.

All you’ll have left is the devils choice, the deal I made to survive, because in that lack of sincere time, you have to confront your own heart with a truth, a fact you’ve never had to consider before, and many don’t make it, and end up losing it all, consumed by the creeping, jittering, ocean like tide, the wet clicking, and vigorous chewing sounds still echo through my dreams, and all my waking minutes, that awful clicking, ticking away in my mind, and see the only way to stop it, is to remove the infection, the plague, by any, means, necessary.

It’s crazy how good these wooden prosthetics are these days, But I can still see the difference in shape. That’s for sure.

See this foot of mine, was eaten alive by those vulgar, hair flecked, pulsing creatures, whilst it was still attached to me, as yours are now, the only remedy left in those dread filled moments was to hack it off, and as I swung the machete into my prone ankle, my voice box shredding into pieces from the forceful, desperate screams I couldn’t hold back alongside the bitter, terrified tears, I felt the skin paring, the flesh being cleaved apart, blood spurting everywhere, a glistening coating of fire covering everything around, soaking the dry dirt, and the grotesque feeling of bone chipping, then cracking, then finally snapping, allowing the blade to penetrate through to the ligament that momentarily held the blade hostage on the other side, I felt the shock realisation that although the pain was near immeasurable, the idea of being eaten through my legs, up to my now wet groin and then through my torso, vital organs and finally head, was a fear that had never actualised before now, and my desperate body was working on autopilot to prevent a feeling that I’ve since learnt is apparently among the most agonising imaginable, and that few survive for very long after a point, although I’ve since discovered in old books, some have been recorded to survive all the way until half their organs have been consumed, eyes bulging and bloodshot by this point, no longer screaming but merely panting with exhaustion, waiting for the escape of death, to bless them with silence and an end to the agony.

As I removed the foot, crawling haggard and awkwardly away, praying they wouldn’t follow, I knew I’d never forget that sensation, never lose that sound ringing in my ears, that words don’t quite encapsulate, and the fear rising through me that any moment id feel that agonising scratching continue once more, resuming my torment.

I’ll never forget the crunch as that slightly miscoloured patch of ground gave way to a deadly trap, I’ll never forget the horror and realisation of what I had to do, and I’ll never forget the empty, beady black eyes looking around on their stalks, as their teeth dug in, and I’ll never forget the moment The eggs started to hatch, and the army doubled in size, halving the time I had to complete my gruesome task. I’ll never forget the regret I felt ever stepping into these dark, haunted woods, and hoping through my bitterness that nobody else would ever have to feel it. I serve as a warden to this place now, trying to warn off anyone from entering here, yet here you are.

I hope one day I can forget it, though I doubt it, and I hope it never, ever happens to you… knock on wood young ones… knock knock.