The Strawberry Thief

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The candle appeared like no more than a firefly from the distance, but Mirabelle happened to know exactly where the cabin was from her bedroom window. She usually looked out into the tree line at night and wondered what creatures might be lurking in the shadows, beyond the safety of her family’s farm. But that night the glimmer of light caught her eye.

“Charlotte, look, there’s someone in the cabin in the woods.”

Charlotte was reading her favorite nighttime book about a family of dwarves that lived in the woods.

“Maybe it’s a dwarf.” she said, brandishing a mischievous grin. Charlotte was 10-years-old, she knew her little sister, and how mysterious woodland creatures frightened her.

“Stop it. It’s probably just some older kids with a lantern.”

“Or maybe it’s a goblin.”

“Shut up, or I’ll tell mom in the morning.”

It was already late. It was not unusual for the girls to stay up past their bedtime. They usually stayed up to read, or to whisper stories into each other’s ears. They had to do this quietly, because the farm was all alone near the edge of the woods. The only sounds at night were of the night owls calling, or of the lonely wolves howling near the foothills. The nearest neighbor was acres away, and the town was farther still.

The old farmhouse creaked at night, and the slightest step could be heard downstairs, and across the hall to their parents’ bedroom.

Mirabelle tiptoed into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Images of gruesome dwarves and slimy goblins circled in her head. But she was so tired she fell asleep anyway.

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The next day Mirabelle had forgotten all about the light in the cabin.

It was summertime and their parents had created a garden sanctuary behind the farmhouse, with vegetables, fruits, herbs, and flowers of all kinds. Together, the girls explored the garden, they made up games with specific rules, and they enjoyed spending lazy afternoons laying on the grass, watching the bees buzz from one flower to another, filling their furry little bodies with nectar, before returning to their hives.

Their parents worked all day in the nearby fields, and so the girls spent many days alone. But they loved it. They were allowed to roam free, and soon summer would end, and they would have to return to school.

Charlotte was on her back looking up at the sky. Mirabelle was on her belly next to her, pulling on blades of grass.

“Did you hear the creature last night?” asked Charlotte in a teasing tone.

“What creature?” asked Mirabelle.

“You know, the one from the cabin.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. I saw it. I got up to look out the window last night. It likes strawberries.”

“I don’t believe you.”

They laid quietly for a moment. The wind whistled through the fields and swept up debris in the garden.

“It is real,” said Charlotte. “The moon will be full tonight, if we watch for it, we’ll see it.”

Mirabelle sucked on her tongue making a popping sound. “You’re just teasing,” she said.

“Am not. I’ll bet you three weeks allowance it’s real. We’ll look at the strawberry patch tonight, you’ll see.”

Charlotte and Mirabelle got up and chased each other in the garden. As the eldest, it was easy for Charlotte to win racing games. She was far faster. Mirabelle, being little, had to learn to be creative, and so she often used tricks to win.

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The farmhouse was not large, but it had a kitchen with a closet pantry where they kept pickled vegetables and dried mushrooms.

The girls’ parents would come home for lunch every afternoon. Their father’s routine was to sit in his study while their mother made lunch. Charlotte helped her father by reading the mail for him and writing correspondence. Their father had never gone to school, but Charlotte had lovely penmanship.

Mirabelle went to find her mother in the kitchen. She had concocted a plan to win the bet with Charlotte.

It was late summer, and there were few strawberries left in the garden, if the creature came for the strawberries, removing them may mean the creature would not come.

“Mom, can we make strawberry jam for the winter?” asked Mirabelle, innocently.

Mirabelle’s mother was making sandwiches. Distractedly she said, “sure honey, if there are any left.”

While Charlotte was helping her father, Mirabelle ran to the garden to collect all of the remaining strawberries, and one lemon. She took the strawberries to her mother. Her mother washed them and placed them on a pan, smashed them, and added ample sugar. Mirabelle squeezed lemon over the bubbling red liquid. After leaving it to rest, the strawberry jam congealed, and it was done.

Mirabelle helped her mother scoop the jam into a glass jar. They sealed it with a tin lid and let it rest on the counter.

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That night the moon shone bright giving shape to the pine trees that lined the woods.

The girls were put to bed by their mother. She kissed them on their foreheads and said good night. Before stepping out into the hallway, she said, “don’t stay up too late girls.” But as soon as their mother closed the door, the girls got up and turned on the lantern. The girls took station near the window, propping themselves up with pillows to get comfortable.

The moon poured enough light into the garden to see the patches of vegetables, flowers, and the square strawberry patch. It was too far for Charlotte to notice the strawberries were gone. She never did like strawberries, nor did she like strawberry jam.

Half an hour passed, and the girls were getting tired. Mirabelle was dozing off, and Charlotte was growing restless. She was slowly coming to the realization that she was going to lose her bet.

“I read somewhere that goblins are magical creatures that can turn into insects, birds, and even bears,” whispered Charlotte. Mirabelle said nothing, but her eyes widened, her imagination started to run wild at the thought of shapeshifting goblins.

“However, it is black magic. So, they can only turn into the animals that they have already eaten,” said Charlotte ominously.

Mirabelle gasped and her mouth stayed open.

“You’re just teasing me because you know you’re going to lose,” said Mirabelle.

Just then they heard a noise coming from the kitchen. It was like the sound of a coin bouncing on the counter and circling around on its end and accelerating before coming to a stop.

The noise startled them. They looked at each other, eyes bulging. They listened intently, but it was eerily quiet. Their parents had labored all day in the sun, so there was no movement in their bedroom.

“It’s the goblin!” said Charlotte. She realized her mistake and covered her mouth with both hands. They listened again for a moment, but again heard nothing. “Let’s go see it,” whispered Charlotte. “I told you it was real.”

Charlotte opened the door before Mirabelle could protest. She tiptoed to the stairs as Mirabelle grabbed the lantern and followed.

Charlotte tried her best to keep quiet. But the stairs squeaked with every step. She stopped periodically to look up in the direction of their parent’s bedroom. Mirabelle was right behind her, placing her right hand on her back; she had a furrowed brow, and was audibly panting.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, but it was hard to see beyond the yellow light of the lantern.

Charlotte darted into the kitchen without waiting for Mirabelle. She stopped at the counter.

The window near the breakfast nook was open. The curtains were swaying gently.

Mirabelle raised the lantern to the counter.

“You cheated,” said Charlotte.

She was looking at the jar of strawberry jam on the counter. The tin lid was on the counter facing up.

The jam had settled, so it was perfectly level, except for a gaping hole where someone (or something) had scooped up a large dollop of jam.

Charlotte lifted her hand and using the tip of her finger she touched a smudge on the counter. She did it again on another smudge centimeters away, and then again near the end of the counter. A trail of jam led to the open window.

“Okay, forget it. You win Charlotte. Let’s just go upstairs,” pleaded Mirabelle. But her sister had already reached for the door to open it.

Charlotte ran straight for the cabin. She ran too fast for Mirabelle to keep up.

Mirabelle stopped and gasped for air. When she looked up again, she saw Charlotte’s small frame stepping into the shadows beneath the trees. Beyond the shadows, was a small flickering light.

Mirabelle was afraid of the woods. But she thought of her sister, so she willed her body to follow.

The cabin was a mass of dilapidated logs held together by worn out pegs and rusty brackets. It was riddled with white splotches made of spiderwebs, cluttered with the husks of dead insects. The cabin had a single window, and a door made up of discarded furniture pieces sloppily nailed together to form a rectangle. The window was closed but shattered. On the windowsill was a white candle on a brass candleholder. It burned defiantly despite the gusts of wind that efforted to blow it out like a birthday candle.

When Mirabelle finally reached the cabin, the makeshift door was open. Mirabelle had no choice but to face her fears. She closed her eyes and went in.

The cabin lit up with Mirabelle’s lantern when she stepped inside. Despite expecting the worst, when she opened her eyes only Charlotte was inside. Charlotte had her back turned to her; she was facing a dark soot-covered fireplace. On the mantel were dusty old pictures and a hodgepodge of forgotten trinkets.

Charlotte was looking up above the mantel at a black bear trophy. The bear appeared to be sticking its head through the wall, its eyes wide-open, and dilated; but being long dead, its eyes were dull and lifeless.

Suddenly there was a flash of light in the fireplace. Like how the sun sometimes flashes the moment it disappears beyond the horizon.

Charlotte whispered, “run.”

Mirabelle didn’t quite hear her. “What?” she asked.

“Run!”

Mirabelle dropped the lantern and ran out the door. She ran so fast she couldn’t breathe. She had the feeling that someone (or something) was catching up to her. But she didn’t turn back to look. She saw the moonlight shimmering in the fields just beyond the silhouette of trees.

She held her breath as she crossed the boundary between the woods, the dreariest, scariest, place in the world, and the open field.

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Mirabelle woke up with a startle. She was disoriented. The memories of what happened the night before came back to her, slow at first, then rushing back. She immediately turned to look at her sister’s bed. To her horror it was empty.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no. Charlotte,” she said.

She ran out of her bedroom and yelled, “mom!” She rushed to her parents’ room. But they were also gone.

She ran down the steps and into the kitchen. “Mom!” she yelled. Her mother finally responded. “What. What dear. What’s the matter?”

Mirabelle was hyperventilating when she saw Charlotte sitting at the kitchen table, with a spoon in her hand. Mirabelle had never been so relieved.

“Nothing. I just had a bad dream,” said Mirabelle.

“Would you like some toast?” asked her mother.

She turned to her mother and said, “No thank you.” She was still too anxious to eat anything.

Mirabelle sat down at the kitchen table to catch her breath. Charlotte was unusually quiet. She was a morning person, and she loved to fill her sister’s ear with honeyed words about the exciting plans she had for the day.

Mirabelle looked up at her big sister. To her surprise, Charlotte was eating straight out of the jar. The strawberry jam was almost gone. And Charlotte was usually very particular about brushing her hair one hundred times every morning before coming down for breakfast. But that morning her hair appeared dirty and tangled.

Charlotte used her spoon to finish the last speck of jam. She looked up at her sister and brandished a wide and mischievous smile.

Her teeth were lathered with congealed crimson juices and littered with dozens of little yellow seeds.