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The shadows writhe and twist as she skips down the path, singing to herself. If she turns her head, there will be nothing there, and so she does not; she keeps her eyes fixed on the path ahead, on the dappled sunlight, not the shadows between. She does not listen to the voices that whisper from the dark.
She has come this way many times before.
But this time is different. This time, clouds begin to veil the sun, and the light's vibrance fades. The shadows creep in. Her steps quicken, the faster to leave the wood, but then in the growing murk something slips across the path, and she stumbles to a halt. Now, for the first time, she turns her head and looks in fear.
Shapes move through the shadows, indistinctly seen, and her hands grip her basket until the wicker-work cuts into her skin.
She moves on, but more slowly, ever looking over her shoulder. There are words in the whispers, now, words she tries not to hear, laughing at her, telling her she is slow, so slow, too slow, why don't you run, little girl? Won't help you to run, but oh, it would be fine.
She should run, but she cannot. Fear shackles her legs.
On an ordinary day she would have reached her destination well before nightfall, but the darkness is rising early, and for all that she is still on the path she feels she has lost her way. When the little bridge appears among the trees, she sobs with relief. Almost there. Almost there.
But first she must cross the bridge, and she fears what might lie beneath it, in the shadows between bridge and water. There are tales, after all, and while this bridge has long been a familiar friend, today nothing is familiar, and nothing is a friend.
Her feet will not move.
She must move. She must. Whatever may lie beneath the bridge, the wood holds worse; she is sure of it. And safety lies just beyond the bridge.
So she gathers up her courage, takes a deep breath, and with a scream she darts forward, flying over the little wooden bridge as fast as she can go. On the other side she does not stop running; she careens down the path, basket jolting against her hip, around the bend and into the open garden before her grandmother's house, that holds the last of the light.
Before it can die out and leave her in darkness, she pounds on the door, gasping "Grandma, grandma, let me in!"
The door opens, and she stumbles into the firelit interior of the house.
Her legs give out. She collapses onto the rag rug, panting for breath, her basket forgotten beside her. The fire crackles and dances; the shadows dance in reply.
"How wonderful to see you, my dear."
The voice is a whisper, a rasp; Grandma has been ill. The sound reminds the girl of her purpose here, reminds her of her basket; she picks it up with shaking hands, disentangles herself from the red cloak that has wrapped itself about her legs, and stands. "Grandma, I have brought you bread and fruit from my m . . . ."
Her words trail off as she sees her grandmother. The illness has taken its toll on her, and the firelight is not kind; her skin seems to sag on her face, like an ill-fitting dress, and her eyes are dark hollows.
"How very kind of you," Grandma whispers, "to bring me such treats."
The girl swallows; her throat feels very dry. "Grandma -- what dark eyes you have."
"I have been very ill, my dear."
The firelight dances, and the patterns tied into the rug twist and snake.
Grandma reaches for the basket, but the girl grips it tighter, staring. "Grandma -- what long nails you have."
"I have been waiting a long time, my dear."
Behind Grandma, in the shadows, the cold laughter echoes. Waiting. Watching.
Grandma smiles at the girl.
The basket drops from her nerveless fingers; the food spills out, lost, and one of Grandma's shoes crushes grapes to pulp as she steps forward, hands out, reaching.
"Grandma," the girl whispers, almost soundlessly. "What sharp teeth you have."
"I am very hungry, my dear."
The shadows rise up around them, living and cold, as the firelight dies. It is a long way to grandmother's house, through a wood that is not empty at all; the only ones who hear the screams drink them in like wine, sighing in pleasure.
When dawn comes, the shadows retreat, leaving behind an empty house and an old, wrinkled skin on the floor, discarded like an ill-fitting dress.