“Tell me a bedtime story, mother,” the child says.
“What kind of story?” the mother asks.
“One of your scary ones. One about the creatures in the woods.”
“Are you sure? You might get bad dreams.”
“I don’t mind bad dreams.”
The mother sighs and runs her fingers through her child’s sand-colored hair.
“Close your eyes first,” the mother says.
The child closes their eyes. The mother sighs again.
“Long ago, in a mossy forest, there was a rabbit,” the mother says. “Do you remember what a female rabbit is called?”
“A doe,” the child says.
“That’s right,” the mother says. “A doe. This doe lived in fear, for there were many predators. The doe was always running, and was always nervous. She wanted a way out.
“One day, the doe was grazing in a clearing when she saw a figure in the trees out of the corner of her eye. The doe turned and saw a huge owl blinking at her. This was odd, the doe thought, because owls only come out at night. The owl blinked and twitched its head back and forth like it was looking to make sure they were alone in the clearing. The doe was paralyzed with fear for a moment. She had lost friends and even a couple of her babies to hungry owls in the dark of night. But there was something about this owl’s eyes that put the doe at ease.
“‘Why are you out during the day?’ the doe asked.
“The owl clicked its beak together and spoke.
“‘I have come to help you,’ the owl said. ‘You tremble with fright, day and night. Your neck hurts from looking over your shoulder so much. You have always had a good heart, and you deserve to live a peaceful life.
“‘Therefore, I’m offering you the ability to move invisibly through the forest. As long as you remain in these woods, you may pass through it without leaving a trace. You’ll be invisible, and you’ll be without scent. You won’t leave any tracks. You’ll graze placidly and sip from the crystal clear streams for as long as you’d like.’
“The doe thought about this. She imagined what it would be like to drift through the trees, unknowable as the breeze. Like a sound that nobody else can hear. She smiled. Just as she was about to give her answer to the owl, another sound arose on the other end of the clearing.
“Hooves. Scraping on the mossy forest floor like a bony corpse being dragged to a predator’s den. Then the doe heard a huff of air through wet nostrils.
“The doe turned and saw a bull at the edge of the clearing, pawing at the ground like it was about to charge. Tar-black ooze dripped from its snout and its sharp horns, which stretched five feet to each side of the bull’s head. The bull exhaled clouds of smoke from its nostrils. The smoke crawled across the meadow like morning fog.
“‘Why settle for merely drifting through the forest when you could have dominion over it?’ the bull asked. His gravelly voice sounded far away. Like it was coming from a deep hole. ‘The owl can make you invisible. I can make you invincible,’ the bull said.
“The doe turned to face the owl and saw its feathers were puffed out and its chest was on display. ‘Begone from here, foul beast,’ the owl said. ‘This is not yours.’ The bull huffed again, spewing black liquid and another puff of smoke. ‘She has not yet decided,’ the bull said. ‘She still has a choice. Survive…or thrive.’
“‘What is your offer?’ the doe asked the bull, suddenly interested. For she had long been at one end of the food chain in the forest and was curious what it felt like on the other end.
“The beast bared its teeth in a hideous smile. ‘My offer is to make you human,’ he said. ‘You can rule this forest, and all forests. You can rule this stream, and all streams. You can rule these animals, and all animals.’
“‘Don’t listen to his lies,’ the owl hooted. ‘Don’t be tempted. My offer will keep you safe. His offer always comes with a curse.’
“The doe tensed and looked at the bull. ‘What is your bargain, mysterious one?’ The beast’s tail flicked behind its body, and the doe thought she could hear a sizzling coming from the brush behind the beast. The bull’s dark eyes sparkled.
“‘Something small to a rabbit like you,’ the beast said. ‘All I ask is one child. Your first child, on their fourth birthday. I will come to collect it. One night your child will be there and the next they will be gone. There will be no pain, no suffering. In exchange for that, you will have all the benefits of being human. You will have no predators. You will live ten times as long as you live now. You will rule the earth along with the other humans.’
“The doe’s ears twitched as she considered this offer. ‘Don’t take it,’ the owl said. ‘Stay in the woods. You do not understand everything about being a human.’ The doe snapped its head up toward the owl. ‘Quiet! I’m trying to think!’ The rabbit continued thinking. She had birthed many offspring, and many of those children had died at the hands of the beasts of the forest. Including owls. What was just one child in exchange for all the power in the world? After all, the owl hadn’t offered protection for her children. They would still grow up in this dangerous forest.
“The doe looked first at the owl, then at the bull. The owl shook with fear on its perch. The bull huffed its guttural snarl again.
“‘I take your offer, beast,’ the rabbit said. ‘You may have just one child of mine in exchange for a full life as a human. I wish to walk the earth without looking over my shoulder. I wish to take deep breaths and sleep peacefully.’
“The owl screeched and the bull roared. Lightning cracked the sky even though it was a clear day. The ground shook. Trees desperately clung to the forest floor as wind swirled through the woods. The world crumbled around the rabbit, and she was terrified. And then, suddenly, it all stopped. The doe looked down at herself and saw she had become human.
“She laughed. She picked up a stone and threw it. She splashed into the nearby stream, knowing she could not be harmed. And then she began her life.”
The mother strokes her child’s forehead. The child has long been asleep but the mother needed to finish the story. Every story needs an ending.
The mother wipes a tear from her eye. She runs her fingers through her child’s hair again.
“Happy birthday, darling,” the mother says.
She walks to the hallway and casts one last look back at her child.
“I am so sorry,” she says.
Down the hall, a sound breaks the silence of the house.
Hooves. Scraping on the carpet like a bony corpse being dragged to a predator’s den.
A.K. McCarthy is a writer of dark fiction based in St. Louis, Missouri. In addition to his award-winning journalism, his short fiction has been published in numerous independent horror anthologies. He finds inspiration in hikes, giallo films, and frightened expressions from his three cats.
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