Prologue by Dani Carr

Follow the path. You don’t really have another choice.

Prologue 

Night falls, and you find yourself walking through the misty woods. You aren’t sure how you got there. You aren’t sure where you’re going. Yet, your feet guide you across deer trails and over fallen logs, pushing past draping moss and branches that catch at your clothes. You do not question this path through the mist. You question very little, in fact. Normally, you find these woods quite frightening. Tonight, they are as welcoming as your childhood kitchen. Tall trees with spiny branches that cut sharp shadows across your path feel like they are a guide you rather than a warning. The light of the full moon overhead is milk white and illuminates all you desire to see. The sound of croaking frogs and chattering ravens is as soothing as a lullaby, and the scent of decaying leaves is a balm. Your feet lead you to a small round house of stone and wood. You notice gray blue smoke curling from the chimney and a wooden door with no handle. You take the three rickety steps up to the door and it creaks open at your approach. You step inside, finding this hut’s one room filled with strange curiosities: bottles line shelves, a broom covered in dried flowers leans against a wall, a hearth holds a mantle filled with small bones and colorful feathers and misshapen rocks. An iron cauldron of simmering blue liquid sits beneath the hearth, flame licking its round bottom. A bed of pillows and quilts sits beneath one window, where a white and brown dog rests but does not sleep. You smell vanilla and cinnamon and something metallic that your mind slides right over when you try to place it. You hear gentle music, a folksy tinkling of piano keys, and spy an antique phonograph with its needle scratching a wobbly record. You see the woman sitting at the wooden table, a quill in her hand as she writes in a large, leather-bound book. She is neither young nor old and her dark chestnut hair is streaked with gray. She wears a high collared dress with long lace sleeves, and its color reminds you of bruised plums. You step deeper into the hut and the door clicks shut behind you, but the woman does not look up from her writing. You walk to the table, where an empty chair waits. You sit, and you wait, your hands in your lap, and it is only now that the woman looks up at you. Her deep blue eyes alight on your face and a smile twists her crimson lips. The smile is not surprised. Simply pleased that you have, as she expected, finally arrived. She sets her quill down and flips her large book to a specific page filled with writing. At the top of the page, the cursive is large and thick enough to read upside down. 

Chapter Twenty.

“Lovely,” the writing witch says. “Now we can begin again.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - check out more incredible creativity by Dani Carr at: Bluesky: itsdanicarr | Instagram: thisdanicarr