The slow creak of the door closing made it all real. I needed to run away, go somewhere no one could find me: just me and the wind strolling down the sidewalk in pure silence. If only I could force my breath back to a normal pace. The screaming and crashing that emanated from the place I once called home still echoed through my mind.
I had two parents: two loving ones – yet it never felt like it. They always acted like they were on opposite sides of the war, fighting and fighting, until I finally had to break it up. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother was never home. Our family was barely surviving.
Running away was never my intention, but it’s necessary. At least for a little while. I was a few blocks away from home when a faint drift of pumpkin pie tickled my nose. I knew it had to be my imagination, for my mother would always bake pie on November 1st. I ignored the scent, but it kept following me, getting near, until I came face to face with a small stone cottage at the edge of the town.
It was welcoming and warm, yet eerie at the same time. I ascended up the sleek stone steps when I reminded myself that this wasn’t my home. What was I thinking? I couldn’t fight the urge to knock on that door. It was getting late, and I didn’t want to disturb whomever was settled in the little home. I decided I’d try tomorrow. I found a small hiding place in the bushes and decided that’d be my bed for the night. I knew our town was safe. There hadn’t been a kidnapping for fifteen years. This was home, but I had to leave forever.
As the sun rose, I emerged from my makeshift bed full of fallen leaves and covered in morning dew. Though my neck hurt a little, I was awake enough to come to the cold realization that my life would never be the same.
The sky was bright overhead, but a chill passed through me. All I had for warmth was my grandmother’s knitted sweater and beanie. I also packed a bag full of cash and as much food as possible. I trekked down the sidewalk a few steps and my legs immediately weakened. I had to keep going. If I didn’t leave town now, I would be dragged all the way back home – or at least the place that I thought was home. Most children have that phase during which they crave adventure: through the woods, across the sky, down the path of the river. I was almost fourteen, and I still had that longing.

I could’t ignore how that stone cottage seemed to beckon me towards it. This could be my adventure. I turned around and knocked on the door with as much confidence as I could muster
It was made of stone – quite unique. Knock, knock. Silence. Knock, knock. Silence. My knuckles started to hurt from the stone, I heard something. Contemporary?… wait no… instrumental pop? No – classical music coming from inside. Then, I heard the door creak open. While I still couldn’t see a host, I stepped inside, ignoring the words of caution that overtook my thoughts.
“Hello?”
I looked around and noticed many strange things about the small home.
“Hello?”
Silence again.
I walked further into the cottage touching the paintings as I stepped on each floor board groaning under my feet. No one seemed to be home. I decided this was my best bet for shelter today. I’m crazy, why would I think this is a good idea? I’m in a stranger’s abandoned home, with creepy paintings hanging off the walls. I quickly shuffled out of the house until I heard a voice. It sounded like light and dark combined with a sprinkle of rain pouring down someone’s throat.
“Come back…” The whisper threatened as it drifted out the door.
“What’s such a pretty girl doing in my run-down home?” I envisioned an old lady walking out the front door, but what I saw was truly terrifying.
A young girl with a colorless face appeared out from behind the back door.
“Do you live here?” I asked with concern hanging on to my every word.
“Sure,” she answered with contempt.
Then.
Without warning, light swarmed and consumed everything. I covered my eyes as something flashed. The next thing I knew, she morphed into an old woman with wire for hair, wrinkled skin, and was ghastly white. For some reason, I felt that I could trust her. I would soon find out that I was desperately wrong.
“I was pretending,” she squeaked out of her raspy throat.
I backed away.
“Don’t be scared, little one, tell me what you want.”
“I need a place for a little while – to live.”
“Oh of course, you can stay in my little stone cottage and figure out your shenanigans.” When she thought I wasn’t looking, her hands rubbed together.
I ran – sprinted out of the cottage and dove for the leaves that I came from that morning. I blacked out before I could remember anything.
Then I felt cold clammy hands grasp my arms; my skin was choking.
“Stop!” I yelled, struggling to my feet.
“You don’t belong in my cottage! You don’t belong anywhere!” she exclaimed.
A green ooze came from her fingertips and consumed my hands.
“You’re a witch!” I screamed, flailing until she pinned me down with her unexpected strength.
At that moment, I envisioned my living room. My parents would be arguing, sure, but maybe it was my place to be their barrier of peace. My role in the family was exhausting, but it was mine.
I snapped back to current reality, gripping my regret. My choices were taunting me.
“Oh, you’re such a silly little one,” the witch whispered with nasty satisfaction.
The worst part? She was entirely right.