The Woods By Little Brooke

We were in Nell’s the day I told them about the thing in the woods. It was broad daylight, and, in the daylight, I felt safe. Plus, I wasn’t alone, not then. Though I was only ten, small and, to my mind, vulnerable, I was surrounded by four, sensible, levelheaded, adults. Men. Men who, to me at least, seemed massive, solid, and unbeatable, like giants made of steel. These weren’t men who got scared. These were grown-up men, men who went to grown-up jobs and did grown-up man things like fixing cars and drinking coffee. Men who wore overalls and cussed and didn’t have time for things like fairy tales and stuff about the boogeyman. They were too busy doing men stuff, like fighting and swearing and drinking beer. They couldn’t be scared. Or so I thought.

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