It’s often said to never explore the woods at night. I didn’t think too much about the specifics. I wouldn’t let some fake stories keep me from roaming. However, I am much more careful after a fateful night a few years ago.

I was staring at the ceiling, listening to my clock’s thoughtful ticking. That’s often when I get the itch to wander into the unfamiliar woods behind my house. I never had the desire to walk around during the day, but the silence of the evening and echo of the clock forced my body out of bed. That specific night in late October, when the leaves rustled and shook with each breeze, I stretched my bones and walked into the darkness. What a fool I was. Breaking into the unrecognizable and dense brush, the wind stalled, and all that hung in the air was the sound of my breathing. I tried to move silently, my feet barely brushing against the ground. Those towering trees seemed to loom over me. The deafening stillness was cut by an indistinct murmur. My heart stopped and I could hear the pounding of blood in my ears. It grew louder, and it almost seemed to laugh at me. Combing through the tops of the trees with only the light of the crescent moon, I spotted a bird. Or what I thought was a bird. My God, That vile thing was like no creature I had’d ever seen before. It resembled an owl with its round face, yet it had the brooding frame of a vulture. Its talons sunk into the branch of the tree it was hanging on. Fear paralyzed me. I tried to turn, to run, to scream, but I couldn’t look away. The creature’s face was almost humanlike, with its big dark eyes and broad beak and its call was no different. Almost as if it was impersonating a man chuckling. Not once did it break eye contact or cower. It must have only been a few seconds before its snicker abruptly stopped, and it became uninterested. Its great wings fluttered open and it flew off.

I wouldn’t say I’m scared to go back into the woods, but I definitely frequent them less. On those helpless nights where the clock ticks away, that creature creeps into the back of my mind and I feel the same paralyzing fear.

Beware reading this tale of woe, as for even the strongest mortal souls, it might prove too frightening. On nights like this, when the downside turns up and fright’s chance embiggens, one can never be too cautious regarding tales such as these. A tale of fright and spookery, so scary that your pants will dematerialize by the thread and flee in one million directions!

Doctor Eggbert, to most of his patients, was an ordinary doctor. His office contained a typical medical bed, a collection of magazines, and a few colorful paintings of sailboats. Doctor Eggbert was my doctor for a while, as well as my brothers.

The story starts when my twin, let’s call him Sam, came down with the flu the day before last Halloween. Poor Sam had to drive down to the hospital for a checkup on the 30th. As he told it, the office was practically littered with candy temptations. He always had a sweet tooth, so this naturally appealed to him. I remember Sam used to budget out 5 dollars of his weekly allowance for candy, and he never showed any signs of changing that habit. I can only imagine that Eggbert’s office felt like a free lunch.

Sam bit off more than he could chew. After that visit, he spent the night stumbling and vomiting from the sheer amount of candy he ate, both at the office and stuffed into his pockets. Though, like any good addict, that didn’t stop him from popping another saltwater taffy onto his tongue. Sam described the feeling as being seasick when he called me on Halloween morning. I returned the obvious answer to that, that he ate too much candy. Stubborn Sam insisted on this being a development from the flu and went back to see Doctor Eggbert that night.

I called Sam two days later to no reply. I thought he ghosted me, after something rude I said On All Hallow’s Eve. I was day-drinking to celebrate and thought that I may have let my tongue get away from me. Sam didn’t have anybody close to him I could call either, other than his employer, and I did not want to bother his work life. So I went on with my own life.

Two weeks later, I came down with the flu, too, so made an appointment with doctor Eggbert. His office was as sterile and bright as I had remembered, though the collection of magazines caught my attention. Beauty magazines advertised witchy beauty solutions alongside crease-wrinkled skin, drooping jowls, sunken eyes, and full black irises. I thought I glanced at one magazine recommending ‘eye of newt’ for something, but my eyes could not catch it again. I swear a travel magazine offered tickets to hell.

Then, I looked at the paintings of small sailboats catching wind from the sunset-evening sky. The red and black color schemes were calming, as odd as it was that these boats were not piloted. I was drawn to the one painting which did have a pilot, with two arms raised as if celebrating a victory. His boat, despite the red sky in the background, was not a silhouette. You could see his dirty blonde hair, almost identical to mine, his button up-shirt, and his khakis. I got up to take a closer look.

That pose was not victory, I realized. It was crying out for help. But what sort of help would this person need? Before I could answer that question, my blood ran cold. My heart stopped beating and my breath ceased.

That was Sam in the picture.

I left the office that instant without a second thought. To this day, I do not know what happened to Sam, or how that painting got there. I have called him a few more times since, with no success. If you ever meet a Doctor Eggbert out there, please, I beg of you, stay away!

“Mirror Mirror on the wall, how do we make the wretched Snow White fall?“

“Send a hunter to tear her limb from limb, with a dagger and heart twice as grim. She will never suspect the man faceless under his brim, to carve out her face. “

“So you, my Queen, can wear her hollow grin, and smile as she regrets being the mortal Sin.”

And so went the evil stepmother to summon the entity of the Hunter to her throne room, impatiently tapping her black claws against the wooden arm of her chair. She pulled back the splinters of wood and chuckled when they would catch and prick her skin.

When the Hunter entered, she resumed composure and rose with grace, her black cloak gliding against the red marble floor. The Evil Queen hated waiting, when he bowed to kiss her signet ring, she gripped his chin into her hands, and dug her nails into his flesh, grinning as the surface wounds receded into his face, and the rotted skin pieces fell to the floor. The Queen peered down and stepped on them, and remarked:

“You shall take the girl into the woods and dispose of her. Be wise to bring me her face, and you shall have your wish.” The Hunter croaked and slithered into the cracks of the tile shrouding the floor in noir.

And so the Hunter went, and carefully placed Snow White’s skin into an engraved black box, and the adorned brass snakes on the lock intertwined and snapped shut. Immediately, the Hunter resurfaced in the corridor of the Queen’s chambers, landing as the floor creaked and the torches flickered. 

The Evil Queen entered carefully, her nightdress opening when she reached for the engraved box. Her hands trembled as the snakes receded into the curved grooves of wood, and she lifted the lid slowly. Her lips curled into a smile, and from her scaled lips escaped a muffled chuckle. 

With pace, she walked to the throne room without her attendants or guards, threw herself on her knees, pressing them into the cold marble to ground herself, and lifted the sacrificial box to her mirror. She screamed “Magic Mirror on the wall, take this skin and answer my call!”

The huntsman lurked behind and staggered back when the mirror flickered. It’s green light perforated every inch and corner of the room. 

The bright rays of light startled the Evil Queen, who then dropped the box and scrambled to pick up the skin of Snow White’s face and pressed it over hers, collapsing to the floor, and screeching in agony.

Without pause, the room fell silent. When the torches finally flickered back on, the hunter ran to his Queen, but her frame was eerily delicate. He peeled her face off the floor and brushed her frizzed tendrils behind her ears, but she did not have the appearance of The Queen.

What remained was a mosaic of skin grafts cemented together in black ooze. With horror, he dropped his majesty and realized she had been tricked, and he would not receive his wish. For her greed, she would spend centuries wearing porcelain masks, all painted with the vigor and youth of The dead Snow White.