The House in The Woods
The manor had become home in every sense of the word. Its towering, gloomy walls, thick with ivy and shadows, no longer felt oppressive to Harry. Instead, they felt comforting, like a fortress separating him from the rest of the world. The garden, which he’d painstakingly tended to over the years, was thriving with vibrant greens and pale flowers that bloomed despite the lack of sunlight.
Harry moved with practiced ease through the old kitchen, a mismatched apron tied around his small frame. He hummed softly as he chopped a collection of vegetables, his hands steady despite the jagged knife in his grasp. Beside him, a burlap sack sat open, its contents carefully ignored. He didn’t flinch as he reached inside, pulling out a severed hand. The skin was pale and cold, but to Harry, it was just another ingredient.
He worked efficiently, humming an off-key tune as he tossed the hand into the pot and stirred the stew. The heavy, coppery scent that filled the air no longer bothered him. It was familiar, comforting even, like the smell of freshly baked bread in another life.
At ten years old, Harry had become completely at ease with death. The first year had been the hardest—he remembered the way his stomach churned when he’d realized what he was cooking, the way he’d fought back tears and nausea as he worked. But the monster had been patient, in its own way. It had never forced him, never hurt him. It had simply waited, watching as Harry adjusted to its way of life.
And Harry had adjusted.
The monster was out for now, leaving Harry to his own devices. It had gone hunting, as it often did, but before it left, it had dropped the burlap sack on the kitchen counter. A silent request. Harry understood. He always did.
As the stew simmered, Harry wiped his hands on his apron and looked around the kitchen. It was cluttered and ancient, but he’d made it his own. He’d cleaned and organized the shelves, filling them with jars of dried herbs and spices he’d collected from the garden. The heavy oak table in the center of the room was scarred and worn, but Harry had sanded it down and polished it until it gleamed.
He glanced toward the window, where the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the room. The monster would be back soon.
Harry carried the pot to the table, setting it down with a practiced hand. He’d already set out the bowls, one for himself and one for the monster. He wasn’t sure if it truly needed to eat, but it always seemed pleased when he cooked.
The monster returned as the moon rose, its skeletal form looming in the doorway. Harry didn’t flinch as it entered, its elongated limbs moving with an unnatural grace. Its eyeless face turned toward him, the long teeth glinting in the dim light.
“Dinner’s ready,” Harry said casually, motioning toward the table.
The monster moved closer, sniffing the air with an almost human curiosity. It crouched beside the table, its claws curling around the edge as it inspected the steaming stew.
Harry sat across from it, his own bowl in hand. He waited for the monster to take the first bite—an unspoken ritual they’d developed over the years. When it dipped its head and let out a low, satisfied rumble, Harry smiled faintly and took a bite of his own.
The stew was rich and hearty, the meat tender and flavorful. Harry had long stopped wondering who it had been. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that he’d done a good job.
The monster seemed pleased, its claws tapping against the table as it ate.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to fix the east wing,” Harry said between bites. “The roof’s still leaking, and it’s starting to rot the wood.”
The monster let out a low growl, and Harry nodded. He’d learned to interpret its sounds over the years, understanding its language of grunts and growls and the occasional tap of its claws.
They finished their meal in silence, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows on the walls.
Later that night, Harry sat on the floor of his room, a book spread out in front of him. It was one of the many he’d found in the manor’s dusty library, filled with strange symbols and languages he didn’t recognize. But he liked the illustrations—twisting vines, skeletal trees, creatures that looked like they’d stepped out of nightmares.
The monster lingered in the doorway, watching him. Harry didn’t mind. It was a comforting presence, in its own way.
“You’re not so bad,” Harry said, glancing up at it with a small smile. “For a monster.”
It tilted its head, letting out a soft, almost questioning sound.
Harry laughed quietly. “You know what I mean.”
The monster didn’t respond, but it didn’t leave either. It stayed there, watching as Harry turned the pages of his book, its long claws tapping rhythmically against the doorframe.
For Harry, this was home.