Born along the northern border of the Grim Woods, Artemis grew up on the tales of what lived within. Stories of fair ones so beautiful mortals lost their will to live when gazing upon them. Tales of red caps atop black steads trampling through fields with their crusted crimson hoods, seeking fresh blood to spill. Goblins making bricks to extend the Jolly Road so travelers would risk getting a little closer to fall under their spells. Banshees shrieking in the night, warning of loved ones soon to pass, sometimes by their own chilled hands. And other than those tales, Artemis saw some that prowled the woods, and he always prepares himself to see them again.

“Never stray close to the woods, especially after dark,” his papa says, as he always does when Artemis leaves to play. “Young or old, ugly or beautiful, the fae do not care. They will whisk you away, never to be seen or heard from again.” Then he combs Artemis’ pockets. “Do you have your iron dagger?” Because iron kills them. Steel harms them.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Do you have your St. John’s Wort?” Because the flower protects against fae magic and mischief.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Four-leaf clovers?” Because they allow one to see past their glamour.

“Yes, Papa.”

Artemis retrieves a glass marble from his pocket, one he found along the edge of the forest. He lied, telling Papa he got it off a merchant for a copper.

“And I’ve got this shiny marble too. If a fae is in front of me, I’ll get their attention, throw it, and run,” Artemis declares. Because fae love shiny objects. It distracts them.

“Good, good. Run along, then,” his papa says, ushering Artemis out the door to join his friends that regularly play at Broken Creek.

The creek runs crooked through the fields on the outskirts of town. Apple trees linger nearby, unaffected by the Grim Woods, for they wilt in autumn, die in winter, and revive in spring. The children are safe to climb, to eat the apples from their branches, and swim in their undergarments among the slippery rocks.

Artemis sits along the creek bed, burrowing into the mud with a stick. Ima has been teaching him his letters and the other children are in disbelief. There has never been a school in Eidenswill, even after many years of busy market streets from the Jolly Road. Families rarely wish to move there, risking the lives of their children, and teachers much rather take jobs in the city where pay is good. Those few that knew their words had long since passed. Perhaps they taught their children, but they must have forgotten as they spent their days doing hard labor, never having the time to read or write. But Artemis loves stories, and Ima spoke of books that told tales of knights battling dragons and princesses overthrowing kingdoms. If he knows his words, he can read them, so he studies when he can.

Little Maggie with her bright red bow applauds him on learning his first ten letters when a harsh cackle sounds from the creek bed. The children turn, wide-eyed at what they find. Behind them, a bog witch stands among the water, clouding it murky brown and sick green. Bugs skitter from the muck, blundering over the children’s feet in droves before being washed away by the water. Maggie almost screams, if not for Artemis silencing her with a filthy hand. Paulo and his sister, Remelda, are so horrified that they freeze in place. Paulo even wets himself.

“What a bright, pretty thing you are,” says the bog witch, revealing two rows of teeth pointed like blades. Her hair hangs in tattered strands of black, tangled among broken twigs and moss. Her eyes shine pure white, brilliant against gray skin. “I know my letters, all of them, in fact. I shall teach them to you, if you’d like.”

“While I appreciate the offer, I already have a teacher and it would be rude to set them aside,” Artemis answers, remembering Ima and her rules.

When the bog witch smiles, slime oozes from her black lips, wreaking of rot.

“It is getting late and our parents expect us home before supper, so I regret to inform you that we must take our leave,” he adds, rising slowly with his hand still against Maggie’s trembling lips. Tears roll over her plump cheeks, hot against Artemis’ hand.

“Supper, oh yes, we wouldn’t want to be late for that, but surely you have a moment or two to spare,” says the bog witch, her gaze drifting from one child to the next. “I am quite hungry myself, but it has been some time since I’ve had any company. Won’t you stay just a moment longer?”

Paulo can’t take it anymore. He runs, and Remelda follows. When they move, the bog witch’s arms, so long that her knuckles drag on the ground, grab Maggie by the ankles. Her fingers, like nimble tree branches black as charred earth, rip the wailing girl from Artemis’ grasp. Maggie’s scream mixes with Paulo’s and Remelda’s frantic shouts and the bog witch’s wicked laugh. Maggie hangs above the witch’s head, lowering to the gaping mouth that splits into her cheeks until the skin peels back to reveal muscles redder than the apples on the trees.

Artemis doesn’t run, even when the fear bubbles in his gut. Though his legs shake, he grabs the iron dagger, but the bog witch is no fool. She knows the townsfolk walk with iron. As soon as he wields the blade, she slaps it away with a swipe of her hand.

“Not such a bright, pretty thing now, are you?” she chortles, holding Maggie up with one arm. “Stay if you’d like. I’ll eat you next and use your finger bones for toothpicks.”

“Wait, let me show you something first!” Artemis shouts, grasping the marble in his back pocket. The bog witch hesitates, her eyes shifting to the sparkling toy thrown high in the air.

The diversion worked, forcing her gaze to follow the marble into the sky. Artemis dives for the dagger that he stabs into her chest. He gags at the stench of decay. Black blood gushes from the wound. The bog witch’s cry sends a tremor through the creek, and the shouts of the villagers follow. She drops Maggie when an arrow pierces her thigh. Then she plummets into the creek, shriveling into a pile of mud and moss that flows upstream until she races across the field towards the Grim Woods.

Maggie clings to Artemis, weeping and wailing. Her ankles are bruised and swelled, but she limps with his help. Men from the village follow the bog witch, but when her silhouette fades into the shadows of the woods, they stop. The children are safe, but it is a grim reminder that, though they are not in the woods, the creatures within can still take them.