This essay is part of a series called The Big Ideas, in which writers respond to a single question: What do we fear? You can read more by visiting The Big Ideas series page.

It rains softly. The massive, ancient trees of the forest loom over me. I walk forward in the dim twilight. I can barely see. My eyes mistake every shadow or faint glimmer of dusky light.

I hear the wind moaning through the pine boughs above, causing the thick trunks to sway and groan, but it is unnaturally still near the forest floor. The air is thick. It smells of resin and moss. It is increasingly difficult to walk through the dense, pungent air. But I must walk on. I am compelled to walk on.

I am terrified. My clothes are saturated with the rank humidity, my sweat, everything that would slow my step over the damp autumnal leaves reddened by the rainfall and the incoming night. Tall ferns rub against my calves but seem to slither as if alive. My heart is racing. My head is pounding.

And then I see it. In the distance.

A hovel.

The door is slightly open. It reveals nothing but complete darkness within. I know instantly it is the dwelling of a witch. A child-killing witch. A demonic ogress. My heart sinks. My breath accelerates.

I am drawn to it as I have never been drawn to anything before.

I want to scream, but I cannot. All I can do is walk closer. Closer. Closer still to the open door of the hovel. Shuddering with every step, I approach the threshold. The hovel smells of the rot and decay of earth. It smells of suffocating death.