My father always used to warn me about the westerly woods. As a young child, I feared the dark abyss that was said to be beyond the white picket fence, but as tensions grew at home when I got older, I found myself dreaming of the unknown which lie where I was forbidden to tread.

I walked down by the white picket fence until I found the loose section that the foxes snuck through to feast on our sheep. The fence once had beautiful grape vines sprawling up its sides, but those were long dead. In its place were ugly weeds with spines on their leaves and poisonous red berries. I pushed the loose planks aside and crawled through the gap. The ominous forest loomed ahead of me and I continued on, running on the overgrown dirt path.