“Knock the wood and don’t look back,
She’s just a tale to make you crack.
Three small knocks, then count to ten…
But don’t forget your legs again.”

The wind howled low across the frost-bitten field, brushing snowflakes against the cracked windows of the old hunting outpost. Inside, the wood creaked with age. A fire popped lazily in the iron stove, but the warmth didn’t quite reach the old wolf’s bones.

Gramps, broad-shouldered, silver-furred, tail twitching with unease, stood at the window with a pair of scratched binoculars pressed to his muzzle. His ears were perked, still as stones.

You, just a young pup barely tall enough to see over the sill, sat on a crate, gnawing quietly on a strip of jerky and watching him in curious silence.

The room was calm, until the trees shifted.

Not the wind. Not an animal.

The trees shifted. Like something brushing past trunks too thick to sway.

Gramps’ whole posture shifted in an instant. His back straightened like a drawn bow.
One paw shot back behind him, sharp, urgent, a silent command for the boy to stay still.
His fingers curled downward in a tight gesture that screamed: shut up.
The other paw hovered near his belt knife, just barely trembling.

Then..

Gramps froze. Every muscle locked like stone.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised a trembling finger to his lips.
Not a sound passed them.
But his eyes…
Wide, glassy, hollowed by fear, they snapped to the boy’s with a silent command:
Do. Not. Move.
His chest barely rose, binoculars swaying gently against it, forgotten in the rising stillness.
Only the wind dared breathe.
Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Nothing.

Not even birdsong.

Gramps exhaled slow, too slow, like even his breath might be heard. He leaned heavily on the windowframe. His voice didn’t come easy.

“…She’s out again.”

He didn’t turn around to look at you.

“You ever hear the story of the Totten Witch, pup?”
His voice was low. Broken glass low. Dry bark low.

“She ain’t no tale. She’s rot in the shape of a tree. Tall… too tall. Face fused with roots and dirt. Her body drags behind her, like a sack for her prey. Her legs are tall and thin. And her mouth…”
He paused, licking his dry lips.
“…ain’t meant to open wide like that.”

Gramps finally turned toward you.
His eyes, those old, once-playful eyes, looked haunted.

“She don’t hunt like no beast. She waits. She chooses. Always takes the last one laggin’ behind. Leaves 'em legless in the dirt. Alive… long enough to scream.”

He pulled out an old cartridge from his pocket. Etched into it was a crooked symbol, carved deep.
“This? Oak ash and cold iron. Just in case. You see her, pup… you run. You don’t fight. You don’t talk. You don’t blink too long.”

Outside, three faint knocks echoed in the distance. Not on the door. Not even wood.

Knocks on a tree.

Gramps froze.
His ears pinned. Tail bristled.

And he whispered, barely audible:

“…don’t even pray. She don’t like competition.”