Come In, Children

by Ai Jiang

Yejin rubbed her eyes. A cyst was growing at the edge of her right lid. She didn’t have to feel this terrible, but ever since she’d stopped draining the youth of lost children who wandered into the forest, the wrinkles had settled in, her brown hair streaked with grey, and her teeth had become brittle, sensitive to brews both too hot and too cold. She hated lukewarm tree sap water, but it would have to do.

When a knock on her door came, Yejin fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand next to her bed. The old crow that lived in the large oak with its branches draped over her mushroom-shaped house hadn’t yet called. It was far too early for the beginning of her business hours.

The rapping against her creaking wooden door quickened—staccato and urgent. But Yejin’s movements remained slow, steady, and calm, as though she were in a trance. At least it wasn’t a smart phone. Technology, she could never understand the appeal. The quietness of the forest was much more desirable than the roar of the city. She refused to use the Internet, though she snuck into the city every decade or so just to peek at the state of the world—more often than not, it was a mistake. People were foolish, brutish, shortsighted, and utterly helpless on their own, but she had renounced the world and did not intend to return, no matter how clearly they required her services. They’d have to come seek her out for it, and there would be a price—there always is. (Continue Reading…)