They call me the Monster of Meyer’s Forest.

All the stories they tell about me end in my clawed hands ripping the hearts out of unsuspecting children or my gaping mouth that stretches wide from ear to ear ripping out women’s throats.

According to them, I snatch babes from their beds and drain virgins of their blood.

According to them, I’m an unredeemable monster. Someone who is not human, animal, or spirit. Something…

Other.

A wicked wraith with hair as black as night and eyes as red as blood. A demon who lurks in the foliage, watching as men and women enter and exit my forest to get to town. They clutch their crosses close to their bodies, lips moving silently in prayer.

As if a piece of wood will protect them from my savage attacks, even though they tell their young that nothing can stop me. Not even the thing they call a God.

People have come before to see me, to witness my lithe, pale body perched in the trees.

Watching.

Waiting.

Somehow, people fabricate that they never leave. That those who traveled from far and wide to witness me met an end so gruesome people shake with fear when recalling them.

Apparently, I ripped out their eyes and feasted on their entrails.

I ate them whole with ease, blood painting the ground red.

Or, some say, I led them into my cave and locked them inside.

Watched them starve and wither with satisfaction on my face.

They conveniently forget that I haven’t been seen in years.

Maybe, someday, someone will actually tell the truth.

Let those humans know that a monster is only what you make of it.