Barefoot and in a coarse and tattered dress, I awake at the edge of a great forest. Before me, a serpentine path twists between two watchmanlike trees and continues into the dense woods.

I set off with a sense of urgency, stumbling once, and then again, over sharp, white pebbles, whose regularity indicates the marking of a trail.

I follow the stones for a very long time. Darkness settles like mist from the forest’s canopy, and strange grunts and screeches announce the presence of feral creatures. I am cold and scurry with arms drawn tight to my chest. Hunger pounds in my belly like a drum.

Weak with fear, exhaustion, and starvation, I stagger around a curve in the path, when before me appears a cottage. From within, it glows, revealing a white-capped roof and thick russet-toned walls. And it smells delicious; my mouth pools in anticipation. Advancing quickly, my hand brushes over its low stacked-stone garden wall. The stones, to my surprise, are springy, cakelike, and they, too, smell delectable.

Weak-kneed, I hurry along the cobbled front path. The smells of nutmeg, cinnamon, clove, and — above all — ginger are so strong that I am borne upon them like a wave. At the front door, I pause, studying its strange surface. It glistens with a sheer glaze and is sticky to the touch, and it, too, smells wonderful, like caramelized sugar. I swing the door open. From its lintel, a fat morsel crumbles into my hands. I lift it to my nose, sniff, and take one exploratory lick, after which I gobble up the chunk of gingerbread greedily.

From inside, I hear a baby’s laugh. I stoop to pass under the low doorway and find myself in a tiny space. Flames dance and leap from a massive fireplace. A mouse skitters across the floor, drawing my eyes to a corner-hung cage. Within its iron bands lies a baby girl. As I approach, she coos contentedly. Tripping the latch, I gently lift her out of the horrible contraption.

The black-haired bundle pokes at me with a fat finger, and I giggle at her playfulness. My own laugh, however, is soon drowned out by another, one that is haunting and wicked. Someone is coming, and I must get the baby out of here. The cackle reverberates through the cottage, causing the rough-hewn beams — pretzel logs? — to shake; granules of salt fall like hail. The raven-haired child’s face crumples, her heart-shaped lips tremble, and she lets go a desperate wail. I spin, clutching the girl to my chest and knocking the hanging cage; it groans on its rusty chain.

I spy a back door: thick strips of black licorice banded together with ropes of red. I move toward it, passing a low cupboard. Its biscuit-shaped door swings open to reveal a very young boy. He sits cowering with his arms wrapped around pudgy knees.

From the front of the house another peal of laughter erupts. I gasp. The girl leaks fresh tears; the boys eyes widen. I extend my hand to him, urging, “Quick.”

I watch the tot take a large gulp of air and fill his dumpling cheeks with courage. He puts squat fingers in mine, and I hoist him from the cubby and onto his bandy legs. Clutching the girl and tugging the boy, I storm out of the strange house and into the pitch of night.