The woods behind Mary Jane’s house did not make her feel safe. They were thick with old, twisted trees, whose branches scratched her like boney fingers. The crescent moon overhead did not provide much light for her to see, so as she ran, she couldn’t avoid the harsh brush or the sharp rocks jutting from the ground. Her bare feet caught on something, maybe a root or a stone, sending her tumbling to the ground. A pant of warm, humid breath fell on her forehead. If there was nowhere to go, then it could come to her.