Another gingerbread story

The full moon shone in through the gaps in the boards. The wind roared through the trees. The children huddled in a circle, waiting.

"My turn to go first," Jean said. She tucked her hair behind her ear. "Once there was a castle made of gingerbread—"

"Not food again," Daniel sighed. Their empty bellies ached. “And always gingerbread."

"Gingerbread is traditional! Gingerbread has structure, that's why—"

"Know what else has structure? Brick. Know what we don't have?"

"Brick," Paul finished for him. They'd barricaded the barn door, but the whole building was so rotted that an angry raccoon could tear it down. Jean eyed Paul, imploring. He was the eldest and it fell to him to keep order. “It’s Jean’s turn. The gingerbread, does it smell fresh from the oven when the sun hits it?”

“The castle smelled of molasses and cinnamon, and there lived a princess—”

“Another one?” Daniel muttered.

A howl rose the hair on their arms, pierced them to the bone. It was close. Paul shuddered and resisted the urge to put their candle out.

“The princess,” he said.

“The princess wore a gumdrop crown.” Jean’s voice shook. “Her dress was crusted with sugar. She dreamed that she’d be a hero one day—”

Another howl, closer, followed by jabbering shrieks. The children flinched. Jean clutched the barrel of her crossbow.

“The princess didn’t know how good she had it. She didn’t know what she was going to lose.”

The yelping things surrounded the barn, pawed at the wood. They laughed. One of the boards broke. The children stood and put their backs to each other. Paul hefted an oar he’d found the week before. He hoped it was as solid as it felt. He had to continue the story.

“My turn,” he said.