The Wandelgek pulled the door of the snug wooden cottage of Geppetto shut behind him, the scent of freshly sawn wood and warm stew still lingering in his nose.

Outside, the forest awaited, with winding paths that creaked beneath his feet like old bones protesting against life. The air smelled of damp earth and something vaguely decaying—cozy, in a way that reminded him of a blanket draped over a shallow grave.

The air hung thick with a cloying mist that smelled of damp socks and forget-me-nots, and the trees seemed to sway their branches like grasping fingers that were just a bit too eager. “Just a little walk,” he muttered to himself, as his boots squelched in mud that giggled with every step—yes, the mud laughed, as if it knew what was coming. He soon stumbled along a path lined with thorny bushes that grinned and grabbed at him, as if famished for hiking boots.

“Hey, wanderer!” he bellowed in a voice like rolling thunder mixed with a hiccup, while his belly shook with laughter—or was it hunger? “Welcome to my kingdom, you foolish goat!” came a shrill little voice, followed by a giggle echoing like snapping twigs. From a hollow tree trunk waddled the Troll King: a dwarf no bigger than a teapot, with a white beard so long he tripped over it, and a golden crown teetering crookedly on his bald noggin. His eyes gleamed like wet pebbles, and his teeth—black and pointy—sparkled in a grin that was more growl than chuckle.

“What brings you here, Wandelgek? Hunting for candy like those two bratts Hansel and Gretel I met the other day, or searching for the exit that never arrives?” rasped the Troll King as he plopped onto a singing toadstool that sighed and sank under his rear, meanwhile uttering a loud gurgling sound.

You’ve stumbled into my forest, where the dwarves sneeze and the fairies fart winds that make the stars fall!” He chuckled so hard a tooth flew out and plopped into the mud, where a lone toadstool slurped it up with a burp. He yanked a bone from his beard—who knows from whom, maybe Grethel’s—and gnawed it with a sound like grinding glass. Yet there was something snug about it: a tiny fire flickered in the tree trunk, a kettle steaming with herbs that smelled of apple pie laced with sulfur.

As shadows lengthened and the forest began to whisper, The Wandelgek sat on a mossy cushion that felt suspiciously sticky and to prevent the Troll King from looking at him as an appetizer, he asked: “Tell me a story, King”.

The Troll King surprisingly fast leaned forward, his crown nearly clattering off his head. “Listen closely, for this is the fate of Tom Thumb, that pint-sized idiot with his thumb-sized ego. He once wandered these woods, bragging he’d tame them with his seven-league boots. He strayed from the path, dismissed the whispering winds as jokes, and laughed at the shadows creeping after him.

‘I’ll find my way!’ he shouted, as the trees bowed closer and the roots sucked upward like slurping tongues. Days turned to nights, nights turned to… nothing. His tiny voice echoed away into a pit of thorns, where the ravens pecked at his booties and his final scream faded to a whisper of wind.

Never seen again, Wandelgek. Just his thumbnail, which I still keep in my crown—look, that shiny stone there!”

The Troll tapped it, and it seemed to bleed a drop of dew. The tea now tasted of bitter warning, but its warmth cozied through his body.

The Troll King leaned forward, his breath a cloud of onions and doom. “You’re bigger than Tom, but this forest eats wanderers like cookies with tea—crisp on the outside, juicy within. Stay on the path, don’t laugh too hard, and if the mud screams… run!” He burst into a guffaw so absurdly loud it made the leaves shiver, startling a squirrel into dropping its nut into the pool.

The Wandelgek swallowed his tea, feeling the coziness battle the chills, and stood up. With a nod—and a promise to himself not to get lost—he left the tree, stepping into the mist where the trees now stood quieter… but watchful. The forest waited… for him maybe, and he wondered whether he would ever leave this cursed forest again. With the Troll King’s final ticklish cackle, he stood and walked away from the tree, into the gloom—where once Tom’s footsteps had been.