Don't go into the woods, especially after dark.
As a child, my parents had many rules, but this one took the cake. It was the one I heard most often. It sat at the head of the dinner table on Christmas, had to be finished before dessert... you get the idea: It was important.
My parents never explained why they had this rule, even though I asked constantly. I couldn't understand why it was so dangerous. From my bedroom window, the forest looked pretty quiet to me, except for the occasional doe or bird.
So... I had never stepped foot into the woods. I have to admit, there were a few occasions where my curiosity got the best of me, and I made a break for it. But there was always someone there to stop me; whether it was my dad, who lifted me up and tore me away, or my mother who came running out, swearing that if I took another step, I'd never see the outside of my bedroom again.
By thirteen, they had devised a plan to solve the problem once and for all. That summer I watched as my dad put up the wall, boxing me in. It was ten feet high and half a foot thick, made up of some sort of visually appealing wood. In all honesty, I could have gotten over it if I set my mind to it. But I saw my parents' faces when they picked out the fencing equipment at Home Depot... the apprehension, the anxiety. They were great people and, for some reason, they thought this was best. So I ignored my curiosity, and began focusing my attentions on the things I could do.
Until I couldn't ignore it anymore.