Chapter 2: The Whispering Woods

Chapter 2: The Whispering Woods

Sleep offered no escape. Every time Leo’s eyes drifted shut, he was back at the edge of that cold, silent clearing, staring into the black voids where children’s eyes should be. The memory of their smiles—those impossibly wide, predatory grins—was seared into his mind. He’d spent the rest of the day with the doors locked, jumping at every creak of the old house, the taxidermy squirrels seeming to watch his every move with their glassy, judgmental eyes.

By morning, a fragile layer of denial had settled over his terror. It had to be a hallucination. A waking nightmare brought on by stress, the unsettling house, the weird town. People saw things. He was overworked, burned out. That was the whole reason he was here. He just needed to get a grip.

But the deep, angry scratch on his truck was real. The memory of the perfectly arranged pinecone spiral was real. He couldn't rationalize them away. He needed information, but the idea of going to the police about a bad dream and some vandalism felt absurd. He needed a local perspective. He remembered a woman from the neighboring house, a curtain-twitcher with a cloud of white hair, who had watched his arrival with undisguised curiosity.

Steeling himself, Leo walked across his unkempt lawn to the meticulously manicured property next door. The woman was already on her porch, watering a pot of vibrant red geraniums. She wore a floral apron and a smile that was both friendly and intensely inquisitive.

“Morning!” she called out, her voice surprisingly strong. “You must be the Vance boy. Steffy’s nephew. I’m Elspeth Steinhop.”

“Leo. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, forcing a casualness he didn’t feel. “I, uh, was just wondering. Do you know if there are any kids who live right around here? Teenagers, maybe? I think I’ve been the target of some… pranks.”

Mrs. Steinhop’s smile tightened just a fraction. She set down her watering can with deliberate slowness. “Pranks?”

“Yeah, you know. They covered my truck in pinecones one night. Then someone keyed it pretty badly.” He left out the part about the phantoms in the woods. He already felt crazy enough.

“Oh, dear. That’s not very neighborly,” she said, but her eyes weren’t looking at him. They were fixed on the dark wall of trees that bordered both their properties. “It’s the woods, you know. They stir things up. Always have.”

“The woods?” Leo prompted, his stomach clenching. It was the same thing the cashier had said. The woods get playful.

“This town… it has its stories,” Mrs. Steinhop continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Folks say you shouldn’t let your children play near that forest. Say it changes them. That the ones you see coming out aren’t always the same ones that went in.” She gave a little laugh, as if dismissing her own words as silly folklore. “Just old ghost stories, of course. But you’re a newcomer. An outsider. They… the woods, that is… they tend to notice things like that. My advice? Don’t go looking for trouble in there. It has a way of finding you first.”

Her warning, cloaked in the guise of harmless gossip, did nothing to soothe him. It only coiled a knot of dread tighter in his gut. He thanked her and retreated to his own yard, her words echoing in his head. The ones you see coming out aren’t always the same ones that went in.

Frustrated and more isolated than ever, Leo felt a desperate need to see them again, to prove to himself that what he’d witnessed was either real or a product of his own fraying mind. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to enter the forest this time. He would just watch. From the safety of his own property.

He spent the afternoon on his back porch, a mug of lukewarm coffee growing cold in his hands, his eyes fixed on the tree line. For hours, there was nothing but the gentle sway of branches and the shifting of shadows. His rational mind began to reassert itself. He was being ridiculous, spooked by small-town ghost stories.

Then, the air grew still. The ambient hum of insects faded. A familiar, unnatural chill crept over his skin. And just like before, a thin, white fog began to bleed from the forest floor.

They emerged from the mist, materializing in the same small clearing he’d seen before. The girl in the yellow dress, the two boys in overalls, the little one with pigtails. Today their game was different. It was more focused. More personal.

They were building something on the ground with twigs and damp leaves. A crude, lopsided shape Leo recognized with a jolt of nausea: a miniature replica of his red Chevy. As he watched, the girl with the pigtails knelt and used that same rusty nail to carve a long, jagged line down the side of the leafy effigy. It was a grotesque parody of the damage to his real truck.

They moved with a silent, hypnotic purpose, their actions devoid of any childish joy or spontaneity. This wasn't play. It was a ritual. It was a message.

Leo’s breath hitched. He didn’t move, didn’t dare make a sound, feeling pinned in place by their terrible performance. As if sensing his attention, the girl in the yellow dress looked up, her head tilting at an unnatural angle. Her black, empty eyes seemed to pierce right through the hundred feet of space between them, looking not just at him, but into him.

She opened her mouth. This time it wasn't a whisper in his mind. A sound, thin and reedy, carried on the cold air, soon joined by the others in a singsong chant.

“Leo-Vance, come and dance…”

The fog thickened abruptly, swirling into an opaque grey curtain that swallowed them whole. The chant faded, leaving behind a silence so profound it felt like a physical pressure.

Shaking, Leo scrambled back inside, slamming and locking the porch door. His heart was a wild drum against his ribs. It was real. They knew his name. They were targeting him, playing out their twisted games that mirrored the real-world damage.

He needed to leave. To get in his truck and just drive until Dam’s End was a bad memory in his rearview mirror. The thought was a lifeline. He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door, his hands trembling so badly it took him two tries to grasp them.

He burst out the front door and practically ran to his truck, fumbling with the lock. The driver's side door clicked open. He slid into the seat, the familiar worn vinyl a small comfort in his terror. He jammed the key into the ignition, ready to roar back to civilization and sanity.

His hand froze. His eyes fell on the passenger seat.

The smell hit him first—the dry, earthy scent of dirt and decay. Sitting there, placed dead center on the seat, was a small bird’s nest. It was tightly woven from twigs, grass, and strands of what looked disturbingly like human hair.

And nestled inside it, gleaming like pale, grotesque pearls, were teeth.

A dozen of them, at least. Small and yellowed, with tiny roots still attached. They were children’s teeth. Milk teeth. A horrific, ritualistic offering left inside his locked truck.

The last vestiges of Leo’s denial shattered into a million pieces. This wasn't a prank. It wasn't a hallucination. This was a deliberate, supernatural threat, an invasion that went beyond mere vandalism. They could get inside. They could leave a piece of their nightmare in his sanctuary. The whispering woods weren’t just outside his door; they had found a way in.