Chapter 6: What the Woods Remember

Chapter 6: What the Woods Remember

The moment Alex crossed the threshold from his manicured lawn into the untamed woods, the world changed. The air, already sharp with autumn’s bite, grew instantly colder, clinging to his skin with a damp, tomb-like chill. The ambient sounds of the sleeping town—the distant hum of a power line, the rustle of wind through neighborhood trees—were sliced away as if by a knife. Here, under the oppressive weight of the ancient canopy, a profound and unnatural silence reigned.

His phone’s flashlight, which had seemed so bright on the street, was a pitiful spear of light here. It barely pierced the gloom, illuminating a frantic, narrow cone of reality while all around it, the darkness seemed to thicken, to press in, to watch. He clutched the tools Abernathy had given him, their textures a desperate anchor to the world of man. The cold, pitted iron of the railroad spike felt dense and final in his right hand; the brittle, twig-like branch of mountain ash was a fragile talisman in his left. They were his only weapons against a memory that had grown teeth.

He found the path easily. It was a scar on his soul, and his feet remembered the way even when his mind screamed to forget. Every step was a ghost. To his left was the fallen log where Ruth had once balanced, arms outstretched, her laughter echoing in the hollows of his memory. He averted his gaze, his knuckles white on the iron spike. Further on, the cluster of skeletal birch trees gleamed in his flashlight beam, their pale bark like bone. He and Ruth had pretended they were watchtowers for a secret kingdom. Now, they felt like grave markers.

The woods were not empty. He felt it in the prickling of the hairs on his neck, in the primal, animal instinct that screamed he was being stalked. It wasn't the feeling of a bear or a coyote. It was the feeling of being observed by a malevolent intelligence, something that was enjoying his fear.

Then, the whispers began.

At first, it was just a sigh in the rustle of leaves, a sound so faint he thought he’d imagined it. A trick of the wind. But it came again, closer this time, coalescing into a single, impossible word that froze the blood in his veins.

“Alex…”

It was Ruth’s voice. Not a memory of her voice, but her voice itself, clear as it had been on that final, terrible evening. It was a perfect, cruel imitation, laced with the carefree innocence of a twelve-year-old girl. It slid past his ears and took root directly in his mind.

He stopped dead, his flashlight beam trembling, cutting frantic arcs through the darkness. “Who’s there?” he called out, his own voice sounding weak, pathetic in the crushing silence.

Only the whisper answered, this time seeming to come from right behind him. “You’re slow, Alex. I’ve been waiting.”

He spun around, swinging the flashlight. The beam caught nothing but the gnarled trunks of pines and the deep, impenetrable shadows between them. He was alone. But the voice was still there, a venomous echo in his skull.

“You’re not her,” he growled, more to convince himself than the entity. He took another step, then another, forcing his legs to move. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic prisoner.

“You ran,” the voice whispered, its tone shifting from playful to accusatory. It was a cold sliver of guilt inserted directly into his soul. “You heard me scream, and you kept running. Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“Shut up,” Alex hissed, stumbling over a root. He caught himself, his palm scraping against the rough bark of an oak. The pain was a welcome distraction, a momentary tether to the physical world. He tightened his grip on the mountain ash. Abernathy had said it was a shield. He held it up as if to ward off the invisible assault.

For a moment, the whispers receded, replaced by an angry, rustling sound that seemed to circle him. He pushed forward, his breath coming in ragged, panicked bursts. He was being herded, toyed with. The path seemed longer than he remembered, the familiar landmarks twisted into monstrous shapes in the dancing light of his torch.

Then he saw them.

To his right, deep in the blackness beyond his flashlight’s reach, two points of light ignited. They were a dull, malevolent gold, floating impossibly in the dark. They were the eyes from his nightmare, the embers of a cold, hungry fire. They stared at him, unblinking, for a full three seconds before extinguishing as if they had never been there.

He froze, a strangled cry catching in his throat. It wasn't just a voice. It was real. It was here. It was hunting him.

He broke into a clumsy, stumbling run. Branches whipped at his face, and roots seemed to snake out from the ground, grabbing at his ankles. The whispers returned, louder now, a chorus of his sister’s voice.

“She’s going to be so scared, Alex. Just like I was.” “The Fox is always hungry.” “You let go of my hand. Are you going to let go of hers, too?”

The psychological attack was relentless, each word a carefully aimed blow at the foundations of his sanity. He felt his resolve cracking. The iron spike in his hand felt less like a weapon and more like a fool’s dead weight. The ash branch was just a twig. What was he thinking? How could he possibly fight this?

He tripped, his boot catching on something, and went down hard. His flashlight flew from his grasp, skittering across the mossy ground to cast a wild, disorienting light up into the canopy. He landed on his hands and knees, the impact jarring his teeth.

A cold, heavy presence descended upon him. The air grew thick with the smell of wet soil and something else… something faintly sweet and deeply rotten, like flowers wilting on a grave. The whispers stopped. The silence that followed was worse.

He felt a cold breath on the back of his neck.

Slowly, shakily, he pushed himself up and turned. In the erratic beam of the fallen flashlight, he saw it. A silhouette. Tall, emaciated, its long limbs bent at angles that defied anatomy. It stood just at the edge of the light, a warped pillar of shadow. He couldn’t see a face, only the long, matted hair that hung like a shroud.

Then, the two golden eyes ignited in the darkness where its face should be.

A primal scream, thirty years in the making, tore itself from his throat. He scrambled backward, crab-walking through the dirt and leaves, his mind utterly blank with terror. He had no plan, no strategy. There was only the monster and the all-consuming fear.

His hand closed around the iron spike he’d dropped. Without thinking, he brandished it, holding it out toward the figure.

“You are not welcome here!” he roared, the words Abernathy’s, but the fury his own.

The creature recoiled. It didn't make a sound, but it took a single, fluid step back, melting into the deeper shadows. The golden eyes held his for another second, burning with a cold, calculating hatred, and then they were gone.

Shaking uncontrollably, Alex snatched his flashlight and staggered to his feet. He could hear it now—the faint, gurgling sound of running water. The creek. He was close.

He stumbled the last few yards, his lungs burning, his mind a maelstrom of terror and adrenaline. The malevolent whispers returned for one final, parting shot, but this time it wasn't his sister's voice. It was a deeper, guttural sound, a scraping of rock on rock that resonated directly in his bones.

“The pact will be honored. The debt will be paid.”

He burst through the final line of trees and into the clearing.

Huldra’s Rest.

The oppressive noise and presence of the woods vanished instantly. Here, the silence was absolute, the air still and cold. The moonlight, unhindered by the canopy, poured down like a pale, spectral spotlight, illuminating the perfect circle of moss-covered ground. He was standing in the arena. The stalking was over. The hunt had reached its end. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than any whisper, that he was no longer the one being hunted. He was the offering.