sedop0909

I always thought the woods behind my grandmother’s house were quiet—lonely, but harmless. That changed last Halloween. She used to tell me not to go past the crooked oak tree. “Past there, the woods don’t stay empty,” she’d whisper, her voice trembling like she remembered something she wished she could forget. I laughed at first. I was seventeen—fear felt childish. So on Halloween night, armed with a flashlight and arrogance, I walked into the woods. The crooked oak was easy to find. Its branches stretched like broken arms reaching for help. My breath felt heavy as I stepped past it. Behind me, the wind stopped. The world… paused. Then I heard a whisper. It wasn’t from the trees. It wasn’t the wind. It was right beside my ear: “You came back.” My flashlight flickered. I spun around. Nothing. Footsteps crunched—soft, dragging, slow. But when I moved, the sound stopped. When I froze, they continued. Close. Too close. My heart hammered as the whisper came again, a little clearer, a little colder: “You left us here.” My throat tightened. The air turned sharp like glass. Shadows pooled around the trees, stretching toward me like long, thin fingers. I ran. I didn’t care where—only away. But the woods twisted. The path I knew warped into something unfamiliar, sickening. Branches scraped my skin like claws. My lungs burned. Then, ahead— a figure standing perfectly still. Tall. Pale. Eyes black as rotting soil. Its face stretched into a grin too wide for anything human. My legs wouldn’t move. The whisper came from its gaping mouth: “You will not leave again.” Darkness swallowed me. I woke up at my grandmother’s door, blood on my arms, dirt under my nails. She didn’t ask where I’d been. She just stared at the woods and whispered: “They never let go of what is theirs.” Every night since, I hear footsteps outside my window. Slow. Dragging. Waiting. And sometimes, when the house goes silent, a voice breathes against my ear... stake id: sedop0909