"My Great-Grandfather Saw the Forest Witch — Only One Man Made It Out Alive"

They say the forest keeps secrets no man should witness.

In the forgotten, mist-covered corners of eastern Serbia, near the Romanian border, an ancient legend lingers—passed down quietly through generations. It is the story of Muma Pădurii, the Mother of the Forest. She is not a witch from fairy tales. No, she is something older—primordial and wild. A guardian spirit of the woods. To some, a protector; to others, a fierce punisher.

But one truth remains unshaken: you do not speak to her. You do not insult her. You do not run.

This story comes from my great-grandfather Mirko. He swore on his honor that it was all true.

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It was around one in the morning, deep in the cold bite of late autumn. Mirko and his closest friend Zlatko were walking home from a village dance. The air was sharp with frost, and the moon hung heavy and full overhead, casting silver light on the narrow, overgrown path that wound through the dense forest. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky.

An unnatural stillness hung in the air.

No rustle of leaves, no chirping crickets, no distant calls of owls. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Then—a music unlike any other.

It didn’t come from in front or behind. It surrounded them, ethereal and haunting. A choir of voices—angelic yet eerie—woven together in a melody that felt as if it came from another world. Both men froze, their hearts pounding in the cold silence.

And then she appeared.

A woman, clad entirely in white, taller than any mortal should be—nearly two meters. Her long golden hair shimmered, glowing softly under the moonlight, though there was no source of light. She didn’t walk; she floated just above the ground, moving as if carried by an unseen breeze.

Her eyes were distant, empty of recognition. Her presence was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

Zlatko was rooted to the spot, his breath caught in his throat. Mirko’s fear turned to panic. He shouted, urging his friend to run, but in his haste, he stumbled over a jagged stone and fell hard, blood spilling from his nose and mouth.

The woman passed silently between them, humming the haunting melody softly. She did not acknowledge them.

Zlatko remained motionless, but Mirko, blood staining his lips, was shaking with a mix of terror and fury.

And then, he did the unthinkable.

He cursed her.

He screamed insults into the still night air, shouting her name with venom and defiance.

The forest answered.

Branches snapped violently as if gripped by an unseen hand. The trees groaned like ancient beasts awakening. A fierce wind tore through the darkness, yet not a single leaf stirred on the ground. Distant screams echoed—inhuman, unearthly, rising from the shadows themselves. The air thickened, heavy and suffocating.

And then—a massive tree limb crashed down with bone-crushing force.

Zlatko turned and ran without looking back.

---

At dawn, the villagers found Mirko. His body lay crushed beneath the fallen branch, face frozen in a grimace of terror. There were no signs of struggle, no storm had raged the night before. Only the eerie silence of the forest remained, along with the faint scent of pine—and blood.

---

Muma Pădurii does not kill out of cruelty.

She punishes those who disturb the fragile balance.

Some say it is mere folklore.

But if you ever hear a song in the woods—one no human voice could ever sing—do not speak. Do not scream. Do not curse.

Just walk away.

And pray she lets you.

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