The Forest of Stolen Voices

In the mountains of Romania, deep in the Carpathian forests, lies a place locals call "Codrii Furați" — the Forest of the Stolen. Few maps mark it, and those who wander too far inside rarely come back. The villagers whisper that the trees themselves are alive, but not with roots or sap. They are filled with voices.

Adrian Stoica, a thirty-year-old journalist from Bucharest, did not believe in such tales. He specialized in debunking rural legends, exposing frauds and superstitions for the city papers. When a series of hikers went missing in the Codrii, the story caught his attention. Their tents and supplies had been found abandoned, food untouched, campfires still burning. What unsettled rescuers was the silence: no animals, no birds, nothing but a stillness so heavy that even their own footsteps seemed muffled.

Adrian wanted answers. With a recorder, a camera, and a tent, he entered the forest one October afternoon. The air was damp, carrying the smell of wet leaves and earth. Tall firs and oaks blocked out the sky. Almost immediately he noticed it: the silence. No insects, no rustling branches, just a void pressing against his ears. He clicked on his recorder. Only static hissed back.

By nightfall, mist coiled between the trees. Adrian lit a lantern and reviewed his notes. Legends said the forest had once been the site of massacres during Ottoman raids. Prisoners were executed here, their screams lost among the trunks. Others claimed Soviet experiments during the Cold War had used infrasound to test human fear, and the woods had never recovered. Adrian dismissed it all as folklore—but when he played back the day’s recordings, his breath caught. Beneath the static, faint voices whispered in Romanian: *“Help us… Don’t leave…”*

He froze. He had been alone. His lantern flickered, shadows stretching unnaturally long across the canvas of his tent. A branch cracked outside. He grabbed his camera and stepped into the mist. The trees seemed to lean closer, their bark twisted into shapes resembling mouths. He snapped a photo, but when he checked the image, blurred faces appeared in the fog—faces of the missing hikers, pale and hollow-eyed.

The whispers grew louder. Adrian followed them deeper into the woods, though every instinct told him to turn back. His compass spun wildly, refusing direction. The mist thickened until even his lantern lit only a few steps ahead. Then, in a clearing, he saw them: dozens of figures standing between the trees. Their forms were translucent, shifting like smoke. Men, women, even children—all silent, but their mouths moved in unison, shaping words without sound. When Adrian raised his recorder, the silence shattered. His device screamed with hundreds of voices layered together, begging, pleading, weeping.

The ground beneath him pulsed, as though something vast slept beneath the soil. The figures pointed toward him, and suddenly every voice aligned into a single command: *“Stay.”*

He stumbled back, tripping over roots, but the forest seemed endless now, paths twisting back on themselves. His lantern fell and extinguished. Darkness swallowed him. Only the whispers guided him—some calling his name, others echoing his own thoughts. His recorder, still running, captured his frantic breathing and one final word he uttered before the tape cut out: *“No.”*

Two weeks later, search teams found his campsite intact, notes scattered as if in haste. His recorder lay beside the tent. The tape ended with silence—until the last minute, when a new voice joined the chorus. Calm, steady, unmistakable. Adrian Stoica’s own voice, whispering: *“Stay.”*

Now, villagers say that on misty nights, if you stand at the edge of Codrii Furați and listen carefully, you can hear not just the cries of the lost, but the steady voice of a man who once mocked their stories. And if you step inside, the forest will be waiting to claim yours too.