The Watcher in the Trees

The trees in Graypine Forest had always whispered.

To some, it was the wind through the leaves. To others—like Zick—it was something else. Something older. Something watching.

Zick had grown up hearing stories about the forest that bordered the edge of their quiet town. Elders said it was cursed. Kids dared each other to step beyond the tree line. But nobody stayed in too long—not after what happened to Mr. Harrows twenty years ago. He wandered in and was found days later, curled up in a hollow stump, eyes wide open and mouth stitched shut. No one ever explained how or why.

But tonight, Zick wasn’t going in on a dare. He was going in because his little brother was missing.

Martha, his best friend and the only person who believed the forest held more than trees and raccoons, insisted on going with him.

“He couldn’t have gone far,” she said as they crossed the invisible boundary between town and woods. “It’s probably just another hiding spot.”

Zick shook his head. “He left a note. It said, ‘The Watcher called me. I need to see.’ He doesn’t write stuff like that. He barely even talks about the woods.”

Martha slowed. “Then we move faster.”

They walked in silence, their flashlights throwing long, jagged shadows across the undergrowth. Every rustle felt too intentional. Every creak of bark felt like breathing. The deeper they went, the more the trees leaned in, forming a canopy that blocked out the moonlight. It was like being swallowed by a wooden mouth.

“Look at this,” Martha whispered.

She pointed at a cluster of trees. The bark had been stripped away in long, symmetrical lines—like claw marks. Or runes.

Zick ran his fingers over them. The gouges were fresh. Wet. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

They paused.

Somewhere up ahead, something was knocking. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not like branches. Not like wood on wood.

It was rhythmic. Intentional. As if it was... knocking back.

Zick took a step forward, then another. The noise stopped. Then came a new sound—low and almost imperceptible: a hum. It resonated in the roots beneath their feet.

Then, they saw the eyes.

High up in the trees, six faint pinpricks of pale green light stared back at them. They didn’t blink. They didn’t sway. They just… watched.

“Don’t look at them,” Martha said quietly.

Zick forced his gaze away. “How do you know?”

“Because they want you to look. That’s how it finds its way in.”

He didn’t ask how she knew. They pressed on, but the air grew thicker, colder, as if something massive was pressing down from above.

Then they found the first one.

A scarecrow.

But not one any farmer would build. Its limbs were made of bones lashed with vines. The head was a rotted deer skull, with human teeth wedged where antlers should be. It hung from a tree by sinew, swinging slowly. Beneath it, footprints—bare and small—led deeper into the woods.

“That’s Emory’s,” Zick muttered, recognizing the tread of his brother’s worn sneakers. “He came this way.”

As they followed the trail, Martha’s voice trembled. “You know the stories... about The Watcher?”

“You think it’s real?”

“I think something’s here. And it doesn’t just live in the woods. It feeds off what you bring in with you. Guilt. Fear. Regret.”

Zick's heart pounded. “Then we can’t let it feed.”

But it was already too late.

Suddenly, the forest shifted. Trees bent the wrong way. Roots twisted like limbs. They were somewhere else now—somewhere the forest didn’t obey its own rules.

Ahead, a clearing opened like an eye.

In the center stood a crooked totem, stitched from the remains of animals and… something else. At its base knelt a figure—small, still, and humming.

“Emory!” Zick shouted.

The boy looked up. His eyes were white as milk.

“It’s so beautiful,” Emory whispered. “He showed me the truth. The Watcher isn’t a monster. He’s a mirror.”

Zick stepped forward, but Martha grabbed his arm.

“Don’t touch him,” she said. “It’s not done with him yet.”

“I don’t care. I’m not leaving without him.”

But before Zick could move, the trees screamed.

It wasn’t a sound—it was in their heads, drilling down behind their eyes. Martha dropped to her knees. Blood trickled from Zick’s nose. The clearing blurred, stretched, and suddenly The Watcher stepped from the trees.

It wasn’t a beast. It wasn’t even a shape. It was a void made from teeth and bark and sorrow. It pulsed with the memories of every soul it had ever devoured. Zick saw flashes of his mother’s funeral, the look on his father’s face when he left, and Emory crying alone by the swing set.

It was feeding.

Martha, barely standing, pulled something from her pocket. A small, broken mirror.

She turned it toward The Watcher.

“See yourself,” she hissed.

The creature recoiled. For the first time, it made a noise—something between a whimper and a scream. The forest shook. Trees cracked.

Zick lunged forward and grabbed Emory, pulling him away from the totem.

The light from the mirror flared. The Watcher shattered like glass—no sound, just absence. The clearing fell silent. The woods sighed, as if relieved.

Zick held his brother close. Emory blinked, eyes clearing. “Zick?”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

They turned to Martha, who dropped the mirror, now blackened and cracked.

“What was that?” Zick asked.

She didn’t answer right away. She looked toward the trees.

“Something made from what we bury,” she said softly. “But not dead. Just waiting.”

As dawn rose, the three of them left Graypine Forest behind.

But the trees still whispered.

And somewhere, far beneath their roots, something stirred… waiting for the next soul brave—or broken—enough to listen.