The Wood of the Dead

The Wood of the Dead

Where the trees bury the living............

It starts with a whisper.

Not from a person—but from the trees.

They bend inward, like they're trying to speak. No wind. No birds. Just that soft, creaking voice of the forest shifting ever so slightly, saying, Come closer.

I didn’t come here to listen. I came to find my brother.

Alex disappeared three days ago during his usual trail run. The police found nothing—no tracks, no blood, not even broken branches. “Maybe he didn’t come here,” they said.

But I know better. I found his GPS watch still tracking steps, pinging deep inside Deadwood Hollow.

The locals won’t go near it. They say the woods are cursed. That if you step off the path, the trees will take you—not your body, your self. Like they eat your name, your face, your memories, and all that’s left is bark.

They laughed when they said it, but no one offered to come with me.

I’m half a mile in when the trail narrows and the silence thickens. Even my breathing feels too loud.

There’s a clearing ahead—unnatural, perfect, circular. In the center stands a single tree taller than all the rest. Its trunk splits like ribs around a hollowed space.

And inside that hollow—Alex.

He's standing, eyes open, face blank. Alive.

“Alex!” I shout.

He doesn’t move.

I run, heart punching my ribs. My foot hits the soft moss at the edge of the clearing—and I freeze.

A voice—low, deep, not quite human—echoes in my head:

“One step more, and the forest takes two.”

I stagger back.

Alex blinks. A single tear runs down his cheek.

The whisper returns—this time, it’s his voice. Not spoken. Thought.

“Don’t. Please. It already has me.”

I camp just outside the clearing. The hollow tree pulses in the moonlight, breathing like an animal.

Through the night, I hear whispers from the woods. Not just Alex—others. Some angry. Some crying. Some... singing lullabies.

In the early light, I return.

“Tell me what to do,” I whisper to him.

He mouths a word: remember.

When we were kids, Alex and I played a game—hide and seek in our backyard. One day, I couldn’t find him. Hours passed. I panicked. When I finally did, he was in the old shed, laughing.

That night, I swore I’d never lose him again.

Now, I remember that promise. I speak it aloud.

The tree groans. Bark splits. A second hollow opens beside Alex.

My legs move before I decide.

One step. Two.

The moss welcomes me like a grave.

I stand beside him now. We don’t speak. We don’t need to. Something ancient presses into our thoughts.

“You are remembered,” it says. “So you are not gone.”

The woods hum with memory. Ours. Yours. Everyone’s.

And then, in a moment that feels like both a second and a lifetime, Alex steps out.

The forest lets him go.

They found him wandering near the trailhead at dawn, confused, shivering, and alive.

He doesn’t remember the tree. Or me. But sometimes, when it’s quiet, he stops mid-sentence and turns his head like he hears something in the leaves.

I’m still in Deadwood Hollow.

But I don’t feel lost.

Because sometimes, the trees bury the living to protect the ones we love.

And if that means being forgotten to be remembered—then let the forest have my name.

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