Whispers of the Howling Pine.

The people of Dunridge always said the Pine Hollow wasn’t just a forest—it was a memory that never forgot. A dark place cursed with whispers, vanishing hikers, and cold winds that carried voices not born of this world.

Samir had heard the stories growing up. How the Hollow had once been the site of a mass hanging during the witch trials. How one of the accused, a woman named Elsha Crowe, had not died screaming—but smiling. According to legend, her body had vanished before dawn, and her spirit had been seen wandering the woods, merging with the roots, vines, and bark of the trees.

But Samir was a city boy now—skeptic, curious, and prideful. The old tales were just that to him—stories.

So when his friends dared him to spend one full night alone in the Pine Hollow, he laughed and accepted, claiming he’d document the entire thing on video. “I’ll prove there’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said. “It’s just a forest.”

He regretted those words the moment he stepped beneath the pine canopy.

The sun was beginning to set, bleeding crimson across the sky as he hiked deeper into the woods. With every step, the forest grew quieter, like the trees were swallowing the sound around them. He set up camp by an oddly twisted pine tree—bent unnaturally, as if bowing to something no longer visible.

Locals called it The Bender. Samir rolled his eyes at the name.

The night came fast, as if darkness had been waiting to fall. His campfire flickered weakly, casting orange light on the black trees around him. Every now and then, he'd hear a soft snap—a twig breaking, leaves rustling. Probably animals, he thought. Or the wind.

But there was no wind.

Around midnight, the fire dimmed without warning. Samir tried to feed it more wood, but the flames refused to grow. Then came the cold—a deep, bone-freezing chill that seemed to rise from the ground itself. His flashlight flickered, and in that momentary strobe, he saw her.

A pale woman, standing between two trees. Her long, black hair hung like wet ropes over her face. Her arms dangled awkwardly by her sides, and her head tilted—once, twice—like a curious animal.

“Hello?” he called out, unsure whether to be scared or concerned.

She didn’t answer.

She vanished.

He spun around, shining his light everywhere. The woman was nowhere, yet somehow, she was everywhere. Behind a tree. Hanging from a branch. Crouched in the bushes. His breaths came out in misty puffs. The trees seemed to lean closer.

Then came the whispers.

Soft at first. Like wind brushing the back of his neck. Then clearer.

"Don’t leave me again…"

"You said forever…"

"Stay…"

They surrounded him, voices without mouths, pain without form. Samir grabbed his bag and ran. No direction, no plan—just blind escape.

But every path led back to The Bender.

The bent tree stood waiting for him again and again, no matter which way he turned. He began to cry, panic flooding his chest. He collapsed, exhausted, leaning against what felt like a rock.

It was warm. And beating.

He looked down.

He wasn’t sitting on stone—he was on a massive root that pulsed like a living organ. It moved beneath him. From the soil below, pale, thin hands emerged—fingers clawing toward the sky.

They touched his legs. Grabbed his wrists. Pulled.

Samir screamed and fought, kicking, writhing, barely breaking free. He scrambled backward, his flashlight swinging wildly, catching a glimpse of something horrible—dozens of faces in the bark of the surrounding trees. Mouths open. Eyes wide. Frozen in agony.

Trapped in wood.

He stumbled into the clearing, dropped to his knees, and whispered every prayer he remembered. Not because he believed—he didn’t—but because instinct makes everyone a believer when death feels real.

Suddenly, silence.

Not a single sound.

Until the final whisper:

"Now… you’re part of me."

---

Morning.

The search party found Samir curled up at the edge of the forest, eyes wide open but vacant. Mud smeared across his face. Fingernail scratches down both arms. His voice was gone. He would never speak again.

Doctors said he was in shock. Trauma. But the locals knew better. They said the forest had taken its piece of him.

The tent? Never found.

The footage? Erased. Just static.

Samir now sits in his parents’ house, staring at the window every night, waiting. No one knows what for.

But some claim if you stand near Pine Hollow at midnight on a moonless night and listen closely, you'll hear a man whispering into the dark:

"She’s still watching…"

And the trees?

They whisper back.