Cutting Head

Cutting Head

The town of Raven's Hollow had always harbored dark secrets, but none as sinister as the legend of the Cutting Head. It was whispered that a figure haunted the old Blackwood Forest, wielding a rusted axe and claiming the heads of those who dared wander too far into the night. Skeptics dismissed it as folklore, but every few years, a new disappearance would renew the fear.

Ethan Carter never believed in ghost stories. A journalist by trade, he thrived on exposing myths and uncovering the truth. When rumors of a fresh disappearance surfaced—this time, a local hunter named Greg Miller—Ethan saw an opportunity for a compelling exposé. He packed his camera, flashlight, and notebook and set off toward the dreaded forest.

The entrance to Blackwood was a gaping maw of twisted trees, their skeletal branches reaching like fingers toward the sky. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the only sounds were the distant hoots of owls and the rustling of unseen creatures. Ethan ignored the chill creeping up his spine and ventured deeper.

He followed the path Greg had taken, marked by torn bits of fabric and discarded cigarette butts. The deeper he went, the heavier the atmosphere became, as if the forest itself was aware of his presence. After an hour, he found something—Greg’s backpack, slashed open, its contents strewn across the ground. Nearby, there were footprints… and drag marks leading further into the trees.

A sudden snap of a twig made Ethan whirl around. The beam of his flashlight trembled as it scanned the trees. Nothing. Just the endless void of darkness between the trunks. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on.

Then he saw it.

A cabin, decrepit and leaning as if exhausted from standing for too many years. The windows were dark, the door slightly ajar. Ethan hesitated before stepping forward. The air here smelled of rot and old blood. He pushed the door open.

The stench hit him first—a putrid mix of decay and iron. The room was dimly lit by the moon filtering through cracks in the wooden walls. And in the center of the room, lined up on a crude wooden table, were severed heads.

Ethan’s stomach lurched as he counted. Five. Six. Seven. The last one was fresh, eyes still wide with terror.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

He spun around, but it was too late.

A shadow loomed from the darkness, a massive figure clad in tattered leather, its face obscured by a mask fashioned from stitched flesh. In its calloused hands gleamed a rusted axe, dripping with something dark.

Ethan stumbled back, nearly knocking over the gruesome display. “Wait! I-I just wanted to know the truth!”

The figure cocked its head, as if considering. Then, with terrifying speed, it lunged.

Ethan dodged, but the axe grazed his arm, slicing through his jacket and drawing a burning line of pain. He crashed into the table, sending severed heads rolling to the floor. Heart hammering, he scrambled for his camera, raising it like a shield. The killer hesitated, as if confused by the flashing lens.

Seizing the moment, Ethan bolted for the door. His legs pumped furiously as he tore through the forest, branches whipping at his face. Behind him, heavy footsteps pounded the earth, growing closer. The rustling turned into crashing, then silence.

Had it stopped chasing him?

Ethan dared a glance back—and tripped.

Pain exploded in his ribs as he hit the ground. He gasped, struggling to rise, but a weight pinned him down. Hot, rancid breath tickled his ear.

A whisper.

"No one escapes the Cutting Head."

The axe fell.

The next morning, the townspeople of Raven’s Hollow awoke to a gruesome sight at the town square. A fresh head had been placed atop the old stone fountain, eyes frozen in eternal terror.

Ethan had found his truth.

And he had become part of the legend.