The Bone Harvester

No one ventured into Fern Hollow Woods after dusk. For generations, the townsfolk had shared stories of a creature that lurked in the shadows—The Bone Harvester. Rumor had it that he roamed the forest at night, hunting for the lost, the unlucky, and those who dared trespass his domain.

Amy was new to town and had heard the stories. She and her friends thought it was all just folklore, a tale to keep kids from wandering too far. Determined to prove it, they packed their flashlights, threw on their jackets, and headed into the woods as night fell.

The forest was unnaturally silent, and a heavy fog seemed to cling to the ground, winding through the trees like ghostly fingers. The deeper they ventured, the thicker the trees grew, their twisted branches blotting out the moonlight.

As they walked, the group stumbled upon strange markings etched into the tree trunks. They looked like ancient symbols, spirals and jagged lines scratched deep into the bark.

“Looks like someone’s idea of a joke,” Tom scoffed, but Amy felt a shiver as she traced one of the symbols with her finger. The bark was cold to the touch, colder than it should’ve been.

Suddenly, they heard a snap. They froze, holding their breaths. From the shadows, a figure emerged. At first, they saw only a shape—a tall, gaunt figure draped in a cloak of darkness, his movements slow and deliberate. Then came the sound, a bone-chilling scrape like metal dragging over stone.

The figure stepped closer, and they saw him—a man, but not a man. His face was covered in a mask made of bones, crudely strapped together, hiding his true features. In his hand, he held a long, rusted scythe, its edge chipped and jagged, dripping with something thick and dark.

“Who… who are you?” Amy stammered, clutching her flashlight tightly.

The figure tilted his head, bones rattling, as if amused by her question. When he spoke, his voice was a hollow rasp, like wind blowing through a crypt.

“I am the Bone Harvester. You have wandered too deep.”

Without warning, he lunged. Amy’s friends scattered, but the Harvester was relentless. She could hear their screams echoing through the trees as he closed in, his scythe slicing through the mist like a snake striking its prey.

Amy ran, heart pounding, her lungs burning as she darted through the maze of trees. The Harvester’s footsteps thudded behind her, slow but unwavering, as though he knew she had nowhere to run.

Finally, she saw an old stone altar in a clearing. She recognized it from the old stories—it was where the townsfolk had once offered sacrifices to appease him, to keep the Harvester away. But they’d stopped long ago, and he’d returned, hungrier than ever.

In a desperate attempt, she climbed onto the altar, hoping the elevated stone would somehow protect her. But the Harvester stopped just before it, his bony mask tilting up to meet her gaze.

“You cannot escape, child,” he hissed. “The woods remember. The bones remember.”

With one final scream, she raised her flashlight, shining it directly into his masked face. The light flickered, illuminating hollow eye sockets, empty and endless, like pits of darkness that absorbed every last ounce of hope.

And then, she saw him lean forward, and the mask cracked open. Beneath it was nothing—just an endless void, pulling her in, swallowing her whole.

The next morning, the townsfolk found the clearing empty, except for a trail of bones leading deeper into the forest. None of Amy’s friends were ever seen again, and no one dared enter Fern Hollow Woods after dark.

They say the Bone Harvester still roams the woods, his mask rattling with every step. And if you listen closely, you can hear the whispers of those he claimed, calling out, trapped forever in his bone-filled mask.