"The Children in the Woods Remember Everything… Even the Future"

The first time I saw them, I thought they were just ordinary kids playing in the woods behind my grandmother’s cottage. Five of them, all between eight and twelve, huddled in a circle beneath the gnarled oak tree that locals called *"The Watcher."* But there was something wrong—they didn’t laugh, didn’t run around, didn’t even speak. They just… *stared*.

I raised a hand in greeting. Only one—a girl with tangled black hair and hollow, gray eyes—waved back. Her smile was slow, deliberate, as if she’d forgotten how human faces worked.

That night, over steaming chamomile tea, my grandmother dropped her spoon with a clatter when I mentioned them.

**"You saw them?"** Her voice was a dry whisper. **"The children in the woods?"**

**"Yeah. They were kinda… creepy."**

She gripped my wrist, her nails biting into my skin. **"They remember, Clara. They remember *everything*."**

**The First Warning: Fire**

Three days later, the black-haired girl—*Lila*—appeared at my window at dawn. Her nightgown was damp with dew, her bare feet caked in mud like she’d walked for miles.

**"The mill will burn tonight,"** she said, her voice flat, empty. **"Don’t go near it."**

I laughed. The old mill had been abandoned since the '80s, its rotting beams home to nothing but rats and graffiti. But at 9:17 PM, my phone buzzed with emergency alerts. *Fire near Mill Road. Evacuate if nearby.*

Through my bedroom window, I watched the horizon glow orange. The next morning, I found Lila by the oak tree.

**"How did you know?"** I demanded.

She blinked slowly. **"We saw it before."**

**"Before *what*?"**

She didn’t answer.

**The Second Warning: Flood**

Then came the boy with freckles—*Eli*. He intercepted me at the mailbox, his overalls streaked with dirt.

**"The river will rise on Sunday,"** he said, his pupils so wide his eyes looked black. **"Move your car."**

I didn’t.

On Sunday, a storm rolled in like a biblical curse. The river swelled, swallowing the road whole. My Honda was found a mile downstream, windows shattered, seats bloated with muddy water.

When I confronted the children, they just stared.

**"You knew,"** I whispered. **"How do you *know* these things?"**

Lila tilted her head, birdlike. **"We remember."**

**The Whispers in the Dark**

I started listening. The children spoke in riddles:

- *"The man with the red hat will fall."* (Old Mr. Hendricks broke his hip the next day.)

- *"The white dog will find the bones."* (A stray dug up the old Petrovski family’s collie, buried in 1992.)

But last night, Lila grabbed my wrist as I passed the oak tree. Her fingers were corpse-cold.

**"You’ll be next,"** she breathed, her lips brushing my ear. **"In the dark. With *him*."**

**The Truth Beneath the Oak**

Today, I followed them.

Deep into the woods, where the sunlight frayed into shadows, the children knelt in a clearing, digging with their bare hands. Dirt streaked their cheeks like war paint.

**"What are you doing?"** My voice shook.

Lila held up a rusted locket—*my* locket, the one I’d lost at age twelve. **"You left it here,"** she said. **"Before."**

My breath hitched. **"Before *what*?"**

The children exchanged glances. Then, in unison:

**"Before you died."**

**The Memories That Weren’t Mine**

The pieces clicked like a coffin locking shut:

- The cottage’s "guest room" Grandma insisted was *"yours since you were little"*—even though I’d never visited before this summer.

- The photo albums filled with pictures of *me* in places I’d never been.

- The way the children said *"you’ll be next"*—not *"you’ll die."*

Because I’d *been* next.

Thirty years ago, five children vanished in these woods. Search parties combed for weeks. Only one body was ever found.

*Mine.*

**The Man in the Dark**

Now, as twilight bleeds into night, the house groans like a living thing.

Footsteps creak on the stairs. Heavy. Slow. *Deliberate.*

The children warned me.

**"In the dark. With him."**

The attic door whines open. A shadow pools at the threshold, stretching, *breathing*.

And I finally remember *why* the children never run.

Some memories don’t stay buried.

Some debts don’t stay unpaid.

The End.

ByHanif