No one in the village entered Blackwood Forest after sunset. People said the forest was alive, and it whispered the names of those who dared to walk inside. I never believed the stories—until the night I heard
my own name.
It started as a faint sound in the wind. “Arjun…” The whisper was soft, almost gentle. I turned around, expecting to see someone behind me, but the path was empty. The deeper I walked, the louder the whispers became.
“Arjun… come closer.”
The trees creaked as if they were breathing. Leaves rustled even though there was no wind. Suddenly, I noticed strange
carvings on the tree trunks—names scratched deep into the bark. Some were old and faded, others looked fresh.
Then I saw it.
My name had been carved into a tree directly in front of me.
A cold chill ran down my
spine. I hadn’t been here before… so who wrote it?
The whisper returned, this time right beside my ear. “You belong here now.”
I ran as fast as I could, branches scratching my face. When I finally escaped the forest, I thought it was over.
But sometimes, late at night, when everything is silent… I still hear the forest calling my name. 👻
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