Beyond the last village lay a forest no one dared to enter after sunset. The trees stood twisted like frozen screams, and the air smelled of damp earth and fear. Locals whispered that restless spirits roamed there, dragging the living into eternal darkness.
One evening, a traveler named Rohan ignored the warnings. As he stepped inside, the forest grew unnaturally silent. Even the insects stopped singing. His torch flickered, casting long, moving shadows that did not belong to any tree.
Suddenly, whispers filled the air—soft voices calling his name. Pale figures appeared between the trunks, their bodies half-formed, faces frozen in pain. Their feet never touched the ground. Rohan ran, but the path kept changing, looping him deeper into the forest.
A chilling laugh echoed as a dark spirit emerged, its eyes burning like dying embers. “You walk on the land of the dead,” it hissed. Cold hands grabbed Rohan’s ankles, pulling him down. The forest floor opened like a mouth.
At dawn, villagers found his footprints leading into the forest—and stopping suddenly. Some nights, travelers hear screams among the trees. They say the forest grows thicker each year, fed by souls who never found their way out
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