The Forest Wraith
Ethan had always been drawn to the unknown. As a freelance journalist, he thrived on uncovering mysteries that others dared not touch. So, when he heard rumors of the Whispering Woods, he knew he had to see them for himself.
The woods, according to local legend, were cursed. Travelers who ventured too deep never returned, and those who did were found days later, driven mad, muttering about a shadowy figure among the trees. Some called it the Forest Wraith, a spirit of vengeance bound to the land.
Ethan, ever the skeptic, dismissed these stories as folklore. He packed his camera, a flashlight, and a voice recorder before setting off. As he stepped into the forest, a chilling wind brushed against his skin. The trees loomed overhead, their twisted branches blocking out most of the sunlight. The deeper he went, the more the silence weighed on him.
His camera clicked as he documented the eerie surroundings. Gnarled roots clawed at the earth like skeletal fingers. A thick fog slithered between the trees, muffling every sound. Ethan swallowed the growing unease in his gut.
Then he heard it—a whisper.
It was faint, almost like the wind, but distinctly human. He froze, ears straining. The whispering grew louder, voices overlapping, speaking in a language he couldn’t understand. He turned in a slow circle, heart hammering. His flashlight flickered.
Something moved in the fog.
A shadow, tall and thin, glided between the trees. Ethan's breath hitched. The air grew frigid, and an overwhelming sense of dread settled in his chest. He lifted his camera, but when he peered through the lens, the figure was gone.
A sharp crack echoed through the woods. He spun around, flashlight sweeping over the terrain. The trees seemed to shift, their bark writhing like living flesh. Panic surged through him. He needed to leave.
He turned back the way he came, but the path had vanished. The forest had rearranged itself, trapping him. He stumbled forward, breath ragged, as whispers clawed at his ears.
Then he saw it.
The Wraith.
It stood mere feet away, its face obscured beneath a hood of shadows. Its elongated fingers twitched as it stepped closer. Ethan tried to run, but his limbs felt heavy, as though the very air resisted his movement.
The whispering became deafening, voices screaming in agony. The Wraith lifted a bony hand, pointing directly at Ethan. Darkness swirled around him, pulling him under. His vision blurred, and then—nothing.
Days later, hikers found Ethan on the forest’s edge, curled into a fetal position, his once vibrant eyes now hollow and empty. He never spoke again. The only thing he left behind was his camera, its final image capturing the impossible.
A twisted face within the fog, watching, waiting.
The Forest Wraith had claimed another soul.
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