Short Story: Whispers in the Woods
The youngesters had come to the forest for adventure—for ghost stories by the fire, illicit cigarettes, cheap booze and the thrill of being miles away from civilisation. It was meant to be harmless fun, a weekend escape from the monotony of city life.
But the woods were older than their fears, steeped in secrets that had rotted beneath the soil for centuries. Some legends were more than just stories. Some names were never meant to be spoken.
And when the four friends called out to the darkness, something ancient and hungry answered.
Whispers in the Woods
The fire crackled in the clearing, casting flickering shadows against the towering trees. The scent of damp earth and charred wood hung heavy in the crisp night air as the four young friends—Tom, Sarah, Liam, and Anne—huddled around the warmth, their voices hushed against the vast darkness stretching beyond them.
“Go on, then,” Liam smirked, taking a deep swig from a cider bottle in his hands. His face twisted from the bitter taste of the cheap, high alcohol, brew, “Tell us another one, Tom.”
Tom, ever the storyteller, leaned forward, his expression lit with mischief. “This forest,” he began, lowering his voice to a whisper, “was once home to the Green Hollow Witch. They say she was wronged—betrayed and murdered by the villagers centuries ago. But her spirit never left. If you call her name thrice, she comes for you.”
Anne drew deeply from her cigarette. She scoffed, hugging her knees. “Oh, come off it. That old cliché?”
“It’s true,” Tom insisted, his grin widening. “Her name was Morrigan. They say she lived deep in these woods, healing the sick and helping those the village abandoned. But when the crops failed, when the children took ill, they blamed her. One night, a mob stormed her cottage, dragged her from her home, and burned her alive in a clearing… not far from here.”
The fire crackled, throwing eerie shapes against the surrounding trees.
Liam let out a laugh, though it sounded forced, he handed the cider bottle to Tom. “Bit convenient, isn’t it? Every village has a witch story.”
Tom wiped the mouth of the bottle, took a drink of cider and raised an eyebrow. “Then why is this forest called Green Hollow? The ground where she died is cursed—nothing grows there. And if you call her name three times…”
He let the words hang in the air, letting the tension build.
“She comes for you.”
A heavy silence settled between them. The wind rustled the leaves above, whispering through the branches.
Anne rolled her eyes and flicked here depleted cigarette butt into the fire. With a sigh she shifted her gaze up into the treetops above and said, “Only one way to prove this is bollocks, then.”
Before anyone could stop her, she called loudly into the darkness around them, “Morrigan… Morrigan… Morrigan.”
The name slithered through the night, swallowed instantly by the vast, waiting silence.
The fire flickered. The embers, once burning strong, dimmed slightly as the air grew still. The wind had vanished.
Sarah shifted uncomfortably. “Did you hear that?”
The others listened. The forest, once alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures and an uneven wind, was now eerily silent. The air itself felt thick, suffocating.
A branch snapped behind them.
They all spun around, their hearts hammering.
“That was just an animal,” Liam muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
Then, the whisper came—a low, rasping breath that curled through the darkness like smoke.
Anne took a step back, her torchlight flickering as if the battery was dying. “This isn’t funny, Tom,” she said, but her voice wavered.
Tom’s smirk had faded. “I didn’t do anything.”
Another branch cracked. This time, it was closer.
A shape loomed just beyond the edge of the firelight—a gaunt, withered figure standing among the trees, half-hidden in shadow. Her flesh was charred and split, blackened muscle visible beneath peeling, blistered skin. Her lips curled into a grotesque grin, stretching far too wide for a human face. When she stepped forward, her body creaked, her bones grinding like rusted hinges.
Liam gasped. “Bloody hell…”
The figure lurched forward.
Sarah screamed.
The fire snuffed out, plunging them into suffocating darkness.
Tom dropped the cider bottle, it’s contents spilling onto the forest floor and he shouted, “Run!”
They all bolted in different directions, crashing through the undergrowth, lungs burning, feet slipping on damp leaves. But the whisper followed—closer, inside their heads now, crawling beneath their skin.
“You called… Now, you pay.”
Anne screamed as cold, skeletal fingers sank into her shoulder. She was yanked back with inhuman strength, her bones crunching under the grip. She struggled, but it was useless. The thing was too strong.
Then the pain started.
A guttural rip echoed through the forest as the witch dug her claws beneath Anne’s skin, peeling it from her shoulder in a slow, wet strip. Blood poured down her arm, soaking her shirt in thick, steaming warmth. Her scream turned into a gurgling shriek as a bony hand plunged into her mouth, fingers curling around her tongue.
With a sickening tear, her tongue was yanked free.
Anne’s body convulsed, blood bubbling from her gaping mouth as her eyes rolled back, the tendons in her neck snapping like cords.
Tom ran blindly, his breath ragged, his heart a frantic drum in his chest. He didn’t dare look back. Liam’s scream cut through the night, raw and agonised, followed by a wet, meaty chop.
Sarah sobbed as she tripped, crashing to the ground. The whisper slithered around her, caressing her ears with venomous delight.
Then, hands—cold, skeletal hands—burst from the soil, clutching at her ankles.
Sarah clawed at the dirt, desperate, but the hands dragged her under, the earth swallowing her whole.
Tom was the last one left. He ran until his legs gave out, until he collapsed in a clearing—his hands sinking into barren, grey soil.
His eyes widened in terror as a shadow fell over him. A rotting face loomed above, lips curling into that monstrous grin, “You called…”
She reached down and sank her fingers into his chest.
“Now, you pay.”
The last thing Tom heard was the wet, visceral sound of his ribs splitting open and his own heartbeat slowing in her grip.
By morning, the campsite was empty. The fire was nothing but cold ash.
Only the whisper remained, curling through the trees, waiting for the next fool to call her name.
© Colin Lawson 2019
© Colin Lawson Books