The Forest That Hunts The Soul
1267 Words
They didn’t waste time.
After a tense silence, Mang Ramon stepped forward and began to mutter—a prayer, low and steady, in a dialect none of them recognized. It wasn’t the soft kind spoken over dinner tables. It was ancient. Sharp. Like a blade drawn across something unseen.
His fingers brushed the handle of his machete, but he didn’t raise it.
“We head for the resort,” he said. “Stick close. No one strays from the path. Not even by a step.”
No one argued.
The van stood behind them like a forgotten skeleton—rusted, cold, and wrong. As if it had never been part of their world. As if it had always belonged to this forest.
They moved in a tight group. Footsteps muffled by moss and fallen leaves. Mist clung to their legs like restless hands.
Aya stayed close to the middle, Dylan just beside her. Their hands brushed every so often, fingers grazing by accident—or perhaps not.
He didn’t pull away.
Not anymore.
But the forest had changed.
Quieter now. But the quiet didn’t soothe—it threatened. The air was thick, cloying, like breath held too long. The light overhead was pale and wrong. It wasn’t sunlight—it was like the reflection of a dying moon through dirty glass.
The trees grew denser. Taller. Their trunks twisted in unnatural shapes—some with bark that pulsed, some with roots shaped like hands.
Still, they walked.
Aya couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Not just followed. Observed. The shadows flickered too deliberately. She felt it every time she blinked—as if the forest shifted its mask the moment she looked away.
Max tried to lighten the mood, throwing out sarcastic quips about how this was the worst "outing" he'd ever signed up for. Mika gave a tired laugh. Tiana managed a snort.
Then she stopped.
Her breath caught. “Did you see that?”
Max looked at her. “See what?”
Tiana lifted her hand and pointed upward. “That bird.”
Aya followed her gaze.
It sat silently in the trees. A massive bird—black with crimson-tipped wings, feathers like wet velvet and eyes that glowed like coal left too long in the fire. It didn’t blink. It didn’t breathe.
It just watched.
Then it spread its wings.
The forest dimmed.
Shadows pooled at their feet. Even Mang Ramon faltered, his prayer stuttering on his tongue.
Tiana stepped closer to Dylan, reaching for his arm. “Is it following us?”
Dylan didn’t move. “Don’t touch me.”
His voice was low. Controlled. But final.
Tiana’s hand hovered in the air a moment, then dropped.
Aya blinked.
A flicker of jealousy—sharp and cold—bit into her chest. Tiana hadn’t done anything. Not really. But the look in her eyes, the way she reached for him so naturally…
Dylan was hers.
Even if he wouldn’t say it.
Even if he couldn’t.
She shook the thought away. Not now.
Ahead, Max stiffened.
He froze in place, eyes wide.
A woman stood among the trees. Draped in white, skin luminous. Her hair flowed like a river of snow, eyes silver and hollow. Her lips curved into a soft smile as she lifted a hand—beckoning him silently.
“Don’t look at her,” Dylan said, his voice slicing through the air. “Don’t speak. Don’t blink.”
Max looked away.
Barely.
He reached out and gripped Lauren’s hand—hard.
The woman melted into the trees like fog evaporating in morning sun.
Gone.
Aya’s heart thudded painfully.
This forest didn’t just hunt the body. It hunted the soul. The soft places. The secret places.
Beside her, Mika whimpered and leaned harder into Lance. “They’re whispering my name,” she said. “From the trees. I hear them. Like his fans... calling him. Like they want to take him from me.”
Lance tightened his grip on her hand.
“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered. “Don’t listen.”
His other hand stayed in his jacket pocket. Tucked around the letter she once wrote him in the quiet of her room—where she said she was afraid to be chosen second again.
They kept walking.
The path narrowed. The mist grew heavy, clinging to their skin like breath. The forest pressed in—dense and breathing.
Aya’s legs throbbed, but she didn’t stop.
Dylan was close. His presence steady, grounding.
But something was changing.
Aya could feel Tiana glance at him again and again—uncertain, still drawn to his silence. Still hoping for safety from a boy she barely understood.
And something inside Aya twisted.
It was a silent fury, low and quiet and strange—because she remembered.
She remembered the dream.
His kiss.
His bite.
The way the pain had folded into comfort, into something older than love.
The bond inside her stirred again. Stronger. Her locket throbbed against her chest.
Dylan kept his distance.
Just enough to keep her doubting.
And then—
The trees shifted.
The air changed.
A clearing opened.
And standing at the center of it—
Her house.
Aya froze.
It was impossible.
Her childhood home—small, worn, familiar. A light on in the living room. Smoke curling from the chimney.
Her parents standing at the door.
“Aya,” her father called, his voice soft and warm. “Come inside. It’s cold. You’re tired. Let me hold you.”
Her mother stepped beside him. “I cooked your favorite dish. Come in. We’ve missed you.”
Aya’s heart cracked.
She took a step.
Then—
“No.” Dylan’s voice cut through the illusion like steel. “They’re not real. Aya, look at me. It’s not them.”
Aya’s breath shook. The dream version of her mother smiled wider. Too wide. Her father blinked—too slowly.
And then the house screamed.
The illusion shattered—splintering like glass underwater. The forest convulsed. The house and figures collapsed into ash, carried away by wind that came from nowhere.
Silence.
Not peace.
Just... waiting.
They moved again. Quieter. Wearier. Each step heavier than the last.
Then—
Tiana stumbled, her ankle catching a root.
Dylan reached out—automatically—steadying her.
It lasted only a second.
But it was enough.
Aya felt something inside her snap and coil all at once.
And that was when the trees parted.
The forest opened.
Like a curtain being drawn back.
And there it was.
The resort.
Real. Weathered. Beautiful in a forgotten way.
It stood tall behind rusted iron gates, its walls wrapped in ivy. A cracked fountain glimmered at the front. The windows were tall and dark—but not broken.
It didn’t shimmer. It didn’t vanish.
No illusion.
Dylan said nothing.
But Aya saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes darkened—not in fear, but in recognition.
He didn’t trust this place.
But they had no choice.
Mang Ramon lowered his machete slowly, his voice barely a whisper now. “We’re here.”
No one relaxed.
Not yet.
Not with the way the gates creaked open—without being touched.
Not with the way the breeze stopped altogether the moment they stepped past the threshold.
Aya’s locket burned against her skin.
She winced, clutching it through her shirt.
And Dylan’s eyes shifted.
Crimson flickered behind his lashes—gone in a blink.
Only Aya saw.
Only she felt it.
There was something inside the resort.
Something ancient.
And it already knew her name.
- Writer
