The Forgotten Echo

Chapter 3 – The Forest With No Escape

I needed to get out of that house.

Even though I couldn’t remember the way back, couldn’t remember my name, couldn’t remember anything at all — I knew one thing clearly: if I stayed there, I would die. Maybe physically, or maybe some other kind of death, slow, painful, and unnoticed.

I grabbed the coat hanging by the door, shoved the leather notebook into my pocket, and stepped outside.

The air hit me like a cold blade — sharp, biting, filled with mist. The trees stood tall like giant ribs of some long-dead beast, silent and watchful, enclosing the house like a tomb. No cars. No voices. Only the occasional caw of a crow — harsh and mocking, echoing in my ears like laughter.

The dirt path led from the house deeper into the forest. I followed it instinctively. Every step I took, I glanced behind, afraid the house might vanish — or shift — like it had never existed.

After about an hour, I found a narrow trail veering to the left, the grass crushed as if someone had recently walked that way.

I followed it.

At the end of the path stood a small cabin, old, rotten wood, its rusted tin roof barely holding on. The door was cracked open, flickering with the pale light of an oil lamp inside.

I knocked.

No answer.

But then, a slow shuffle of dragging feet. And a raspy voice broke the silence:

“You’re back, huh?”

I froze.

An old man appeared in the doorway. His hair was silver, his face cracked like bark on an ancient tree. He held a glass of whiskey and a half-smoked cigarette. The flickering flame revealed cloudy eyes sharp as a magnifying glass, staring straight through me.

“I... I’m sorry. I don’t remember coming here. I have amnesia. I’m just trying to find my way out of the woods.”

He sneered, spitting on the ground.

“Amnesia, huh? You’re always like that. Every time you do it, you come back here, paint another one... Then you forget.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“You... you know me?”

“I know you,” he said. “I know her too. That girl. The one with ash-gray eyes and death stuck in her throat.”

He took a slow sip of his drink.

“I told you last year, and the year before. But you never leave. You have to watch her die, again and again.”

“Who is ‘her’?” I asked, voice cracking.

“You know better than I do.”

I wanted to scream. To demand that he explain.

But he shook his head and stepped inside, slamming the door shut.

I stood there trembling. The cold seemed to seep deeper into my bones. The air thickened — heavy and damp, smelling like moss and rotting flesh.

When I returned to the house, darkness had swallowed the forest.

But something made my blood run cold:

A new painting had appeared on the wall.

I didn’t remember painting it.

She lay sprawled in the forest, her neck crushed.

My hands shook as I reached into my pocket.

The paintbrush was still wet.