They ran, but the forest ran with them.Roots shifted underfoot, tangling their steps. Branches dipped lower, scratching at their faces as if memorising them. The air thickened, rich with rot and something sweet — like overripe fruit left too long in the sun.
Evan felt the mark on his wrist burning.
When he glanced down, it had darkened to the same colour as the spiral in the oak. Fine tendrils spread from it, spidering up his arm beneath the skin.
“It’s inside me,” he rasped.
Behind them, the dragging grew louder. Not hurried. Not frantic.
Certain.
They burst through a wall of brush and found themselves not at the forest’s edge — but back in the clearing.
The oak stood whole again.
No carving.
No split bark.
But beneath their feet, the soil shifted.
Hands erupted from the earth.
Not human hands — root-knotted things, grasping and pale. They seized Lena’s ankle. She screamed as she was dragged to her knees.
Evan grabbed her, pulling against the impossible strength beneath the soil. The earth cracked open.
And he saw them.
Bodies fused with roots. Faces half-swallowed by bark. Eyes open, blinking slowly through layers of wood.
The lost.
The hikers. The campers. The stories.
The Green Man stood at the edge of the clearing, silent.
Not attacking.
Watching.
Waiting.
The mark on Evan’s wrist pulsed again.
And the hands loosened.
Just enough.
As if responding to him.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
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