Member-only story
The Watchers
Be careful where you tread.
I don’t remember the last time I was in the forest — namely when I stood past the barrier of trees and didn’t feel fear tremble through me.
You wouldn’t notice them at first. You might mistake them for trees — or misshapen shadows from a trick of the light. But then one will move, its neck cracking at an odd angle while its beaked face opens in a silent scream.
The Watchers stand guard every night and every morn, but the why of it has always eluded those of us who live in the small forest-adjacent village.
And the ones who travel through — well, they come back forever changed.
I remember one dawn when a spooked horse galloped out of the trees. Its eyes were wild, glazed over with a film of white, and no one could calm it down. Eventually Thomas Jorne had to take it away behind the stables before anything catching could infect the village’s own brood of animals.
But that wasn’t the heart of the matter: no, less than an hour later out stumbled a man, his bare feet muddied and his clothes torn. Or, at least, it looked like a man. I’ll never forget the way his body bent backwards unnaturally, a noise like laughter pouring out of his broken jaw.
Even the village elders were too afraid to approach the man. It didn’t matter in the…
