The Silent Land

Fog hung low over the hills like a blanket of unwelcome silence, and the moon's pale light struggled to pierce through it. Wen had never been one for ghost stories or small-town superstitions, but the legend of the Silent Land had clawed its way into his thoughts ever since he’d moved to this isolated village a few weeks ago. He had come for the peace, the quiet — a place to finish his book. Now, though, as the wind howled through the trees and the mist slithered between the branches, he couldn’t help but feel like he was part of one of those very stories.

The locals didn’t talk much about the Silent Land. Whenever it was brought up, they’d quickly change the subject or, at best, mutter something vague about it being a place you "shouldn't go after dark." But Wen had heard enough snippets at the pub to understand that it was an old stretch of woods, less than a mile from his cabin, that no one dared enter anymore. Something about people vanishing, the land swallowing them whole.

Wen scoffed at the thought. Probably just some legend they used to scare kids into behaving. After all, every town had its "haunted" place. But tonight, something felt different. He’d woken up earlier to a strange noise — an odd, metallic scraping sound. At first, he’d brushed it off, assuming it was just a tree branch scraping against his window, but when he checked, there was nothing there. Just the thick, suffocating fog and the woods stretching out endlessly into the darkness.

He tried to go back to bed, but the unease gnawed at him, making sleep impossible. Now, as the clock struck midnight, Wen found himself standing at the edge of the Silent Land, his breath visible in the cold night air. He hadn’t planned to come here — his feet had simply led him, as if compelled by some unseen force.

The trees loomed tall and skeletal, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. The air here was still, unnervingly so. No wind rustled the leaves, no animals stirred in the underbrush. It was as though the entire forest was holding its breath, waiting.

Wen’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, the rhythm unnaturally loud in the eerie quiet. He sucked in a breath and the sound of it rasping in his throat seemed wrong — too sharp, too human for the deadened air around him. It made the silence feel more sinister, like the woods were listening, waiting for him to slip.

"Come on," Wen muttered to himself, his voice swallowed by the fog before it could travel more than a few feet. "It’s just trees. Nothing to be scared of.”

He stepped forward, the crunch of leaves beneath his boots amplifying in the silence until it felt like the earth itself was groaning beneath him. The fog thickened, wrapping around him like cold, clammy fingers. He pressed on, telling himself it was just curiosity driving him, that he wasn’t some foolish city boy afraid of a few old legends.

But as he ventured deeper, his pulse quickened, hammering in his chest. It seemed to pulse louder with each step, as if his body were trying to drown out the unnatural stillness of the forest. His breaths became shorter, the sound of them shallow and ragged, scraping his throat as if the air itself was resisting. The silence pressed in tighter, suffocating, making every small sound of his body feel monstrously loud. He paused, suddenly unsure of which direction he’d come from. The trees all looked the same — twisted, gnarled, and impossibly ancient.

Wen fumbled for his phone, hoping to use its flashlight to get his bearings. The screen flickered as it illuminated the fog in a sickly glow. He swiped at the map app, but it refused to load. No signal.

“Great,” he muttered, his voice a whisper against the loud thud of his heartbeat.

Then he heard it again. The scraping.

It was faint, like metal dragging across stone, coming from somewhere deep within the forest. Wen froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, all he could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding wildly, deafening him. He strained his ears, trying to pinpoint the sound. It was rhythmic, deliberate, getting closer.

“Hello?” His voice cracked, and the fog swallowed the sound whole.

There was no answer, but the scraping stopped.

Wen's breath quickened, each inhalation sharp and panicked, cutting through the deadened air. His mind screamed at him to turn back, to get out of these woods and forget this stupid idea. But something kept him rooted to the spot — an inexplicable pull. He needed to know what that sound was. Needed to see it.

Cursing his own curiosity, Wen pressed on, moving faster now, the fog thickening with every step. His heart raced louder than before, an erratic drumbeat in his ears. The trees seemed to close in around him, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The silence was suffocating, and every footfall felt heavier, more deliberate.

Then he saw it.

A figure, standing in the mist.

At first, he thought it was just a shadow, a trick of the fog, but as he drew closer, he realized it was a man — tall, thin, dressed in ragged clothes that looked decades old. His head was tilted to one side, unnaturally so, as though his neck had been snapped. He held something in his hand — a long, rusted scythe that gleamed faintly in the dim moonlight.

The scraping sound.

Wen's heart pounded faster, louder. His breath came in short, panicked bursts. He took a step back, his instincts screaming at him to run, but his body refused to obey. The figure didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge his presence. It just stood there, watching, waiting.

The figure didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge his presence. It just stood there, watching, waiting.

Wen’s pulse roared in his ears, each beat more frantic, more demanding. The figure's silence unnerved him — no movement, no sound, just stillness. It made his own body feel like a malfunctioning machine in a world that wasn’t meant for him. His breath was loud and ragged, like the very air was betraying him. He wanted to scream, but fear had stolen his voice.

Then, slowly, the figure began to drag the scythe along the ground.

Scrape.

The noise slithered through the fog, cutting into Wen’s mind like the edge of a knife. It was impossibly loud in the silence, a harsh, metallic sound that seemed to echo forever. Wen stumbled backward, his legs trembling, the fog swirling around him like it wanted to swallow him whole. His breaths came in panicked, uneven gasps, but the mist seemed to absorb every noise, turning the forest into a hollow, empty space where only that scraping sound lived.

He had to get out of here.

His eyes darted around, trying to find the path he’d come from, but the fog had swallowed everything. Every direction was the same — endless trees, twisting and gnarled, like the skeletal remains of something long dead. His chest tightened as his heartbeat thundered, each pulse reverberating in his skull like a hammer striking iron. He turned, ready to bolt, but the scraping continued.

Scrape.

He whipped around, and the figure had moved. It was only a few feet away now, the scythe dragging along the earth in a slow, deliberate arc. The figure's head was still tilted, the empty eye sockets fixed on him, unblinking, unseeing — and yet, somehow, watching him all the same.

Wen’s breath hitched, coming out in short, shallow bursts. His lungs burned with each intake, the air cold and biting, but he couldn’t stop himself from hyperventilating. His vision blurred as panic tightened its grip around his throat.

He needed to run. But where? There was no path, no direction — just fog and trees and the relentless, slow scrape of metal on stone. The figure moved again, its steps unnaturally silent, as though the ground itself refused to acknowledge it. The scythe scraped again, louder this time, closer.

Scrape.

Wen stumbled back, his foot catching on a root, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain shot through his ankle, but it was drowned out by the sound of his own heartbeat, louder than anything he’d ever heard. He clutched at the earth, trying to push himself back to his feet, but the fog had thickened again, closing in around him, suffocating him with its weight.

The figure was just a few feet away now. Its head tilted even further, as though examining him, judging him. The scythe gleamed faintly in the moonlight, its edge jagged and rusted, but still sharp enough to slice through flesh.

Wen’s breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, each one echoing unnaturally in the still air. His heartbeat felt like it would tear out of his chest, the sound so loud it was all he could hear — pounding, relentless, like a drum marking the countdown to his doom.

He tried to crawl backward, desperate to put distance between himself and the figure, but the fog wrapped around him, pulling at his limbs, holding him in place. He was trapped.

Scrape.

The figure raised the scythe, its movement slow and deliberate, like it had all the time in the world. Wen’s vision blurred again, his breath hitching as fear seized his body, rendering him immobile. He tried to scream, but no sound came out — just the deafening roar of his heartbeat, the shallow rasp of his breath, and the scrape of the scythe.

And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure vanished.

The fog receded, and Wen was alone again. His breath came in ragged gasps as he spun around, searching for the figure. But there was nothing — just the silent, empty woods.

He forced himself to his feet, his ankle throbbing in protest, but he didn’t care. He needed to get out of here. He limped forward, every step feeling heavier than the last. The fog had thinned, but the silence remained, oppressive and unnatural. His own breathing felt too loud, too exposed, like the forest was listening, waiting for him to make a mistake.

He was close to the edge of the forest now. He could feel it. The trees were thinning out, the path becoming clearer.

But then he heard it again.

Scrape.

The sound was deafening now, filling his mind, drowning out all other thoughts. Wen collapsed to his knees, clutching his head as the noise drilled into his skull. The fog swirled around him, thick and suffocating, tightening its grip as though it were alive. His vision blurred, and he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

He looked up.

The figure loomed over him, its eyeless sockets staring into his soul. The scythe gleamed in the moonlight as it came down in a slow, deliberate arc.

And then everything went dark.

××××

The villagers found Wen’s body the next morning, slumped at the edge of the Silent Land, his face frozen in a twisted mask of terror. They didn’t say much, just muttered a few prayers and moved his body to the church. Another victim of the cursed woods, they said. Just like the others.

No one questioned it.

And no one dared to enter the Silent Land again.

Not after dark.