Secrets of the Woods

Nobody ever went to the woods at night, not many went there during the day truth be told. The woods stretched out from Blackmoor hill to the edge of Dumpdon lake. Some said that they were an archaic site for practitioners of the dark arts, others that the ancient druids held their rites in there and whether or not this was the case the woods were dark and deep and full of secrets whispered in the wind amongst the branches of the mighty Oaks that grew there. Their deep roots connecting them to the past while their strong and sturdy branches reached ever higher towards the light and whatever the future held. Mighty oaks that symbolised endurance, strength and power, the sacred Oak, tree of the gods carrying the voice of wisdom and hope for a divine connection.

Over the years there had been talk in the village of strange lights and noises there at night, unearthly screams ringing out in the dark of the moon when no light penetrated the canopy to the forest floor below. Some had even investigated in the half light of day, the more scientific amongst us reasoning that foxes or owls were responsible whilst the old timers spoke of age-old stories of wood nymphs, tree spirits and a fierce huntress who patrolled the woods protecting all the animals who lived there.

Standing on the edge of the wood, the musty scent of damp earth rises to meet you, heavy and insistent. It invades your senses with an almost soporific effect—though not a soothing one. The aroma seems to creep past your lungs and settle deeper, pressing against your very soul.

If after a steadying breath, you dare to step past the first line of trees. The air changes at once, it becomes thicker, cooler, with a low mist pervading the space as if the woods were a living and breathing entity exhaling around you. Branches groaning above, their leaves whispering words you could almost understand if only you listened harder.

You have a sense of something moving just out of sight. Then silence again. Only your heartbeat thundering in your ears. The villagers’ stories surging unbidden into your consciousness, foxes, owls, or… something older. Something that belongs here more than you ever could.

At that point you just want to run back to the light, back to the safety of the open air but your feet refuse, entrenched into the ground like the roots of the mighty oaks surrounding you. Your breath coming fast now, too fast. Your brain working overtime and spiraling out of control spinning towards panic, you try to call out but no sound emerges. Only a voiceless scream, raw, and desperate—before everything slips into a deep black nothingness.

When awareness returns, you are no longer in the world you’d left behind. The darkness is thicker; you can almost taste the air around you sickly sweet but earthy. An almost physical, presence seems to be pressing against your skin like damp cloth. The forest floor gone, or perhaps hidden, replaced by a carpet of mist that shifts beneath you.

You are aware of shapes moving in the mist. Not solid, not flesh, but shadows circling slowly as if testing your presence. The silence broken only by a low hum, deep and resonant which seems to be calling out to you, thrumming through your chest and vibrating throughout your whole body.

When the mist lifts you see it. It makes perfect sense now, no surprises.

A figure, tall, dark and antler-crowned, standing between the Oaks. Still and strong, majestic even. Unmoving, yet every line of its body radiating watchfulness. It seems to be aware of every noise, every movement. The stories rush back—the huntress, the spirits, the guardians of the wood.

It's head tilts. Not human, not animal but maybe something in between.

The figure does not advance. Instead, the humming deepens, resonating through the trees until the very air seems to vibrate with it. Your breath slows and fear not gone, but reshaped, as though some unseen hand steadies your heart and reaches into your soul.

The mist parts in slow spirals swirling and drifting around the figure’s feet. The shadows withdrawing, folding themselves back into the trunks of the oaks. The forest no longer feels suffocating it feels watchful. Alive.

Then the figure raises one hand, long-fingered and pale as death. A wordless gesture, not a threat nor a welcome. You feel that you are being measured. Judged.

The stories have always spoken of an ancient huntress and of guardians of justice in the woods. Now you understand as you stand before it, your heart hammering in your chest unsure whether you will be found worthy of her protection or treated as a trespasser who will be turned away forever.

You dare not move. The forest seemed to lean in closer, the canopy arching overhead like a vaulted ceiling of a cathedral. Every sound has fled; silence pervading everything, its weight heavy and expectant.

The figure remains motionless, statuesque and statue like, it’s antlers crowned with a strange phosphorescence that glows faintly in the half-light. You cannot see it’s eyes yet you feel it’s gaze pressing against you, stripping away everything leaving only the raw vibration of your soul and the quiet beating of your heart.

Time stops. It may have been minutes or hours. Time has no meaning here. You are suspended in the moment, a single thread waiting to be cut – or perhaps woven into something larger.

And still, it does not speak.

They found you a week later, lying among the roots, cold, pale and still. Eyes wide and unblinking as they gaze upward toward the canopy.

There was no fear etched upon your face. No wounds, no contusions, no sign of struggle. Only stillness and peace. In your hand, clutched tight as if placed there was a single acorn, the symbol of renewal and rebirth.

You know now why nobody goes into the woods at night but you will keep its secrets.