They Came from the Woods

"Are you alright, Aier?" A fellow named Brham Milton asked. Aier Leerstrom leaned upon the wooden support of his seat as he swung his hand to reach a bothersome itch below his shoulder. Though aware of the shingles that etched upon his skin, he tried not to scratch any rash, for it had only worsened each time he tried to scrape the festering infection off his hide, "Maybe... don't know yet." He looked upon the dismal canvas of the wooden ceilings that presented themselves in just one hue. Appearance-wise, he looked as if he'd gone hell and back, and his whole forlorn and crushed demeanor added to that hopeless look.

It has been a month since the unknown plague razed the whole village, even the king, on his royal seat, did nothing: No envoys, no pity rations, or even some apothecaries he could send. Nothing arrived but the freezing gales of the nearing winter. Everyone left in the village felt the same melancholy as Aier Leerstrom did, except for Brham Milton, who kept his motivating smile and optimism intact. Aier was a former professor, and his job ended when the younglings in the village mysteriously vanished in the dead of night. This unamusing conundrum kept him awake, disturbed, and restless while everyone dreamed, shivering beneath their thin blankets. Milton brought his gaze to bear on Leerstrom, ruminating before he spoke, "Cheer up, old pal. How about we go hunting tomorrow, eh?" Leerstrom, once again, stared, not so much at the crumbling wooden ceiling, but through it, "Maybe..." Hours passed, and both sat in the silent room, restless as the pale waxing moon grew brighter and the cicadas' shrieks matured into seemingly mourning cries. "I suppose I should head home now. Though, you can come by in the morrow if you like," Milton said before walking out of the dismal house of Leerstrom. He closed his eyes, pondering on what he should do, whether to leave the only place he knew and start a new life in the pitiless city of Wazarick. And soon enough, this rumination lulled him. Finally, he rested from nights of uneasiness and insomnia.

Leerstrom woke up abruptly from the howling thunders. The night had not passed, and yet, in his dreams, it felt like a millennium progressed. He stood up from his chair, curious about the state of the outdoors. So, he peered through the nearest window pane. The mists that the coldness brought obscured the descriptions of the outdoors. The thick clouds wreathed the moon — obscuring its nightly light to the ground. And the thunders veined upon the vastness of the thick miasmatic gray clouds. Because of these, the streets seemed devoid of luminescence. The torches, too, were veiled in the thick fog that the cold climate caused. And so, melancholy visited Leerstrom once more. Though sleep-inducing, the weathered seems to feed his insomnia more rather than putting him to bed. Leerstrom swung his arms, reaching the intensifying itch on his back, as he bore his eyes upon the entrance of the woods that surrounded the village.

The olden woods were always terrifying to watch. There's something inside its recesses that one could not explain; the everlasting feeling it left to everyone who journeyed within it was not great. The woodsman, who mysteriously lost like the younglings, was an infamous rambling madman. That is what the townsfolk said to Leerstrom when he arrived at the sleepy hollow that is Dirhas. The woodsman even said that whenever he enters the strange sylvan, he would see playful shapeless umbrae running and disappearing before his very eyes. And every time he would cut down a tree, it would regrow back its former form as if untouched by his ax's edge. The disappearance of the people in this village was odd enough, but when the plague came after the young ones disappeared was unnerving. This is what keeps him awake at night, not the itch on his back or the fact that he lost his only source of income; his insomnia lies within the woods and the truth it bears.

Minutes passed, and Aier's gaze was still set upon the entrance of the woods, waiting for any oddity or eeriness to arise. His eyes grew larger until his eyelids touched the bones beneath his eyebrows. He looked ghoulish and deprived; the sacks under his eyes grotesquely inflated as violet hues painted upon them. And the itch on his back cannot be satiated by mere scratching. It is as if his curiosity festers as fiery crimson shingles that spread alarmingly. Then, a faint light that came in the depths of the woods shone upon his orbs. This sight diluted and contracted the bothered iris in his eyes. The light became clearer as seconds pasts as if slowly creeping towards out of the woods. And the single faint light of orange phosphorescence became many. Almost too much to follow as they float around the trees from beyond.

Strangely, what emerged from the light were torches. They were light of the queer unknown visage that is shrouded in light mists and dark robes. Leerstrom rubbed his eyes harshly — as if wanting to gouge out his sight — making sure that what he was seeing was genuine. Every time he set his gaze upon these shrouded creatures, the more their numbers grew. But not all had the visage of an adult. There were children too, but not quite one. Their eyes, their body, their actions, they're were all too abnormal.

As the child-like figures went closer to the torches being held by the ethereal creatures, the more their macabre appearance showed. Their mouth and eyes were open, presenting a gaping hole of green molding substance. Their body was covered in tough roots and moss. The sight of these horrible creatures made the shingles on Aier's back spread. It slowly crawled upon every crevice of his body to the point that the only clean part of his body was his face. Aier's frightful screams echoed in the night as the once crimson rash blinded him with a greenish light that darkened his eyes until the only thing he could see were horrible floating spores of the elder trees.