Chapter 343

The trail seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a narrow, winding path that sank deeper into the forest with each step. The trees stood tall, their branches knotted and gnarled, as if twisted by some unseen force.

There were no birds, no sounds of wildlife—just the occasional rustle of leaves as he moved along the trail, his boots crunching against the dry, dead leaves scattered at his feet.

Derrick hadn't planned on venturing into the woods that day. He had been on a hike with a group of friends, but they had split off at the fork, and he, feeling somewhat restless, had decided to continue alone.

He had heard stories about the trail—the locals called it the Forgotten Path. Strange things happened to people who took it. They'd go in, but they wouldn't come out. But Derrick wasn't one to believe in superstition or old wives' tales. He wasn't afraid of some haunted trail.

As he walked, the trees seemed to grow closer together, their trunks pressing in on the trail until it barely seemed wide enough for him to pass through. He shrugged, brushing aside a low-hanging branch, and continued.

He had no reason to be worried. But still, something gnawed at the back of his mind. A sense that maybe, just maybe, something wasn't right.

The further he walked, the more the forest changed. The air grew colder, the trees darker, and the path more uneven, as though nature itself was trying to reclaim the land. He glanced back a few times, wondering if he had strayed too far off course. But each time, he saw only more trees, more darkness.

The trail wound around an old stone structure, barely visible through the tangled vines and overgrown shrubs. Derrick paused, his breath catching in his throat. The stones were weathered and cracked, as though no one had touched them for centuries. He stepped closer, curiosity outweighing his growing unease.

There were no markings on the stone, no signs of civilization. Just the hollow feeling of abandonment. Derrick leaned in, his fingers grazing the rough surface, and suddenly, a low, creaking sound echoed through the woods. It was a sound like the ground itself was groaning beneath his feet.

He froze, his hand still resting on the stone. For a moment, he thought it might be a trick of the wind, but then, a soft scrape of metal—distant, but unmistakable—drifted toward him.

His heart raced. He pulled his hand back from the stone, the sensation of something cold still lingering on his skin.

Without thinking, he turned and resumed walking down the path. It was foolish to stand there, he told himself. Nothing was going to happen. He was being paranoid.

The trail twisted again, leading him deeper into the forest. The trees pressed closer, blocking out what little light had been left in the sky. The faint sounds of movement—rustling, scurrying—seemed to follow him. He kept his pace steady, telling himself it was just the wind or some animal. But then, he saw it: a figure, standing at the far end of the trail.

The figure was tall, too tall, its form barely visible in the dim light. Its shape was distorted, its limbs too long, and the way it stood, motionless, gave Derrick an uneasy feeling deep in his stomach. He froze.

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he debated turning back, but his feet remained glued to the ground. The figure didn't move. It just stared at him, as if waiting.

Derrick forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the trees around him. He tried to remind himself that it was just some trick of the light, something his mind had conjured up. But the silence was too much, and the feeling of being watched grew unbearable. He kept walking, eyes ahead, but he couldn't shake the sense that the figure was still there, watching, waiting.

A breeze stirred the leaves around him, but it didn't bring any relief. The air felt thick, oppressive, as if the forest itself was closing in around him. He was no longer sure where the trail ended and where the trees began. The ground beneath his feet felt uneven, unstable, as though it was shifting with each step.

Derrick stumbled. He glanced down and saw the dirt was giving way, the earth eroding, leaving behind only jagged rocks and roots twisted like claws. His heartbeat quickened. He needed to turn back, to get out of this place, but the path behind him seemed to have disappeared.

The trees had closed in so tightly that there was no way to retrace his steps. Panic surged in his chest. He was trapped.

The figure was gone.

For a brief moment, Derrick considered calling out. Maybe someone, anyone, could help him. But the forest felt dead—empty. His voice would be swallowed by the thick canopy above, lost among the ancient trees.

He turned again, his eyes scanning the darkened path ahead, searching for some sign of where the trail led, but it all looked the same: endless trees, twisting branches, a path that stretched on and on, never ending.

He had to keep moving. There was no other choice. Derrick pushed forward, but the further he went, the more disoriented he became. Every turn seemed to lead him back to the same spot. The forest had become a maze, a living thing that was pulling him in, wrapping its fingers around him and refusing to let go.

Derrick's breath came in sharp gasps now, his chest tightening with every step. He could hear the rustling of leaves behind him, but when he turned, there was nothing there. The sound seemed to follow him, keeping pace, growing louder, until it filled his ears. A low, scraping noise. Something crawling, moving just out of sight.

He stopped. The sound had stopped too. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched scream sliced through the stillness, echoing through the trees. Derrick froze, his body tensing at the sound. It was distant, but unmistakable—someone else was out here with him. Someone in pain. But before he could react, the scream was cut off, fading into the empty forest.

He stood there, paralyzed, unsure of what to do. Should he follow the sound? Or would that be a mistake? But the pull to find the source of the scream was too strong. Derrick ran, his legs burning as he pushed through the underbrush, ignoring the branches that tore at his clothes and skin. The scream had sounded so real, so desperate. There had to be someone.

But when he finally reached the clearing where the sound had originated, there was nothing.

No person. No sign of anything but the empty forest stretching out before him.

The silence pressed in again. The same rustling noise, this time closer, just behind him. Derrick turned, but nothing was there. The trees seemed to stand unnaturally still, their branches frozen in place, as though the forest itself had paused.

Suddenly, his foot caught on something—a root, a rock, he wasn't sure—but he stumbled, falling hard onto the cold ground. His breath left him in a painful rush, and as he pushed himself up, he saw it.

A mark on the ground. A small, jagged line, drawn with something sharp. It was the shape of an arrow, pointing deeper into the woods.

He hesitated for a moment. But then, the wind shifted, carrying with it a faint, bitter scent—decay, something rotting. Derrick stood, his legs shaky as he moved toward the arrow. It had to mean something. He had to keep going. He had no choice.

The deeper he walked, the more the world around him seemed to distort. The trees were closer now, their trunks pressed together, leaving barely enough room to move. The path was uneven, jagged rocks cutting into his boots.

The sky above was nearly gone, replaced by thick black clouds that churned and shifted as though alive. The forest felt suffocating, as though it were alive, and it wanted him there, trapped, unable to leave.

There was no escape.

The mark had led him here, deeper into the woods, and now the trail was gone. It wasn't just the trees anymore; the ground beneath him shifted, crumbled, and he couldn't find his footing.

Then, the crawling sound came again—closer this time, like nails dragging along the stone. And before he could move, something grabbed his ankle, dragging him down. He screamed, his fingers clawing at the dirt, but it was useless. The forest held him tight, its grip unrelenting. Something sharp scraped across his back, drawing blood, and the world began to spin.

With one final, strangled cry, Derrick was pulled into the darkness.

And the forest returned to its silence.