The Murmuring Woods
There's a stretch of forest just outside Dyer County.
Locals call it Whistler's Hollow,
but those who've walked beneath its tangled canopy know it by another name:
> The Murmuring Woods.
Because in that place,
the trees whisper.
And they don't tell stories.
They remember yours.
---
No signs mark the trail.
The trees are tall, too tall.
Their bark is rough like bone.
Their leaves don't rustle in the wind…
They speak.
---
It begins quietly.
A flicker of sound.
A single word carried on the breeze:
> "Liar."
You stop.
Look around.
Nothing.
Then, again—closer.
> "You let her die."
---
Your legs feel heavy.
Your breath turns shallow.
The forest leans in.
> "Do you remember the basement?"
"What you did when no one was watching?"
"How you smiled at the funeral?"
"You sick little thing."
---
The deeper you go, the louder it gets.
Voices from your childhood.
Your ex. Your dead pet.
Your mother's last scream.
Even thoughts you never said out loud
become chants echoing from the bark.
You fall to your knees.
But the forest doesn't care.
---
You see carvings in the trees—
names, scratched messages, bloody fingernails embedded in the bark.
> "I'm sorry."
"Make it stop."
"Forgive me."
"I buried her here."
---
Some people go into the forest and never return.
Others crawl out—eyes wide, teeth clenched, clothes torn.
They can't speak.
Because they remember everything.
Even what they'd spent a lifetime forgetting.
---
They say the forest feeds on guilt.
It thrives on secrets.
And once it knows yours…
> You belong to it.
---
Legend says:
If you whisper a memory into the hollow of a tree,
it might leave you alone for a night.
But in return—
it takes a piece of your soul.
And one day,
when someone else walks that trail,
they'll hear your voice whispering to them.
> "You left him to die."
"You never really loved her."
"You're no better than me."