The Cursed Forest,

by J. W. Cassandra

The protagonist learns a dark secret about the forest on one of his trips. What secret lurks in the forest? Read this exciting story!

The short story "The Cursed Forest" is a mystical thriller included in my anthology "Masquerade of Cycle of Existence". I wrote the original story in 2005; this is the revised version. The story is imaginary. 

What is it about?

"There are more things in heaven and earth, … Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." (Hamlet, I.5, by W. Shakespeare)

A woman is gathering brushwood at the edge of the forest and shares a strange, unbelievable story with a stranger who has gone mushroom picking thereto. Many years ago, a family's hilarious spring trip turned into a nightmare in this place, where the trees came to life and tendrils entwined the children. Is the woman who disappears as a strange ghost telling the truth, and the forest is still waiting for her next victim?

I wish you a good read!

Once, when I set out into the forest to gather mushrooms, I encountered someone who begged me, on no account, to reveal her name. It was on this condition that she told me the following, utterly strange event that had happened to her—one that still sends shivers down her spine at the mere memory of it.

Why, then, did she tell it to me in spite of this?

For I was about to head out to gather mushrooms in the exact direction where the story had unfolded.

She came toward me, carrying a heavy load of brushwood, dragging thick branches behind her. Since she was a stranger, we merely passed each other, but as I stepped onto a certain path that meandered into the distance, she called out after me:

"Wait, please, do not go any further! If you are not in a hurry and do not find it strange, let us sit down here in the nearby clearing, and listen to what I have to tell you!"

I stopped short. She scanned my face, and when she saw my utter astonishment, she added:

"What I am about to tell you is so unbelievable that you may never set foot in this forest again. I have been treading this path for many years, for I want to protect those who stray here, but few listen to me, and even fewer believe me, since the story is truly of the kind that perhaps only exists in fairy tales. I would think the same, had it not happened to me."

At this, my curiosity was piqued, and I walked beside her toward the small clearing nearby.

We sat down, and she began her tale. It is such a fascinating and incredible story that I shall write it down without any alteration, exactly as I heard it from her:

Many, many years ago, on a beautiful spring day, my family and I set out on an excursion. We brought along the family favourite, too: our dog. None of us had any idea where to head, so following the dog's excited sniffing, we scrambled through ditches and thickets. Cutting across hills and passing by an animal watering hole, we finally came to a halt in this very forest. The sky smiled down upon us in an unbelievable shade of blue, scarcely rippled by fleecy clouds; the sun warmed us pleasantly, and so we felt inspired to gather violets.

Meanwhile, it grew unseasonably warm, and the sun shone brilliantly, which was rather unusual for spring. The forest resounded with the birds' loud songs and trills; the sunlight glinted through the tree crowns, dapples of light dancing across the leaves of the bushes, while the violets beckoned us with their sweet fragrance. All the while, the dog, sniffing excitedly, pulled us deeper and deeper into the woods. We bent down alongside hunting stands, the children darting about, gathering flowers with me. The hulking dog rolled around happily, then strained at the leash once more, as if he were leading my husband rather than the other way around. He also tugged and tugged, barking, making quite a merry ruckus.

We, on the other hand, preferred to gather the flowers. Seldom had I seen so many violets blooming in a single place as I had seen there! I myself almost completely forgot about my family, bunching the blossoms into bouquets; suddenly, I was transported back to my childhood, when my parents and I would visit this very spot to pick violets. I saw only the flowers; I could barely hear the children, my husband, or the dog... Time stood still... I was seized by a wonderful, liberating sensation, the kind one rarely experiences as an adult.

I was jolted back to reality by my husband shouting something, at first angrily, then in sheer terror. My elder child, my little daughter, stood there bewildered, turning the bouquet in her hand and spinning around and around, while the younger, my little son, ran toward a hunting stand and began to climb the rungs. To the naked eye, nothing was amiss; the rungs were solid and intact, a rarity for a hunting stand.

I did not even suspect anything amiss, but the moment my little son reached the fourth rung, I realised that something was terribly wrong. I can still see myself screaming at him to come down immediately, for we were going home, telling him to jump off, but he kept hauling himself upward. Suddenly, with a loud crack, the rung gave way beneath his feet, and the one he was gripping with his hands split in two, sending him plunging into the leaf litter. For an instant that seemed an eternity, my feet were literally rooted to the spot. My little daughter dashed toward him, screaming in terror. Then I, too, bolted toward him, finally reaching his side. My senses reeled at the sight: a chasm had suddenly opened up in the ground, wide enough for the little one to fall right into it, and with a strange hissing sound, tendrils and branches coiled across the forest floor like so many serpents, beginning to envelop and weave around the children. My daughter managed to scramble out, running toward me with all her might, while I yelled at my little son to run, wrenching him to his feet— and only then did I realise that something had fatally changed... I looked up at the trees from below, yet even from this vantage point, an unbelievable sight unfolded before me: blood was oozing down their bark and trunks, while from high up in the crowns, sighing groans and painful weeping echoed… Darkness shrouded the forest; not a single beetle or butterfly made a sound, not a rustle was heard, the birds fell silent—and then, the trees began to move toward us.

The three of us began to run after my husband, who was dragged along by the bloodshot-eyed dog, galloping headlong through ditches and thickets, across pathless wilderness. For the path we had been following had vanished, engulfed by tendrils and small bushes; trees that had not even been there before now emerged and barred our way... If I broke the arm-thick trunks in two with a powerful blow of my arms, I would invariably see that by the time I stepped forward to place either my terrified, screaming little son or my equally panicked little daughter ahead of me, the very trees I had just cleft in two had knitted back together again in front of the child left behind. And as if that were not enough, they would align themselves before the stranded child, attempting to encircle them. Madly, I cleft them apart, rescuing my children, while tendrils coiled around my legs, trying to pull me down—and I knew I had to stay on my feet, or we would be lost!

After one of these blows, delivered in a state of sheer frenzy, I was just lifting my little daughter ahead of me when my little son let out a horrific shriek behind me. I sprang back, petrified for a second by the sight: the little boy was trapped between two trees I had previously cloven apart, pinned between them, while thigh-thick arboreal giants also began to come against him, as if to tread the boy underfoot. At least, that was what I thought. As I snapped out of the horrific stupor, I suddenly cleft apart these cursed and murderous trees with a single blow, not knowing from what hidden well I drew the strength to do so.

And then I saw why my poor little son could not step toward me: his legs were already knee-deep in the living leaf litter, the tendrils hissing as they swarmed around him, and before our very eyes, his limbs were rapidly turning to bark, hardening into wood in a matter of seconds.

I prayed desperately within myself, and then, suddenly, I felt a superhuman strength surge through me; ignoring my little son's horrific shrieks, I grabbed him under the arms and wrenched him free with a single yank. To this day, I still do not understand how none of his bones shattered, for he was thrown in such a wide arc, hitting the ground again with a loud thud, that at the very least his leg or his arm should have broken.

He began to wail: "Oh, my legs, my legs! I have no legs, I cannot walk!

The moment I glanced down at his feet, I saw that they were there; I bellowed at him:

"But you do have legs! Run! Forget everything else, just run!"

My poor sweet boy kept wailing, I gathered him up in my arms to rush after my husband and the dog, while dragging my little daughter behind me. At that very moment, gargantuan oaks with trunks even thicker than before loomed ahead of me, completely blocking our path.

I shrieked for my husband to help us.

With immense difficulty, he managed to wheel round with the dog, which was bolting in the opposite direction in sheer panic. Through the gap between the two trees, I thrust our little son into his arms, and he dashed forward with him after the dog so rapidly that the poor child was practically floating through the air behind him, screaming all the while. I can still see it before my eyes!

Where their father had been until the moment he took our little son, I could not tell; but he later explained that the crazed dog had dragged him away so fast he could scarcely make his way back when he heard my cries.

I had no time to dwell on it then, for I had to contend with the two gargantuan trees. After that, it was easier to wrench my little daughter away from the trees that kept springing up before us; we made our escape from the forest slightly faster. The ominous silence was still broken only by the wailing of the trees, and the threatening rumble of those murderous trunks; darkness shrouded everything, while the blood of the suffering woods oozed like red gold wherever we looked…

I had never run so fast in all my life, cleaving apart new tree trunks with a single blow at every stride. At last, we broke out onto the hills; there, at a safe distance from the forest's edge, we collapsed, merely staring silently ahead of us for a long time….

The children huddled against me, trembling, while my husband tried to soothe and stroke our hulking dog, when we became aware that the sun had come out again. Yet, the birds had not yet started to chirp; instead, a deafening uproar, the flailing of branches, and bitter wailing echoed from the woods. We looked back and, in utter disbelief, saw the giant trees thrashing at one another with their thick limbs, beating and threatening the smaller, defenceless trees—that had likely once lived as humans—punishing them for our escape…

On the hill, I took off my little son's shoes, shaking out a shower of twigs, roots, and bits of bark; even in his hair and clothes, shards of bark, small twigs, and tendrils lay hidden everywhere... When we returned home, we spoke of it to no one, for no soul would have believed what had transpired. However, we never came back here for an excursion again, though I am the only one who gathers twigs here from time to time. Since I first dared to venture back here again, I can always perceive when the forest has turned someone into a tree in the meantime: those trees somehow stand slightly apart from the rest, often smaller in stature, their branches drooping mournfully, as if trying to conceal the tree itself.

Since then, I have been warning those who pass by, just as I am warning you now, and then the choice is theirs: either they believe my words and stay away from the cursed, murderous forest, or they doubt me and enter. Yet, they can never know the exact moment when the forest lies in wait to kill again—nor whether they will ever escape.

The woman's eyes burned with a strange, eerie fire as she spoke, and at the edge of the clearing, a brief, vision-like apparition suddenly brought the characters of her tale to life: she herself in her youth, her husband, a hulking dog, and a little boy and a little girl, desperately struggling for escape. The sight stole the very breath from my lungs: in an instant, it was as if I had been violently transported to another forest on a parallel Earth, caught in a different timeline—fortunately, merely as a spectator—witnessing the grim reality of everything this peculiar woman had just described. This is called another dimension, if I am not mistaken, though I am scarcely versed in such matters.

"At present, there is no need to fear a recurrence of the incident", I was jolted back to reality by my companion's words. "Just look", she pointed toward the trees, "everything is peaceful and serene; birdsong fills the air, you have nothing to fear. Yet, caution is always the wisest. Make haste home once you have gathered your mushrooms!

With that, the woman took her leave and nimbly dragged the twigs behind her. Before I could even ask why she felt no fear, the tangled brush at the edge of the clearing closed behind her like a hidden portal closing,  with only a few branches still vibrating in her wake.

I headed home in deep thought, my feet finding the path leading back almost of their own accord, for the strange tale kept echoing in my mind. I could still hear the woman's voice— at times glowing with passion, at others trembling with agitation—while the bleeding trees, the little children's feet turning to bark, and those terrified screams penetrated my ears over and over again. It was exactly as though I had been there myself.

Later, while resting in the peaceful haven of my safe home, a childhood memory resurfaced: how the old village women used to sit out on the benches along the street, or just stand there gossiping. In those days, we children were always shooed away to play, but sometimes, while playing hide-and-seek behind them, we would catch snatches of their conversation:

"You see, Bess, Tess went out to gather mushrooms last week as well, and vanished without a trace…"

"Aye, Mary, dear, the forest must have swallowed her up, too!"

Or:

"Have you heard, Prisca, that the other day a whole family—father, mother, and children—set out on an excursion to gather firewood, and then vanished, every last one of them? Only the grandmother was spared, for she was left behind because of her ailing leg."

"Then the poor soul can wait for them until doomsday; the forest must have swallowed them up, too..."

Or the following:

"Do you remember, Mary, dear, that young beggar who used to beg for alms here from spring to autumn?"

"I remember him well, Tess, what of him?"

"Well, I just heard that toward the end of autumn, the poor wretch had nowhere left to shelter, so he headed into the woods. And now that the snow has melted, the forester was telling his friend that not far from the forest edge, they found a tree raising two of its branches toward the heavens, and on its trunk, right where the head should be, a likeness of a face took shape, the very image of the beggar, poor soul!"

"It must have been him, poor wretch. God might have taken him unto Himself in some other way..."

Of course, these kinds of conversations have vanished from today's world, along with the old dames of yesteryear; there is scarcely anyone left who remembers them. And if someone disappears in the forest today, people will seek and find a rational explanation. Yet, it is by no means certain that only the rational has a place under God's wide heaven.

The woman, too, vanished with her twigs like a ghost; to this day, I know neither where she came from, nor where she went.

Written: 13 / 05. 2026, by J. W. Cassandra
Translated: 18 / 06. 2026, by J. W. Cassandra

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