Novels2Search
The Forest Devours
The Truth in the Roots

The Truth in the Roots

Caleb’s boots crunched along the gravel driveway leading to Lucille Tillman’s house. The air was thick with the promise of rain, the clouds above dark and heavy, casting the world into an oppressive gray. He clutched a notebook under his arm, the edges dog-eared from his restless scribbling the night before. Today, he needed answers—answers that only Lucille seemed capable of providing.

The house sat at the edge of the woods like a sentry, its once-bright yellow paint faded to a dull mustard. A porch swing swayed slightly in the breeze, the chains creaking with every oscillation. Caleb hesitated on the warped wooden steps, his knuckles hovering over the peeling paint of the door before knocking.

“Come in,” her voice called, faint but deliberate, as if she had been waiting for him.

He pushed the door open, revealing the familiar yet unsettling space. The air inside was warm, scented with lavender and something metallic that made his stomach churn. Lucille sat in her high-backed chair by the window, knitting needles clicking rhythmically in her hands. The fire crackling in the hearth threw flickering shadows across her lined face.

“Back again, Caleb,” she said without looking up. “Can’t seem to keep away, can you?”

He stepped further inside, his fingers tightening around the notebook. “I need to know what’s going on. These woods... this place... there’s something wrong with it, isn’t there?”

Lucille’s eyes lifted to meet his, her gaze steady and unreadable. “The world is full of things we don’t understand. Maybe it’s better to leave some stones unturned.”

Caleb bristled, his voice rising. “Don’t give me that cryptic nonsense. I’ve been hearing whispers, seeing things—things that aren’t real. I found stories, records of people disappearing. And you—” He pointed at her with the notebook. “You’re connected to it, aren’t you?”

Lucille sighed, setting the knitting aside. Her movements were deliberate, almost regal, as she folded her hands in her lap. “You’ve been digging, haven’t you? I warned you, Caleb. Curiosity has a way of getting people lost.”

“Just tell me the truth,” he demanded. “What is it about these woods? What’s happening to me?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, Caleb thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The roots of this place hold more than the trees. They’ve been here longer than you or I, longer than anyone who’s ever set foot in this town. They’ve seen lives come and go, and they remember. They remember everything.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, but he forced himself to stay rooted. “That doesn’t explain why I keep hearing things, why I feel like—like I’m being watched all the time.”

Lucille tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Because the woods are watching. They watch everyone who steps too close, Caleb. But you...” Her eyes darkened. “You’ve caught their attention.”

His throat tightened. “Why? What do they want?”

She stood suddenly, her frail frame belying the strength in her movements. “What do they want? They want what they’ve always wanted. Blood. Sacrifice. And someone to carry their curse.”

Caleb recoiled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Lucille stepped closer, her shadow stretching long in the firelight. “The woods don’t let go, Caleb. Not once they’ve taken hold. And you... you’ve already started to sink into their roots. Be careful, or you’ll never find your way out.”

The room seemed to grow darker, the firelight dimming as her words settled over him like a heavy blanket. Caleb clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to run. “If that’s true, then why are you still here? Why haven’t they taken you?”

Lucille’s expression softened, and for the first time, Caleb thought he saw a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. “Maybe they already have,” she murmured.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final. Caleb’s chest tightened with the weight of her answer, but he refused to let the conversation end. “There has to be a way to stop it,” he said, his voice trembling. “There has to be a way out.”

Lucille’s smile returned, this time cold and knowing. “Perhaps there is. But the question, Caleb, is whether you’re willing to pay the price.”

The crackling fire popped loudly, startling him. When he turned back to Lucille, she had already resumed her knitting, the needles clicking together in an almost mocking rhythm.

“Be careful in the woods,” she said without looking up. “They have a way of making you forget what matters most.”

Caleb left the house feeling more lost than when he arrived, her words echoing in his mind. As he stepped back into the gray daylight, the woods loomed ahead, their shadows stretching across the ground like grasping fingers.

He clutched his notebook tighter and resolved to find the truth—no matter what it cost.

Caleb returned home to find the house eerily quiet. The walls seemed to hum faintly, as if the very structure was alive and aware of his unease. Dropping his notebook onto the cluttered kitchen table, he stared out the window at the encroaching woods. The trees seemed to whisper among themselves, the faint rustle of leaves sounding like a language just out of reach.

A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood on the counter, and Caleb poured himself a stiff drink. He downed it in one gulp, the liquid burning its way to his stomach, before pouring another.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself. “You’re not going crazy. This is real.”

But was it? His thoughts swirled as he considered Lucille’s cryptic words. The woods were watching. They had claimed others before him. He rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar thrum of a headache building.

Unable to shake the pull of the trees, Caleb grabbed his jacket and flashlight, determined to face whatever was out there. He couldn’t let fear dictate his actions anymore. If he was going to get answers, he needed to confront the woods themselves.

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time he stepped outside, the air damp and heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The flashlight beam cut through the growing darkness, illuminating the edge of the forest where the trees stood tall and unyielding.

As he moved closer, the whispers grew louder, a cacophony of unintelligible voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Caleb paused, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Just trees,” he said aloud, his voice trembling. “Just the wind through the branches.”

But the air was still. Not a single leaf stirred.

He stepped into the forest, the ground soft beneath his boots. The trees closed in around him, their towering trunks forming a canopy that blocked out the last traces of light. The flashlight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the undergrowth.

Caleb walked deeper, his breaths shallow and quick. The whispers seemed to shift, forming words he couldn’t quite understand but that sent chills racing down his spine.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice echoing faintly.

The only response was the creak of branches overhead.

He pressed on, his footsteps crunching against the fallen leaves. The deeper he went, the more disoriented he felt, as though the forest was shifting around him, changing its layout to confuse him.

Suddenly, the flashlight flickered again and went out, plunging him into complete darkness. Caleb cursed, smacking the side of the device in frustration, but it refused to come back to life.

Panic clawed at his chest as he fumbled for his phone, but the screen refused to light up. “No,” he muttered, his voice tight with fear. “Not now.”

A low, guttural sound echoed through the trees, sending a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t the sound of an animal or the wind. It was something else.

Caleb turned in circles, straining his eyes against the darkness. The sound came again, closer this time, and he stumbled backward, his heel catching on a root. He hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs.

Lying there, the forest seemed to come alive around him. Shadows shifted and moved, shapes materializing from the darkness. Caleb scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

The shapes were human—or at least they had been once. Translucent figures with hollow eyes and tattered clothing emerged from the trees, their forms flickering like static. They surrounded him, their mouths moving as if speaking, though no sound came out.

Caleb backed away, his hands trembling. “What do you want?” he shouted.

One figure stepped closer, a woman with long hair and a face that seemed frozen in anguish. Her hand reached out, pointing toward the heart of the forest.

Caleb’s chest tightened, the air around him growing colder. He turned and ran, his feet pounding against the uneven ground as he fled the figures. The whispers grew louder, a deafening roar that drowned out his thoughts.

He didn’t stop until he burst through the tree line and into his yard, his chest heaving with exertion. The house stood before him, its windows dark and unwelcoming.

Behind him, the forest loomed, silent and still, as though it hadn’t just tried to swallow him whole.

Caleb stumbled inside, locking the door behind him. He leaned against it, his body shaking as he tried to catch his breath. The image of the woman’s outstretched hand burned in his mind.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

Caleb sat at his desk, the flickering light from his laptop casting faint shadows against the walls of his study. The manuscript for his new novel sat untouched on the screen, the blinking cursor a relentless reminder of his growing failure. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingertips brushing against the beginnings of a migraine.

His research notes lay scattered around him—books on local history, photocopied articles, and hastily scribbled pages of his own thoughts. One newspaper clipping stood out: “Tragedy at Tillman Acres: Mysterious Disappearances Continue.”

He couldn’t stop rereading it, though he knew the words by heart now. The article detailed the disappearance of three teenagers in the late 1970s near the forest that now surrounded his home. Their bodies had never been found, and though locals suspected foul play, no one was ever charged. The article had been buried in the archives of the local library, a fact that left Caleb deeply unsettled. Why wasn’t this history common knowledge?

A creak from the ceiling above snapped him from his thoughts. He froze, staring up at the beams. The sound was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it echoed in the stillness of the house. He hadn’t heard any wildlife inside the home since his arrival, and he hadn’t seen any sign of structural instability. The sound was deliberate, like a footstep.

He rose from his chair slowly, his heart racing, and grabbed the flashlight from his desk drawer. His mind raced with excuses: It’s the old house settling. Maybe a bird got in. Maybe...

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He didn’t finish the thought.

As he ascended the staircase, the creaks grew louder, more pronounced. His breathing grew heavier, his grip tightening on the flashlight until his knuckles turned white. The hallway at the top of the stairs was bathed in a dim, unnatural glow, the kind that seemed to belong neither to day nor night.

The door to the attic was slightly ajar.

“Hello?” Caleb’s voice cracked, and he silently cursed himself for the weakness in his tone. He swallowed hard, forcing the tremor out of his words. “Is someone there?”

The door creaked open a little farther, and Caleb swore he saw a shadow shift just beyond the threshold.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door fully open with the tip of the flashlight. The attic stretched out before him, a labyrinth of dust and forgotten belongings. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the scent of mildew and something more acrid—something faintly metallic.

In the far corner of the attic, something glinted faintly in the sparse moonlight seeping through a cracked window. It was a small, golden key, perched atop a wooden chest.

Caleb’s heart hammered in his chest. He took slow, deliberate steps forward, his flashlight beam sweeping across the room. The chest looked ancient, its wood dark and warped with age, the brass fittings corroded. He crouched down and picked up the key, his fingers brushing against the cold, worn metal. An unexplainable chill ran down his spine.

The chest groaned as he opened it, the hinges protesting with a sound that seemed far too loud. Inside, he found a collection of personal effects—a faded photograph of a woman he assumed was Mrs. Tillman, her dark eyes staring directly into the camera. Beneath the photograph was a leather-bound journal.

Caleb opened the journal with trembling hands, the pages brittle and yellowed. The handwriting was spidery and erratic, the ink faded but still legible. He read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper:

"To those who find this, I pray you heed my warning. The forest has taken many before you, and it will take many after. It whispers promises of freedom, but it lies. It lied to me. It will lie to you. If you’ve come this far, it is already too late. The trees... they devour."

The journal fell from Caleb’s hands, the sound of it hitting the attic floor echoing in the oppressive silence. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as though the very walls of the house were pressing in on him.

And then he heard it—a faint, melodic voice drifting up from the forest outside, singing an old, haunting lullaby. A chill ran down his spine, and he instinctively turned toward the attic window. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness beyond the glass, but he knew, deep in his soul, that something was out there. Something watching.

The voice grew louder, more insistent. It seemed to call his name, wrapping around him like the tendrils of a vine. Caleb staggered back, clutching the golden key tightly in his hand as if it were a talisman.

The forest was calling him again. And this time, it wasn’t asking.

The forest whispered.

It began as a faint hum in the back of Caleb’s mind, a soft, insistent murmur threading its way through his thoughts. He sat in the attic, the golden key still clutched tightly in his hand, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. The journal lay open on the floor before him, its cryptic warnings a fresh wound in his consciousness.

"It will take many after you. If you’ve come this far, it is already too late."

The words replayed in his head like a grim mantra. He closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, willing the tremors in his hands to subside. He needed to leave the attic. The oppressive air, the decaying scent, the eerie echoes—they all seemed to conspire to keep him there, rooted in place.

Yet, as he descended the stairs, the pull of the forest grew stronger. He could hear it now, not just in his mind but outside the house. The wind through the trees carried a melody, fragmented and lilting. It was almost beautiful if not for the sense of unease it stirred in him. He set the key on the kitchen counter, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and stared out the window.

The forest stood still under the moonlight, its shadows deep and unyielding. But as he watched, Caleb swore he saw movement—branches bending as if heavy with unseen weight, leaves trembling though the air was calm. He turned away, shaking his head.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, gulping the whiskey in one fiery swallow. He set the glass down with a clatter and pressed his palms to his temples. “Get it together, Caleb.”

But the melody continued, seeping through the walls, curling into his ears like smoke. He wandered to the living room and sank onto the couch, his laptop open in front of him. The blank document stared back, its cursor blinking like an accusation. He tried to focus, to write, but the words refused to come. His thoughts were a whirlwind, torn between the cryptic journal entries and the forest’s unrelenting call.

Another drink.

The whiskey burned as it went down, but the warmth did little to steady him. The melody grew louder, weaving itself into a harmony that was both soothing and terrifying. It felt personal now, as though the forest were singing just for him.

He slammed the laptop shut and stood abruptly, his chest heaving. “Enough,” he growled. He paced the living room, his bare feet whispering against the wooden floorboards. His gaze flicked to the front door, then to the window. The forest loomed, waiting.

And then, he heard it—a voice within the melody. It was soft at first, almost indistinguishable, but it grew clearer with each passing second. A woman’s voice, familiar and aching.

“Caleb...”

His heart clenched. He stumbled toward the window, pressing his palms against the cold glass. The voice carried his name again, laced with sorrow and longing.

“Caleb, please...”

He knew that voice. It was impossible, yet unmistakable. “Rose?” he whispered, his breath fogging the glass. His eyes scanned the forest’s edge, searching desperately for the source of the call. But there was nothing, only shadows and the faint glint of moonlight on leaves.

The voice came again, closer this time. “Caleb... come to me.”

He recoiled from the window, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears. “This isn’t real,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t—”

A sudden knock on the door cut through his denial. The sound was sharp, deliberate, and far too human. He froze, his gaze darting to the door. The knock came again, more insistent this time. His legs felt like lead as he forced himself to move, each step a monumental effort.

He opened the door slowly, his hand trembling on the knob.

The porch was empty. The air was still.

But just beyond the porch, at the edge of the forest, a figure stood. It was faint, almost translucent, but unmistakably a woman. Her white dress glowed faintly in the moonlight, and her hair billowed around her face as if caught in an invisible breeze. She raised a hand, beckoning.

“Caleb...” The voice was faint but urgent, a siren’s call wrapped in grief.

He staggered back, his mind screaming at him to close the door, to lock it, to run. But his feet wouldn’t obey. The figure stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate, her gaze fixed on him. The shadows seemed to ripple around her, dark tendrils stretching toward the porch.

“Come to me, Caleb.”

The door slipped from his grasp, swinging wide open. His breath hitched, his body frozen in place.

The forest was calling. And this time, it had a face.

The pull was too strong. Caleb found himself stepping off the porch, barefoot and vulnerable, his heart pounding against his ribcage. The air felt heavy, saturated with moisture, as though the forest itself was exhaling, drawing him closer.

“Rose?” he whispered again, his voice trembling as he moved toward the spectral figure. She didn’t answer but turned, her faint form gliding deeper into the woods. Each step she took left the air colder, the shadows darker. Caleb’s feet moved on their own, the gravel of the driveway digging into his soles, but he barely noticed.

The forest loomed ahead, its trees tall and ancient, their branches twisted like gnarled hands. The melody had faded now, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to press down on him from all sides. The figure slipped between the trees, her form almost melding with the mist that had begun to gather at the forest floor.

“Wait!” Caleb called, his voice sounding small and far away in the oppressive quiet.

She paused, her head tilting slightly, as if considering his plea. Slowly, she raised a hand and gestured for him to follow.

The first step into the woods felt like crossing a threshold. The air changed, becoming thicker, tinged with a metallic tang that reminded Caleb of old blood. The trees seemed to close in around him, their branches creating a canopy that blocked out the moonlight. Shadows danced and shifted at the edges of his vision, but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing there.

His breath came in shallow gasps. He tried to focus on the figure ahead, her glow the only source of light in the suffocating darkness. “Rose... is it really you?” he asked, desperation cracking his voice.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved deeper into the forest, her steps silent on the moss-covered ground. Caleb followed, his legs heavy, his thoughts muddled. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap, but the possibility of seeing Rose again, of hearing her voice, overpowered his instincts.

The ground beneath his feet became uneven, the soft moss giving way to jagged roots and rocks. Caleb stumbled, catching himself against a tree. The bark was rough and damp under his palm, and he withdrew his hand quickly, the sensation unpleasantly sticky.

When he looked up, the figure was gone.

“Rose?” His voice echoed back to him, distorted and hollow. Panic clawed at his chest. He turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the darkness, but there was no sign of her. The forest seemed alive now, its shadows shifting and writhing, the trees whispering in a language he couldn’t understand.

Then, a sound—a faint, rhythmic creaking. Caleb froze, his blood turning to ice. It was the sound of wood groaning under strain, like the creak of an old rocking chair or... a noose swinging in the wind.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice barely more than a whisper. The forest didn’t answer, but the creaking grew louder, closer. Caleb took a step back, his heel catching on a root, and he fell hard onto the ground.

The impact knocked the wind out of him, but as he lay there, staring up at the canopy of twisting branches, he saw them—eyes. Dozens of them, glowing faintly in the darkness, staring down at him from the trees. They blinked in unison, their movements eerily slow and deliberate.

Caleb scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. “Stay back!” he shouted, but his words felt small and insignificant against the oppressive presence of the forest.

The creaking sound stopped, replaced by the faintest hint of laughter—a low, guttural chuckle that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Caleb turned in circles, his fists clenched, his breath ragged. “What do you want from me?” he yelled, his voice cracking.

A whisper came, so close it felt like it was right in his ear. “To feed.”

The word sent a bolt of terror through him. He bolted, his feet pounding against the uneven ground, branches tearing at his clothes and skin. The forest seemed to close in around him, the trees bending, their roots reaching up to trip him. He stumbled but kept running, his mind screaming for him to escape.

When he finally burst out of the woods and into the clearing near his house, he collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air. The forest stood still behind him, its shadows retreating, its whispers fading into silence. Caleb rolled onto his back, staring up at the stars, his body trembling with exhaustion and fear.

As his breathing slowed, he realized he was clutching something in his hand. Slowly, he opened his fingers to reveal a single white petal, soft and faintly glowing. It wasn’t from any flower he recognized.

The forest had given it to him—or perhaps, it had left it as a warning.

Caleb stumbled through the forest’s edge, his breaths ragged and sharp. His boots crunched against brittle leaves as he crossed into the clearing by his house. The moonlight spilled across the lawn, casting cold silver light over the ranch-style home. Its shadow stretched long and menacing, an ominous figure looming behind him. He clutched the small flower petal in his trembling hand, its pale blue hue now tinged with a faint iridescent glow.

Back inside, the oppressive silence greeted him like an old enemy. The door creaked shut, and Caleb locked it, twisting the bolt twice for good measure. He moved to the kitchen, fumbling with the whiskey bottle, pouring a shaky measure into his glass. The liquid sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the counter, but he didn’t care.

The petal rested on the table like a silent witness, its glow dimming as if fading with the night. Caleb’s eyes fixed on it, every nerve in his body screaming that it shouldn’t exist. Yet, there it was—a sliver of the uncanny forest, now in his home.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His voice echoed in the empty kitchen, the sound swallowed by the weight of the moment.

The drink burned as it went down, but it wasn’t enough. He poured another, hoping it would calm the wild thrum of his heart. His thoughts swirled—fragmented memories of whispers, shadows, and that figure among the trees. Who—or what—was she?

“Lucille…” he said aloud, the name tasting foreign and heavy on his tongue. The journal had hinted at her, but nothing could have prepared him for what he encountered tonight.

Caleb slumped into the chair, his head in his hands. The journal sat beside him, its cracked leather cover like a taunt, daring him to delve deeper. He reached for it, flipping through the pages with a new desperation, searching for answers he wasn’t sure he wanted.

His eyes caught a passage scrawled in shaky handwriting, different from the neat script of the previous entries. It was almost illegible, but the words clawed at his mind:

"The trees whisper her name. She comes for us, one by one, weaving her lies with the roots. We thought we were safe in the clearing, but the forest grows closer every night. If you find this, you must..."

The sentence broke off abruptly, the ink trailing into a jagged smear. Caleb’s pulse quickened. The forest grows closer every night. The memory of the trees leaning toward him, their shadows reaching, surged in his mind.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the journal with hollow eyes. The whiskey no longer burned; it was just a bitter taste in his mouth. He looked at the petal again, daring himself to touch it, but his hand recoiled at the thought.

Finally, he grabbed the petal, intending to crush it in his fist and rid himself of its haunting presence. But as his fingers closed around it, a searing pain shot through his palm, forcing him to release it. The petal fluttered to the table, unscathed, as though mocking him.

Caleb clenched his fists and stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His reflection caught his eye in the kitchen window—a gaunt, hollow man staring back. The sight filled him with anger and shame. He needed to stop drinking, to stop spiraling.

But first, he needed answers.

Grabbing the journal and a flashlight, Caleb made his way to his office. He locked the door behind him and spread his collection of notes, maps, and articles across the desk. His mind raced as he pieced together the fragments, his fingers tracing lines on old maps and circling passages in articles. He had to know why the forest called to him—and why Lucille Tillman seemed to be at its center.

As the first light of dawn crept through the blinds, Caleb sat back, his eyes bloodshot but resolute. He hadn’t found all the answers, but he had found a direction—a name of a site mentioned in the journal, just outside of King George: the Hollow Glen.

And so, another decision solidified in his mind. If the forest wanted him, it would have to face him head-on. He would go to the Hollow Glen.

The petal on the kitchen table glimmered faintly, a quiet promise of what lay ahead.