The morning sun cast long shadows across the diner’s hardwood floor as Caleb nursed his coffee, its bitter warmth doing little to soothe the knot in his stomach. Around him, the gentle hum of the small-town morning buzzed—plates clinking, quiet conversations floating between tables, and the distant sound of the bell over the door jingling as patrons came and went. The walls were adorned with faded black-and-white photos of King George’s past, a gallery of simpler, harder times.
Caleb had come into town to clear his head, to escape the oppressive silence of his house, but he hadn’t expected to overhear something that would tie him even closer to its dark mystery.
“Y’know, the old Mitchell place? Heard another family didn’t stay there too long,” one of the older men seated at the counter said, stirring his coffee with a spoon that clinked against the ceramic. He spoke in a low voice to his companion, but it carried just enough for Caleb to catch.
“They never do,” the other replied with a snort, his weathered face shadowed under the brim of a stained baseball cap. “That place? It’s cursed. Always has been. Hell, I remember when I was a boy, my ma said you couldn’t pay her to set foot near those woods.”
“Ah, those stories are just old wives’ tales,” the first man said, though his voice wavered as if he didn’t fully believe his own words.
“Maybe so,” the other replied, leaning closer, his voice dropping further. “But you know what happened to the Martins. And that was no tale.”
Caleb froze, his hand gripping his mug tighter. He’d never heard of the Martins, but the weight in the man’s tone made it clear this wasn’t just idle gossip. He kept his eyes down, feigning disinterest while his ears remained keenly focused.
“Disappeared,” the man said after a pause, his voice tinged with something that might have been fear. “All of ’em. One day, they were sittin’ in that house, just like you and me are sittin’ here now. Next? Gone. No note, no sign of a struggle. Just … gone. Left the place like they’d walked out to milk a cow and never came back.”
“That was years ago,” the first man argued, but he, too, glanced over his shoulder toward the window as though the woods might be watching. “Could’ve been anything.”
“Could’ve been,” the other agreed, though the way his fingers gripped his coffee mug suggested otherwise. “But my ma used to say the trees had eyes. Said they were hungry. She wasn’t one to believe in nonsense, but when it came to that place, she didn’t take any chances. Said the forest takes what it wants, and it don’t give it back.”
Caleb couldn’t help himself. “Excuse me,” he interrupted, his voice steady despite the unease coiling in his gut. “What happened to the Martins? Do you remember anything else?”
Both men turned toward him, their expressions guarded. The older of the two glanced Caleb over, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You live out there now?”
“I do,” Caleb admitted, leaning forward slightly. “The stories … I’d just like to know more. For my writing.”
The man snorted but didn’t push the issue. “All I know is this: that place don’t bring anyone good fortune. The Martins, the Murphys, the Hendersons before ’em … All gone. Some moved out, couldn’t take the feelin’ of being watched, I suppose. Others …” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air. “Whatever’s out there in those woods, it ain’t natural. You ask me, you’re better off sellin’ it to the next fool who comes along and gettin’ the hell out.”
The conversation lingered in Caleb’s mind as he left the diner. The men’s voices echoed, mixing with the soft rustle of wind in the trees as he made his way back to his truck. The idea of the woods watching him felt less like a paranoid fantasy and more like a sinister truth.
Climbing into the cab, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the road stretching back toward his house. For a moment, he swore the trees along the edge of town leaned closer, as if drawn toward him. Shaking the thought away, Caleb started the engine, the rumble of the V8 doing little to drown out the ominous whispers in his mind.
The Martins, the Murphys, the Hendersons.
The woods take what they want.
And Caleb felt their eyes on him now.
The drive back to his ranch-style home in the woods was slower than usual. Caleb found himself distracted, his thoughts a tangle of speculation and dread. Who were the Martins, and why had their story never come up in the records he’d scoured at the town library? What about the Murphys and Hendersons? The nagging feeling that the woods held more secrets than he’d imagined gnawed at him.
When he pulled into the gravel driveway, the familiar sight of his home should have been comforting, but the shadow-drenched trees that loomed around the property seemed closer, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Caleb shivered, shaking off the imagery, and stepped out of his truck.
Inside, the house was just as he’d left it—half-unpacked boxes stacked against the walls, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. He kicked off his boots and headed to his desk, where his laptop waited. The day’s conversations had sparked something he couldn’t ignore, and he needed answers.
His fingers flew across the keyboard as he typed: Disappearance Martins King George VA.
At first, the search yielded nothing but unrelated articles and family history sites. He adjusted his keywords: King George families missing. Still, no relevant results. Frustrated but determined, Caleb leaned back in his chair, staring at the blinking cursor. There had to be something. Local archives, maybe?
An idea struck him, and he opened a new tab. He searched for the town’s historical society and found an outdated website. The page was sparse, with only a few links to archived newsletters and contact information. It wasn’t promising, but it was a start. Clicking through, he stumbled upon an article titled, The Unquiet Woods. The header image was grainy, black-and-white, and depicted a dense forest that looked hauntingly familiar. His pulse quickened as he began to read.
“... The area now known as the Mitchell Woods has long been associated with strange occurrences, dating back to the early settlement of King George. Records from the 1800s detail several accounts of individuals vanishing without a trace while traveling through the forest. In 1892, the Martin family—a husband, wife, and three children—mysteriously disappeared from their home on the outskirts of the woods. Their belongings were found intact, but the family was never seen again. Superstitions about the woods grew, with locals avoiding the area for decades.”
Caleb stopped reading and stared at the screen, his chest tight. The Martin family, gone without a trace—right where he now lived. The dates aligned with the older man’s story at the diner. A chill crept up his spine as he read on.
“... Many attribute the disappearances to natural dangers, such as animal attacks or the dense terrain. Others believe the forest itself harbors a darker power. Stories of eerie whispers, strange lights, and an oppressive presence have been passed down through generations. The most recent incident occurred in 1978 when the Henderson family abandoned their home, citing ‘unexplainable’ events.”
The Hendersons. Caleb felt the weight of the names settle over him like a shroud. He clicked through more articles, but the details were scarce—brief mentions of unease, rumors of hauntings, and secondhand accounts of families fleeing in fear.
Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his temples. Why hadn’t the realtor told him any of this? Was it all just local folklore, or was there truth behind the stories? The thought of families vanishing, of something malevolent lurking in the woods, made him question his decision to move here. He hadn’t come to King George to run from one darkness into another.
The room felt stifling, the air too thick. Caleb needed a drink. He stood and made his way to the kitchen, pulling out a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. Pouring himself a glass, he tried to steady his nerves, but his mind kept circling back to the woods.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. For a moment, it sounded almost like a whisper. Caleb froze, his heart pounding as the faint voice of his late wife seemed to echo in his memory.
Stay away from the woods.
He took a long sip, trying to drown the warning. But the unease in his chest didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.
Caleb woke the next morning to a strange sense of unease, as if he hadn’t slept at all. The whiskey bottle on the counter was nearly empty—a testament to how deeply he’d tried to bury the unsettling discoveries of the previous day. He rubbed his face, feeling the roughness of stubble against his palms, and resolved to spend the day outside. Maybe some fresh air would help clear his head.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Grabbing his jacket, Caleb stepped out onto the porch. The forest was eerily silent, the usual morning sounds of birds and insects noticeably absent. The trees stood like ancient sentinels, their bare branches tangled and shadowed against the gray sky. He tried to shake off the creeping sense of being watched and headed toward the truck.
“I need to get out of here for a bit,” he muttered to himself. The small town, with its quiet streets and unassuming charm, seemed a better place to lose himself than the suffocating embrace of the woods. But as he turned the ignition, the truck sputtered once, twice, and died. Caleb cursed under his breath and tried again. Nothing.
Slamming his fist against the steering wheel, he muttered, “Great. Just perfect.” He considered calling a tow truck but realized his phone was still sitting on the kitchen counter. Reluctantly, he stepped back outside, cursing his luck as he trudged toward the shed. Maybe there was a gas can or a set of jumper cables he’d overlooked.
As Caleb approached the shed, a faint movement caught his eye—a flash of white among the trees. He froze, scanning the shadows, but there was nothing there. Just the wind rustling through the branches. Shaking his head, he reached for the shed’s handle and yanked it open.
Inside, the air was stale, carrying the faint smell of mildew and old wood. Tools hung neatly on the walls, a relic of the previous owners’ handiwork. But something else caught his attention—a set of deep scratches running along the inside of the door. They were uneven, jagged, as if made by desperate hands—or claws.
He ran his fingers over the marks, feeling the grooves in the wood. “What the hell...?” Caleb whispered. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as a sudden chill swept through the shed. For a moment, he thought he heard something—a low, guttural sound, almost like breathing.
Spinning around, Caleb scanned the small space, but he was alone. The sound was gone. He grabbed the gas can from the corner and stepped outside, desperate to be free of the suffocating atmosphere. But as he turned back toward the house, he saw it again—a figure in white standing at the edge of the woods.
It was a woman, her long dress billowing faintly in the breeze. Her face was obscured by shadow, but her presence radiated a strange, almost magnetic pull. Caleb’s heart pounded as he took a step closer, his instincts screaming at him to stop.
“Hey!” he called out. His voice echoed, swallowed by the trees. The woman didn’t move, didn’t respond, just stood there like a statue carved from mist. Caleb’s throat tightened, his earlier resolve crumbling under the weight of her gaze—or the absence of it.
And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone. Disappeared into the woods without a sound.
Caleb stumbled backward, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His gaze darted between the trees, searching for any sign of her, but the forest was empty. He turned and hurried back toward the house, the gas can sloshing in his hand.
Inside, he locked the door behind him and sank into the nearest chair, his mind racing. The stories, the warnings, the strange occurrences—it was all too much. He couldn’t keep brushing it off as coincidence or paranoia. The woods were alive, watching, waiting. And now they had sent someone—or something—to confront him.
Taking another long pull from the whiskey bottle, Caleb resolved to dig deeper. Whatever was happening, whatever connection the Martins, the Hendersons, and this woman in white had to the woods, he needed to uncover the truth. Before it consumed him.
Caleb sat at his kitchen table, staring blankly at the flickering flame of the candle he had lit. The electricity had gone out shortly after he returned from the shed, casting the house in a deep, oppressive darkness. The silence seemed thicker than ever, as though the walls themselves were listening. He took another swig of whiskey, hoping to dull the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind.
Determined to distract himself, Caleb reached for the pile of papers he had left scattered on the table. These were notes and sketches he had started weeks ago for his new novel, ideas that now felt hopelessly irrelevant in the face of his current reality. He grabbed one page—a crude map of the property—and his eyes fell on the markings he had scrawled over the forested areas.
In the center of the map, he had drawn a large X, signifying the spot where he had found the strange key. His fingers hovered over the inked lines, and an idea took hold. There had to be more to this land than the fragments he’d discovered.
Caleb grabbed a flashlight, its dim beam barely cutting through the heavy shadows of the house. He tucked the map into his pocket, donned his coat, and stepped outside. The cold air bit at his skin, and the woods loomed before him, more menacing than ever. But he couldn’t ignore the pull any longer. The answers were out there.
The forest floor crunched underfoot as Caleb ventured deeper into the trees. The flashlight beam wavered over twisted roots and gnarled branches, each step feeling heavier than the last. It wasn’t long before he found himself at the clearing where he had first unearthed the key.
The air here was different, thick with an almost tangible energy. Caleb turned in a slow circle, the flashlight casting eerie shadows against the trunks. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he noticed something he hadn’t seen before—a series of carved symbols etched into one of the larger trees.
He approached cautiously, his breath clouding in the frigid air. The carvings were crude but deliberate, a series of spirals and intersecting lines that seemed to form a pattern. He ran his fingers over the grooves, the rough bark cold and unyielding. As he traced the shapes, a sudden wave of nausea washed over him, forcing him to stagger back.
His flashlight flickered, plunging him into brief darkness before flaring back to life. Caleb’s pulse quickened as he realized the carvings had begun to glow faintly, a sickly green light emanating from the lines. He stumbled further away, his mind racing. The symbols pulsed like a heartbeat, casting the surrounding trees in an eerie glow.
“Caleb...” a whisper drifted through the air, soft but unmistakable.
He froze, the flashlight trembling in his hand. “Who’s there?” he called out, his voice shaking.
The whisper came again, closer this time, carrying his name like a forbidden secret. Panic surged through him, and he turned to run, but his feet refused to move. The trees seemed to close in around him, their branches curling like fingers.
In the faint green light, a figure materialized. It was the woman in white, her face still hidden in shadow. She reached out a hand, beckoning him forward. Caleb’s body moved against his will, his legs dragging him closer to her. The air grew colder with every step, his breath forming frost on his jacket collar.
“You’ve come so far,” the woman said, her voice a melody of sorrow and seduction. “But there is more to see. More to understand.”
“What do you want?” Caleb managed to choke out.
“To show you,” she replied, her hand hovering inches from his. “To show you what lies beneath.”
Before Caleb could react, she vanished, leaving him alone in the clearing. The glowing symbols faded, plunging the forest into darkness once more. Caleb collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. His mind spun with questions, but one thing was clear—whatever was happening here, it was far from over.
Forcing himself to his feet, Caleb turned back toward the house, his steps unsteady. The flashlight flickered again, its beam catching glimpses of the forest’s gnarled underbelly. As he reached the edge of the trees, he glanced back over his shoulder. The clearing was empty, but he could still feel the woman’s presence, her whispered words lingering in his ears.
He couldn’t ignore it anymore. The answers weren’t just hidden in the woods—they were buried in the history of this land. And if he didn’t uncover them soon, he feared he might lose himself to whatever darkness had taken root here.
Back in the house, Caleb locked the door behind him, leaning heavily against the cold wood. His heart raced as though it might burst from his chest, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The encounter in the forest had left him shaken, but his writer's instincts couldn’t help but seize on the details—the glowing symbols, the whispering figure, the inexplicable pull of it all.
He needed a drink.
Caleb poured himself a glass of whiskey, his hands trembling as he raised it to his lips. The warmth spread through him, dulling the edges of his fear but sharpening his focus. He retrieved the map from his pocket and spread it across the table, smoothing out the creases with deliberate care. His flashlight and notebook sat beside it, along with the mysterious key, its metallic surface catching the dim light.
As he studied the map, his thoughts spiraled. What had he stumbled into? Was this some ancient ritual tied to the land? A curse? The rational part of his mind screamed for him to stop, to leave this house, this town, and never look back. But another part—the part that had driven him to write bestselling novels, to explore the darkest corners of the human psyche—refused to let go.
His eyes fell on the carved symbols he had sketched in his notebook earlier, now burned into his memory. They looked vaguely familiar, like something he’d seen in a documentary or read in one of his research books. But where? He flipped through the pages of the notebook, scouring his scribbled notes and old story ideas for a clue. His breath hitched when he found a drawing—a near-identical pattern he had scrawled months ago while brainstorming for a different story.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered.
The memory came flooding back. He had been researching Appalachian folklore, diving deep into tales of witches, curses, and spirits bound to the land. One legend, in particular, had caught his attention—a story about a forest that consumed those who dared to enter. The locals believed the trees were alive, their roots feeding on the souls of the lost.
Caleb’s blood ran cold as he realized the symbols he had seen in the woods matched those from the legend. But how could he have drawn them before moving here? Before any of this had happened?
The thought was interrupted by the sudden ringing of his phone, the shrill sound cutting through the silence like a knife. Caleb flinched, nearly knocking over his glass as he grabbed the device. The screen displayed his agent’s name.
He hesitated before answering, his thumb hovering over the green icon.
“Hello?” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
“Caleb, we need to talk.” His agent’s tone was clipped, a mix of irritation and concern. “You’re running out of time. The publishing house is breathing down my neck, and they’re not going to wait forever.”
“I’m working on it,” Caleb replied, his throat tightening. He glanced at the map on the table, the key glinting in the candlelight.
“Are you?” His agent didn’t sound convinced. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been sitting on this for months. This isn’t just about you, Caleb. This is my reputation on the line, too. If you don’t deliver within the next 30 days, they’re dropping the project—and I won’t be able to represent you anymore.”
The words hit like a sledgehammer, leaving Caleb breathless.
“I understand,” he said finally, his voice cracking. “I’ll finish it. I promise.”
“You’d better,” his agent said, her voice softening just slightly. “You’re too talented to throw it all away. Don’t let this be the end of your career, Caleb.”
The call ended with a hollow beep, leaving Caleb alone with the weight of his failures. He stared at the phone in his hand, the whiskey in his glass, the map on the table. Everything felt like it was closing in, the walls of the house pressing against him.
His career, his sanity, his very life—it all hinged on the secrets hidden in this cursed place. And as much as he hated to admit it, he was running out of time.