A Woodcutter’s Last Words

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If you’re reading this, they got me. Please, tell Elek of Crofton I loved him. No one else would cut the trees to the northeast of town. Everyone said it was too dangerous. But I didn’t believe their superstitions. At least not until my axe bit into ...

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If you’re reading this, they got me. Please, tell Elek of Crofton I loved him. No one else would cut the trees to the northeast of town. Everyone said it was too dangerous. But I didn’t believe their superstitions. At least not until my axe bit into the bark of the first ancient tree. A dark substance eked out of the wound, more viscous and sinister than any sap I have seen. Then the wind picked up and the boughs all started creaking. I turned to follow my path back, but the trees, they, moved? I have been wandering for days, and I swear the roots rise up to trip me and the branches reach down to scratch me. I can hear a stream somewhere, but the brush conspires to block my path. And each morning when I wake up, the trees have closed in tighter.

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