MidnightScreams

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The forest was alive.

I don’t mean that in the poetic sense, where the wind whispers through the leaves or the occasional rustle of a squirrel breaks the silence. No, this forest was alive in a way that defied reason. It breathed. It watched. It waited.

I had come here to prove a theory. As a scientist, I prided myself on my ability to dissect the unknown, to strip away superstition and reveal the cold, hard facts beneath. The disappearances in Blackwood Forest had been dismissed as the work of wild animals or the ramblings of lost hikers. But the patterns were too consistent, too deliberate. Something intelligent was behind this. Something unnatural.

My name is Dr. Elias Varn, and I am not a man easily shaken. I’ve spent my life studying the boundaries of human understanding, from the depths of the ocean to the farthest reaches of space. But this forest… this forest felt different. It felt wrong.

The first night, I set up camp at the edge of the tree line. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the moon hung low, casting long, jagged shadows across the ground. I recorded my observations in my journal, noting the eerie stillness that seemed to press in from all sides. Even the crickets had fallen silent.

By the second day, I began to notice the signs. Deep gouges in the bark of the trees, too high for any natural predator. Footprints that were almost human but not quite, with elongated toes and claws that left deep impressions in the soil. And the smell—a musky, feral odor that clung to the air like a warning.

I told myself it was a bear, or perhaps a large wolf. But the rational part of my mind, the part that had always guided me, began to falter. There was something out there, something that moved with a purpose I couldn’t comprehend.

The third night was when I saw it.

I had set up motion-activated cameras around my camp, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was stalking me. The footage was grainy, but unmistakable. A figure, hunched and massive, moving with a speed that defied logic. Its eyes glowed in the infrared light, two pinpricks of malevolent intelligence. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

I tried to rationalize what I had seen. A trick of the light, perhaps, or a malfunction in the camera. But deep down, I knew the truth. This was no animal. This was something else entirely.

The fourth day was a blur. I ventured deeper into the forest, driven by a mix of fear and curiosity. The trees seemed to close in around me, their branches twisting into grotesque shapes. The air grew colder, and the shadows lengthened, even though the sun was still high in the sky.

And then I found it.

A clearing, bathed in an unnatural light. In the center stood a massive oak, its trunk twisted and gnarled. At its base was a pile of bones, picked clean and arranged in a deliberate pattern. My stomach churned as I realized what I was looking at. This was a den. A lair.

I heard it before I saw it. A low, guttural growl that reverberated through the ground and up into my chest. I turned, my heart pounding, and there it was.


It stood on two legs, its body covered in coarse, dark fur. Its face was a grotesque blend of human and beast, with a snout that twitched as it sniffed the air. Its eyes locked onto mine, and I saw something in them—a flicker of recognition, of intelligence.

I froze, my mind racing. This was impossible. Werewolves were the stuff of legend, of campfire stories. And yet, here it was, standing before me, its breath steaming in the cold air.

It moved faster than I could react. One moment it was at the edge of the clearing, and the next it was on me, its claws slashing through the air. I stumbled back, my training kicking in as I reached for the tranquilizer gun at my side.

The dart hit its mark, sinking into the creature’s shoulder. It roared in pain, a sound that echoed through the forest like a thunderclap. For a moment, I thought it would fall. But then it lunged again, its eyes blazing with fury.

I don’t remember much after that. Just the sensation of being dragged, of sharp pain and the taste of blood in my mouth. When I woke, I was back at the edge of the forest, my equipment scattered around me.

The cameras were destroyed, the footage lost. But I didn’t need proof anymore. I had seen it with my own eyes.

I left Blackwood Forest that day, vowing never to return. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear it. Not a howl, but a low, guttural growl that sends shivers down my spine. And I know, deep down, that it’s still out there. Waiting.