#hikinghorror

Tom had heard the rumours about Sherwood Forest, but like any seasoned hiker, he brushed them off as local folklore. Strange disappearances, eerie whispers, and shadows that moved without reason were nothing but tales spun to keep thrill-seekers away. The challenge of navigating its dense, untamed wilderness was too tempting to resist. So, on a chilly October morning, he packed his gear and ventured into the heart of the forest, ignoring the warnings that echoed in the back of his mind.

The first few hours were peaceful. The golden light of the rising sun filtered through the canopy, casting playful shadows on the forest floor. Birds chirped, and the soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath his boots set a rhythmic, almost calming pace. Tom reveled in the solitude. The trail was faint, nearly overgrown in places, but his instincts were sharp. He’d always had a good sense of direction, or so he thought.

As the sun climbed higher, the forest began to change. The trees grew taller, their trunks darker, their branches intertwining like gnarled, skeletal fingers. The air felt heavier, damp with the scent of moss and decay. The birdsong that had accompanied him earlier faded, replaced by an unsettling silence.

Tom checked his map and compass, frowning. The trail should have led him to a clearing by now, but he was still deep in the thick of the forest. He scanned the area, turning in slow circles, but the path had vanished, swallowed by the ever-thickening underbrush. A creeping sense of unease gnawed at him, but he shook it off. He’d been in trickier situations before.

He decided to backtrack, retracing his steps, but with every turn, the landscape seemed to shift. Trees that should have been familiar looked different, older, almost watchful. The sunlight, once warm and inviting, dimmed, casting the forest in a cold, blue twilight. Tom’s breath quickened. The forest was disorienting him, twisting his sense of direction. He was lost.

Panic began to set in as the day dragged on. He moved faster, trying to find any sign of the trail, but no matter how far he walked, the trees closed in tighter, their branches hanging low, blocking out the sky. The silence around him grew oppressive, pressing down on his chest until it was hard to breathe.

That’s when he heard it. A faint whisper, barely audible, carried on the wind.

“...this way...”

Tom froze. He scanned the trees, searching for the source of the voice, but there was no one. He was alone. His heart pounded in his ears.

“...this way...”

It was closer now, clearer, as if the voice was speaking directly into his mind. His skin prickled with cold sweat. He shook his head, trying to dismiss it as a trick of exhaustion. But the whisper persisted, beckoning him deeper into the forest.

“Come closer…”

Against his better judgment, Tom followed the voice. His legs moved without him fully willing them to, as if some invisible force was pulling him forward. The trees seemed to lean in closer, their bark etched with strange, twisted shapes. Faces, maybe. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to look too closely.

The voice led him to a small clearing, barely more than a patch of dirt surrounded by trees that loomed like sentinels. In the centre stood a massive, ancient oak, its trunk blackened and split as though struck by lightning. The whispers grew louder, overlapping in a cacophony of unintelligible words, except for one, repeated over and over again.

“Escape.”

Tom staggered forward, drawn to the tree. At its base was a hollow, wide enough for him to crawl into. The whispers urged him closer, promising safety, freedom, a way out. But deep in his gut, he knew something was terribly wrong. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to run. Yet he couldn’t move. His body betrayed him, inching toward the hollow.

As he stood before the tree, the whispers stopped abruptly, replaced by a deafening silence. The forest held its breath, as if waiting for him to make his choice.

Then, from within the hollow, something shifted. A pair of eyes — too large, too dark — blinked open, staring at him from the abyss. The stench of rot wafted from the tree, cloying and thick. A voice, deeper and more menacing than before, rumbled from the hollow.

"Give yourself, and you may leave."

Tom’s stomach lurched. He stumbled back, but the forest wouldn’t let him go. The branches above rustled, though there was no wind, and the shadows beneath the trees stretched toward him like grasping hands. He was trapped.

“What do you want?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

The creature in the tree blinked, slowly, deliberately. “A soul for the forest. Your soul.”

Tom's mind raced, panic overtaking him. He had no idea what this thing was — some ancient spirit, a demon, or something worse. But it had him. The whispers had lured him here, and now it demanded payment.

His throat tightened, his chest aching with terror. “And if I refuse?”

The shadows at the edge of the clearing stirred, rising from the ground like mist, coalescing into figures. People, or what had once been people. Their hollow eyes fixed on him, their mouths hanging open in silent screams. They had refused.

Tom’s heart hammered in his chest. His hands shook. The tree creaked, its hollow growing darker, wider. He could feel it, the hunger, the endless void that waited to consume him if he stayed.

With one last, desperate look at the figures surrounding him, he made his choice.

“I’ll give it,” he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice.

The hollow seemed to pulse, the darkness inside swelling, and before he could react, the tree’s roots shot from the ground, wrapping around his legs, his arms, pulling him into the blackness.

The last thing he heard as the world closed around him was the forest, whispering once more.

“You’re free.”

The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows over the dense forest that surrounded the base of Silent Hill. Few locals dared to walk the trail that circled its base at dusk, for as long as anyone could remember, whispers echoed from the hilltop during the dying light. They weren't loud, but clear enough to unnerve even the boldest soul. "Turn back," they would say, in voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Ben had heard the stories but dismissed them as nothing more than local superstition. He wasn’t from the small town that bordered the forest; he was an outsider, a hiker passing through, seeking solitude and challenge. He enjoyed proving myths wrong, finding in them only the fragile remnants of human fear. So, when the old man at the tavern had warned him about Silent Hill, he only laughed.

“Don’t ignore the whispers,” the old man had said. His voice had trembled in a way that made Ben almost uncomfortable. Almost.

“I’ll be fine,” Ben had responded with a grin, waving off the advice like he had heard it a thousand times.

Now, on the trail that wound around Silent Hill, dusk crept in like a slow-moving fog, draping the forest in muted colours. Ben's boots crunched on the gravel path, each step a lonely sound in the growing silence. The air grew cooler, heavier, and the wind rustled the leaves in a way that seemed offbeat, unnatural.

As he rounded a bend in the trail, the first whisper reached him.

"Turn back."

Ben froze mid-step. It had been soft, barely a breath, yet unmistakable. He looked around, eyes scanning the dense trees. There was no one. The forest was still.

He scoffed, shaking off the unease that tickled the back of his neck. Probably the wind, he thought, moving forward with renewed determination. But a few steps later, it came again, a little louder this time.

"Turn back."

He stopped again, his heartbeat quickening. The voice sounded close—too close—but still, there was no sign of anyone around. The trail was empty, the woods quiet. Ben frowned and continued walking, though his pace had slowed, his senses now heightened.

Then, more voices joined.

"Turn back," they whispered in unison, like a chorus carried on the wind.

He stopped cold. The whispers were no longer distant or vague; they seemed to come from the ground beneath his feet, from the trees themselves. His pulse pounded in his ears, and despite himself, a cold sweat began to form on his brow.

"Turn back," they repeated, insistent, urgent.

Ben spun around, expecting to see someone—a prank, perhaps, kids trying to scare him—but there was nothing, only the fading light of dusk and the looming presence of Silent Hill.

But he wasn’t the type to turn back. He pressed on, forcing his legs to move, though the unease crawled up his spine like icy fingers. His breath came in shorter bursts now, as if the very air had thickened with the weight of those disembodied voices.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping one another, coming from every direction.

"Turn back… Turn back… TURN BACK!"

He stumbled, his foot catching on a root, and for the first time, fear licked at his thoughts. His bravado cracked. He looked up at the hill, its silhouette darker than the encroaching night, an unnatural shadow blotting out the fading sky. It was then he saw it—movement, just at the top. A figure, standing still, watching him.

No. Not watching. Waiting.

The whispers stopped all at once, replaced by a thick, heavy silence that pressed on his eardrums, muting the world around him. Ben’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the figure that seemed to glide down the hill without moving its legs. It was tall, impossibly tall, its limbs thin and elongated, too long to be human. As it drew closer, Ben saw that its face—or what should have been its face—was a void, a featureless blackness that sucked in the last of the light.

The thing extended one of its arms, the limb bending unnaturally, almost serpentine. It pointed directly at him.

Suddenly, the whispers returned, but now they weren’t warnings. They were something else.

“He didn't listen,” they said in a soft, mournful chant. “He didn’t listen... He didn’t listen…”

Ben’s legs moved, but not by his will. He found himself walking, no, running—away from the hill, back toward town, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. The thing didn’t follow, but its presence lingered, a suffocating weight pressing down on his every breath.

By the time he reached the town’s edge, the sun had vanished completely, and the whispers had faded into the night. He stumbled back into the tavern, breathless, drenched in sweat, but alive.

The old man was still there, sitting at the bar, his eyes knowing, sad. Ben collapsed into a chair, shaking, his mouth struggling to form the words.

“I… I didn’t believe you.”

The old man gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. “Few ever do.”

Ben looked out the window, toward the dark silhouette of Silent Hill, a shiver running through him. He could still hear the final whisper, echoing in the depths of his mind.

"Next time, you won’t escape."