#pinebrook

The sun has long since set over Hatchetfield. The darkness weighs heavily over the town and beyond. In Oakley Park, there aren't even any lights to illuminate the space. Which makes sense, seeing as it closes at sunset.

Despite this, a shiny red 2019 Corvette Stingray sits in the small parking lot. The Kansas license plate suggests the owner doesn't know any better. Which is impressive, given the signs posted that state the park's hours. Not that the locals need the signs. The locals of Hatchetfield know better than to be this close to the Witchwood this late at night.

Arlen Mercier hikes his bag higher on his shoulder as he approaches the treeline. The beam from his flashlight illuminates the trunks of the trees and the ground in front of him. Crickets chirp loudly, almost as if in warning. He glances up at the night sky, noting the new moon, before walking into the forest.

He had just moved to Hatchetfield a month or so ago, in search of inspiration for his next novel. Sure, his fantasy adventure books were fun to write and sold well, but he wanted a challenge. Based on box office sales and tumblr posts, his target demographic seemed to be into horror.

He heard about Hatchetfield from a few fans, noting the town name on the return addresses of letters. It seemed like such a silly name for a town. Hatchetfield? Is that where you go to bury the hatchet? He had tweeted under his pen name of Claire Merren. The responses he received from fans who lived there, though, intrigued him. He read about their stories, urban legends and conspiracy theories, feeling drawn to the island town. A few days browsing the web and some phone calls later, he had purchased a house in a neighborhood called Pinebrook.

Tonight though, tonight is the first night he's gotten to do any investigating after asking around town. The Witchwood caught his attention after a brief conversation with a young girl with pigtail braids and dark, serious eyes. She caught sight of him outside of Lakeside Mall and had immediately become distressed. "Witchwood," she had muttered, glancing at the teenager in a Toy Zone vest at her side before looking pointedly at him again. "Apple… Dark…"

He had tried to approach her, to ask what she meant, but the teen had glared at him before hurrying the girl away.

Arlen finds himself in a clearing after several minutes of hiking over gnarled roots and unruly underbrush. The girl had been right about two things: it was dark and he was in the Witchwood. He shines the light around, slowly spinning in a circle as he moves to the middle of the clearing. He stops dead as two horrifying realizations hit him.

One: He doesn't know which way he came from.

Two: The crickets have stopped chirping.

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep himself calm. He looks around, trying to find some sort of sign or marker to have magically appeared to guide him back to the park.

Crunch

Arlen freezes, swallowing nervously at the sound. That wasn't a twig snapping. That sounded like-

"Well, well, well, who do we have here?" A low gravelly voice asks

Stumbling back, Arlen shines the light towards the sound of the voice. There stands a man dressed entirely in denim. The light reflects off the pins on his jacket. His dark hair is slicked back from his face, dark eyes glinting maliciously. In his hand is a green apple with a single bite taken out of it.

Panic begins to rise in his chest. "Wh-who are you?!" He demands in a shaky voice.

"Oh, I think the more important question is who are you?" The man looks him up and down. "Not from Hatchetfield, that much is for certain."

Arlen blinks. "How could you possibly know that?"

Somehow, the man's grin grows even wider. "Cause I know Hatchetfield. It's a mold, y'see, makes a very specific type of person." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes another bite of his apple. "...and you're not it," he says through a mouthful of apple.

Where to even begin with this. "Look, I don't want any trouble-"

The forest around him erupts with high pitched screams of laughter, making it almost impossible to hear the man's low rumbling laugh. There's something else, a single, almost hiccuping laugh underneath all of the other noises that seems to resonate through the forest.

"You don't want any trouble?" The man snickers, eyes burning with sadistic glee. "You came to Hatchetfield of all places and you expect me to believe you don't want any trouble?" He sneers. He begins to cross the clearing slowly, headed directly for Arlen.

He needs to run, needs to get away from whoever this man is. As he takes a step back, his flashlight begins dimming and flickering. Arlen curses. He just put new batteries in it before coming out.  He hits it against the heel of his hand, desperately trying to get the light to come back. He glances up to see the man getting closer and closer, his lips curled in an arrogant smirk.

Witchwood. He glances around at the trees as he backs up.

Apple. His eyes fall to the green skin of the fruit in the man's hand.

Dark. His flashlight flickers one last time before plunging him in total darkness.

The next morning, the soft sunlight filters through the branches of the trees. Deep in the heart of the Witchwood, a clearing seems to glow from the light filling it. It appears undisturbed, aside from a single green apple on the ground, placed, somehow, exactly in the middle of the clearing.