Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The forest deepened as Evelyn Blackmoor journeyed beyond Greymarrow's outer hills. Trees grew too tall, too twisted, branches knotted like gnarled fingers clutching secrets. The wind had fallen still—no birds, no rustling, only the crunch of her boots over brittle leaves and bone-colored moss.

The blue flame in her lantern pulsed softly now, as though aware. Guiding her.

The path led to an ancient clearing where moss blanketed broken stone and a single iron post stood in the center. From it hung a lantern—unlit, cobwebbed, and carved with runes in a language that pulsed behind her eyes.

This was the Lantern of the Forgotten, spoken of only in footnotes and hushed asylum ramblings. A relic said to trap the memories of the dead—not just their images, but their regrets, their screams.

As she approached, the air thickened. The trees leaned in, and time seemed to bend.

Evelyn reached for the lantern.

The moment her fingers touched the handle, her mind was ripped open.

She stood not in the forest—but in a memory not her own.

A battlefield soaked in black rain. Screams. Smoke. Soldiers dragging bodies into pits. And there, among them, a boy—no older than fifteen—eyes glazed with terror as he tried to light a lantern in the storm. He cried for his brother, who lay twitching on the ground, mouth full of dirt and blood.

The lantern refused to light. The boy sobbed. And then… everything turned blue.

With a gasp, Evelyn tore her hand away, stumbling backward. The lantern on the post now burned brightly, its ghostly flame illuminating the clearing in unnatural clarity.

Around her, figures emerged.

Translucent. Lost.

Men and women, children and elders, all bearing wounds of war, disease, betrayal. Some with mouths stitched shut, others with eyes gouged out—symbols of things they were never allowed to say or see in life.

One stepped forward: a woman in a tattered wedding dress, face scorched, whispering.

"They remember now. You opened the flame."

"What do you want from me?" Evelyn asked, breath visible in the sudden cold.

The woman raised a trembling hand and pointed.

Not at Evelyn.

At the lantern.

"You carry one already. But this one… carries you."

Evelyn turned. The original lantern she had brought with her—her companion since the banshee's song—now pulsed in rhythm with the one hanging on the post. Blue to blue. Flame to flame.

A connection forged.

Suddenly, the spirits began to fade, retreating into the shadows. The forest shivered, and the clearing darkened once more.

Evelyn took the Lantern of the Forgotten from its post.

It was warm in her hand.

And as she walked back toward the edge of the clearing, the trees parted just slightly—respectfully.

Behind her, the ghostly flame flickered one last time, whispering a name only she could hear.

Her own.