Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the scent of wet pine still hung thick as velvet when four travelers stepped past the ruined mile-stone that marked Moonwood's border.

Captain Sorrel Hart – mercenary turned smuggler, sword scarred and debt-driven.

Dr. Livia Marke – botanist, chasing rumors of plants that sing.

Brother Kel – runaway monk, clutching a brass censer that never cooled.

Pip – a pickpocket no older than thirteen, there for coin and whatever wonder could be carried in small hands.

They had not heard of the Watcher, nor of Marlen Keene's new vigil. They sought only a shortcut to the coast and the promise of rare herbs.

The forest greeted them with silence so absolute it rang in their ears. Ferns dripped. Branches bowed. Thick carpets of moss glowed faintly, as though storing the last light of dusk.

Pip was the first to notice the footprints—tiny impressions in the moss, perfectly formed, five toes each, yet no deeper than a raindrop's kiss. They trailed ahead, vanishing beneath a fallen cedar.

"Fox, maybe," Sorrel muttered.

But Dr. Marke knelt. "Too round," she whispered, stroking the print. A tremor fluttered beneath her fingers—muscle beneath plant.

The moss shivered.

Brother Kel swung the censer, gray smoke curling. "Gods preserve us. This wood is blighted."

A sound answered him.

Soft. Wet. Like a newborn's gasp.

The travelers froze. Around them, the moss rippled outward, ring after ring, until the entire clearing quivered like skin beneath a blade.

Then it cried.

Not an echo. Not the squeal of some hidden creature. A true, human cry—raw with fear and need—rising from every green thread underfoot.

Pip stumbled back; Sorrel hauled the child behind him. The cry became a chorus—hundreds of infant voices woven together, wailing from the earth itself.

Dr. Marke stared in horror. "It's pulsing… look!"

Where their boot treads had pressed, crimson beads welled up: blood, bright against emerald. The moss wasn't plant; it was a pelt, living tissue threaded with chlorophyll, veined and breathing.

Brother Kel dropped to his knees, smoke spilling over the ground. "Spirits have been bound here," he hissed. "We trespass upon a grave."

A deeper voice rolled through the trunks—neither wind nor beast.

"Leave the cradle."

From the shadowed pines strode Marlen Keene, eyes milky, bark creeping along his jaw like creeping lichen. Antler-shaped branches crowned his shoulders. The Watcher's heir.

"Turn back," he warned. "The wood nurses its young. Your weight wounds them."

Sorrel drew his sabre. "And if we refuse?"

The moss convulsed. Tendrils lashed up, snaring Sorrel's ankles, pulling him to his knees. Everywhere their footprints had marred the mat, scarlet tears oozed. The forest wept its own children.

Pip screamed. Dr. Marke clawed at the vines, but each cut birthed more. Brother Kel thrust the censer down; sanctified coals scattered, searing green flesh. The cries rose to a fever—pain mixed with rage.

Marlen stepped into the rushing vines and they parted for him like obedient serpents. He placed a hand upon the moss; the wailing softened to exhausted sobs.

"Go," he said, voice cracking with pity. "Moonwood forgives only once."

They fled, barefoot to spare the ground, hearts hammering, ears echoing with that impossible infant lament. Behind them, the forest knit itself closed—wounds sealing, blood drawn back, cries fading to a hushed breath beneath the pines.

When dawn lit their faces at the forest's edge, each traveler found a single green filament threaded through their clothes—souvenir or warning, they could not tell.

And deep within Moonwood, Marlen knelt beside the trembling moss, whispering lullabies only the roots could hear, as somewhere beneath the soil… something newborn sighed and settled back to sleep.