Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

It rained blood in the Grove of Hollow Roots every year on the same night—the final night of the Harvest Moon.

No one planted seeds there. Nothing should have grown. Yet the trees towered tall and twisted, their bark black as ash, their leaves dark red and thick like wet velvet. The ground was soft, not with soil, but with rot.

The village of Varnhollow learned long ago to never speak of it, never wander near it. But traditions die slowly, and the Grove demanded tribute.

Every year, a name was drawn.

This year, it was Orren Fallow, a quiet butcher's apprentice with trembling hands and a heart too kind for his cursed town.

They told him it was an honor.

They gave him a red cloak, a blade carved from elderbone, and a lantern that never flickered in wind or rain. They marched him to the grove as the moon rose, full and red, and left him at the treeline.

Alone.

The moment he stepped beneath the canopy, the light changed. Red shadows stretched in impossible directions. Whispers slithered through the leaves—soft voices singing lullabies backward.

The path twisted, and trees leaned in as if hungry. The lantern dimmed.

And then he found it:

A clearing drenched in blood—not old blood, but fresh. Steam rose from the ground. The trees drank greedily through exposed roots, pulsing like veins. At the center stood a stone altar, wrapped in creeping vines with teeth.

And around it, figures stood still.

Not alive. Not dead.

Men and women—some recent, others ancient—fused with the trees, their torsos half-swallowed, arms stretched out like branches. All wore red cloaks. All held bone knives. Their eyes followed him.

Orren's knees shook, but he stepped forward.

The grove wanted sacrifice.

He raised the knife.

But he could not bring it down.

"I didn't ask to be chosen," he whispered. "Take me if you must—but I won't spill another's blood."

The trees reacted. The whispers rose to shrieks. Bark split open in grotesque laughter. Vines lashed out, coiling around his legs and arms, pulling him toward the altar.

Roots pierced his skin—not to drain him, but to read him.

Visions struck: centuries of blood offerings, of the grove feeding on pain, of once-living druids bound by ancient oaths, corrupted by their own creation.

But within Orren, the grove found something new—pity. A soul not steeped in hatred or fear.

It recoiled.

The vines loosened. The red shadows faded. The blood in the clearing dried as if ashamed.

Orren stood trembling, alive.

And for the first time in living memory, the Grove let someone go.

He returned to Varnhollow at dawn, eyes wide with knowledge too heavy for words.

From that year on, no name was drawn.

The trees in the grove still stand, silent now.

But if you pass too near on the night of the blood moon, you might hear the trees weep.

And if you listen closely—

One of them is whispering Orren's name.

The Grove remembers mercy.

And it fears it.