Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The lumberjacks of Red Hollow refused to cut the trees east of the ravine. Not because of superstition—though there was plenty of that—but because the trees there bled.

Axemen spoke of trunks that groaned when struck. Of crimson sap that ran like blood, warm and metallic to the touch. Of bark that seemed to pulse faintly, like skin over veins.

But that didn't matter to Foreman Grigg.

He had contracts to fill. Demand from the capital was high, and the timber barons didn't care for ghost stories.

So, when his crew refused, Grigg went in alone, axe over shoulder, whistling spite into the wind.

He crossed the ravine under gray skies and walked until the air changed—until it grew still.

No birdsong. No breeze. Even his breath sounded wrong.

He found a massive tree at the edge of a strange grove. Its bark was dark and gnarled, the size of a cathedral pillar. Red vines crept along its roots like arteries, disappearing beneath the soil.

Grigg spat at its base and raised his axe.

The first swing split bark with a thick, wet crunch.

A moment passed. Then—

The tree screamed.

Not a creak. Not the sound of wind through branches. A high, rattling wail that shook the leaves and echoed through the woods like a child's dying cry.

Blood—deep red and steaming—poured from the wound, coating Grigg's boots.

He froze.

Behind him, the trees moved.

Not swayed—moved.

Dozens of trunks rotated toward him like sentinels. Their bark shifted. Faces emerged. Human. Animal. Twisted with agony. Eyes opened in the knots.

They all stared.

Grigg turned to run, but his feet sank into the bleeding soil. Vines lashed out, wrapping his legs. He hacked at them, snarling, until another vine coiled around his throat.

The grove didn't kill him quickly.

It watched him.

As he choked and thrashed, the bleeding tree bent down—not physically, but in essence. A shape formed in the bark—an old face, cracked and hollow-eyed.

It whispered.

"You fed your fires with children of the root. Now we drink your fire."

The vines plunged into Grigg's chest. His screams were muffled by soil. His body writhed, then went still.

When the crew came searching, they found no body.

Only a new tree.

Young, fresh, sapling-thin.

Its bark was red.

And when wind passed through the grove, it carried a sound like an axe splitting wood—and a voice beneath it, low and ragged, calling for mercy too late.

That night, the workers set fire to the edge of the woods.

But the fire stopped short of the ravine.

The trees would not burn.

And every spring, the saplings grow thicker.

And redder.

Waiting for the next axe.