Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

There was a trail older than maps and memory, veiled beneath the roots of Moonwood and smothered by time. The locals called it the Forgotten Trail, and even the bravest hunters would not set foot on it—not because of wolves or bandits, but because of the Warden.

The trail was said to lead to nowhere and everywhere—to places that existed only when the wind whispered your name wrong. And at its threshold stood the Warden, a cloaked figure draped in moss and bone, face hidden behind a carved mask of bark.

No one knew if the Warden was man, ghost, or god.

Only that it guarded the path.

And punished those who tread without purpose.

Caldor Venn, a mapmaker by trade, didn't believe in old stories. He sought to uncover lost roads, chart hidden valleys, and etch his name into the annals of cartography. When he heard whispers of the Forgotten Trail in a tavern soaked with rain and rum, his heart surged with curiosity.

He ignored the barkeep's warning.

He didn't care about curses.

He wanted to know.

He found the first marker just beyond a blackened oak—an old stone etched with glyphs that hurt to look at. Still, he walked on. The forest shifted with each step, narrowing behind him, growing denser. Birdsong faded. The air turned thick, like breathing through velvet.

Then came the voice.

Low. Hollow. Cold.

"Turn back. The trail remembers thieves."

Caldor spun around.

The Warden stood in the path behind him—tall, unmoving, the bark mask weeping black resin.

"I'm not a thief," Caldor said. "I'm a seeker."

The Warden raised a hand. Branches above rustled, though there was no wind.

"What you seek must also seek you. The trail has no love for trespassers."

Caldor stood his ground. "I want truth."

The Warden was silent. Then, slowly, it stepped aside.

"Then follow it. But you may not return the same."

Caldor walked.

And walked.

The trail curled like a serpent through impossible places: fields of bone-colored grass under a black sun, rivers that sang in forgotten languages, a village of eyeless statues weeping blood from stone.

Each step unraveled part of him—his memories, his name, his past.

But he pressed on.

At the trail's end, he found an altar of roots and ash. Upon it sat a mirror carved from obsidian, swirling with mist.

When he looked into it, he saw himself—but not the man he was.

He saw the Warden.

And he understood.

The trail did not forget.

It collected.

Caldor Venn never returned to the village. But some nights, travelers who wander too far hear rustling behind them. A cloaked figure. A bark-carved face. A voice like wind through tombs.

"Why do you walk where only the lost belong?"

The Forgotten Trail does not fear time.

It waits.

And it always finds a new Warden.