Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

Deep within the Moonwood, past the fog-thick marshes and the grove where birds forget their songs, there is a place untouched by time. No maps show its path. No creature claims it. It is called the Glade of Lost Names—where those who no longer remember who they are come to disappear.

The trees there do not whisper. They listen.

Thom Weller arrived at dusk.

His boots were torn, and his mind frayed at the edges. He had wandered the forest for days—searching for something, though he couldn't say what. He had a name once. A family. Maybe.

But now, he only had a piece of parchment, clutched tightly in his hand. Its edges were torn and weathered, its words faded. All that remained was a name: I remember... and nothing else.

The glade was a quiet clearing, surrounded by towering silverwoods that pulsed with a ghostly glow. Mist coiled low to the ground, and the air tasted of forgotten prayers.

In the center stood a single, stone monolith, cracked with age. On its surface were thousands of names—etched in countless languages. Some names were long and winding. Others were mere symbols.

But one thing bound them all: no one remembered who they belonged to.

Thom stepped forward.

As he crossed into the glade, he felt something shift within him. Not pain. Not fear. A pulling—like a thread being gently tugged from the spool of his mind.

He tried to speak, but the moment he opened his mouth, his voice fell silent, swallowed by the weight of the glade.

Then he saw her.

A girl, pale and barefoot, standing beside the stone. Her eyes were clouded, but she smiled.

"You came to leave your name behind," she said. Her voice echoed, not in the air, but in Thom's bones.

"I don't remember it," he replied.

"That's why it belongs here."

She took his parchment and pressed it against the stone. It faded, absorbed into the monument. His shoulders sagged with relief—and sorrow.

Then she held out her hand. "You don't have to be lost. You can become part of the glade. A guardian."

He looked down at his hands—once calloused, now faintly glowing. He could no longer remember the sound of his voice. His mother's face. The town he came from.

But he remembered this place.

He took her hand.

The glade welcomed him.

His feet sank gently into the moss, and roots coiled around his ankles. His form began to change—not painfully, but peacefully. He was becoming like the trees: tall, still, eternal.

Another name etched itself into the monolith.

Not Thom.

Just a shape. A presence.

He would watch now.

And when others came, lost and weary, the guardians would greet them with silence and offer peace.

Back in the world, a woman awoke in bed, weeping. She had dreamt of her brother. A name on her tongue.

But as she reached for it—it was gone.

Forgotten.

Some names are not lost.

They are planted.

And they grow in silence.