Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The forest clearing was unnaturally round—too perfect, too clean. No birds entered it. No wind crossed its ring. The air hung heavy, as though holding its breath.

At its center was a hole, wide as a cart, dark as ink. No roots jutted from its sides. No scent of soil. Just a void in the earth, as if the world had yawned in agony.

Locals called it the Maw.

They warned travelers: "If the trees go silent, turn back. If the ground feels hollow, run."

But Calder Brinn did not heed warnings.

He was a hunter by trade, prideful and tired of ghosts in stories. After his son vanished months ago—last seen wandering too close to Moonwood—Calder set his sights on truth. He carried a lantern that flickered red instead of gold, and a blade marked with elder runes passed from a friend of the witches.

He found the clearing just as night fell.

The ring of trees formed a perfect boundary, their trunks darkened by what looked like soot—or blood. The grass inside was gray, brittle. He stepped forward, heart rattling.

The hole breathed.

Not like wind through a cave. This was different. The sound was wet. Pulsing. Something below the surface moved—a deep, slithering shift.

Calder held his breath. He saw no bottom. Just shadow upon shadow.

Then a whisper, sharp as splintered glass:

"He is still here."

His knees buckled. The voice had come from within the hole—but not from a throat. It had slid straight into his skull.

Lantern trembling, he crouched at the edge. The air smelled of old flesh and damp stone. For a heartbeat, the ground throbbed.

And then—an eye opened.

Not one of flesh, but a thing like bone and oil, impossibly wide. It blinked sideways, and from the center of the Maw, long fingers—black and skeletal—began to rise.

Not reaching. Not grabbing. Just emerging.

Calder stumbled back, blade raised.

From the pit, a shape crawled. Human-like but unfinished, as if sculpted by madness. Its face bore traces of Calder's son—his eyes, his teeth—but twisted, stretched wrong. Its mouth opened, and from within, another whisper:

"Feed it your name, father. Or it will take more than your blood."

The lantern shattered.

The clearing plunged into cold darkness. The Maw gurgled, wide and hungry.

Calder turned to run—but the trees closed ranks.

The last sound he heard was chewing.

When searchers came weeks later, the clearing remained untouched. No prints. No body.

Only the hole.

It seemed deeper now.

And it smiled.

In Moonwood, there are mouths that do not speak.

They wait.

And sometimes, they eat.