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Novelo Rectangle

The man she buried is back and knocking. The series of raps echoing through the cabin, digging their way under her hands and into her ears. It’s been three nights since she killed him, three nights since he tried to barge into her sanctuary, waving around a gun like just having it made him the boss. “Only two more nights. Only two more nights. Then it’s over. Then he’s gone.” Her soft murmurs colliding against the knocking in her ears, two sounds battling for dominance and making the self-assurances fall flat. Two more nights didn’t help the terror she felt now. This is why she lived alone in these woods. Begging each day for the woods to keep the strangers out while knowing she would kill to keep living. But the woods were hungry, for the blood and violence that humans have shown for years. For the terror that sparked magic from the witch, bleeding into the ground and sprouting more trees and flowers and ferns and moss that ate away at the dead bodies. And it wasn’t going to let her go easily. The knocking turned to pounding, white-tipped fingers clenching at the sound. The same rhythm happened every time. A polite knock, asking to be let in. Then harsh fists demanded she open the door. Finally, a cacophony of body parts pounding on the door, threatening to enter by force as the last piece of night creeps to an end before dying out completely. Night after night until finally the body’s magic was used up, crawling back into its grave for the last time. By the last night, her eyes were numb from a tiredness no potion could fix. This body had lasted longer than most, the trees whispering a countdown with her. Theirs a hushed promise of future nights, hers an increasingly exhausted relief at the few days of benevolence within reach.&nbsp; The forest gave her only a single day of silence—one night without the pounding of fists or the sound of bones dragging themselves to her doorstep or the scratching nails she ritually repaired the moment she stepped outside. Then the wind shifted. The birds fell quiet. The trees began to whisper again. Another. She wept—of course she did—but still, she stood. She pulled on her boots with fingers that trembled and lit the wards that never really helped. And when the knock came, it was a gentle set of taps. “Hello?” a voice called. Alive. Soft. Careful. “I think I’m lost.” Not the gravelly voice she expected from typical victims. Outside stood a girl—young, with deep-set eyes holding knowledge—silver rings glinting on her fingers, a leather satchel slung across one shoulder, and eyes filled with curiosity instead of fear. “This place is… odd, isn’t it?” she said with a small smile, like she hadn’t stepped into a trap that only ended in blood. The witch almost slammed the door. Almost screamed at her to run, though the forest had already turned the paths inside out. But the girl emanates a beautifully human warmth.&nbsp; She invited the girl to her fire, a quick spell to wave away the dust from the second chair. The memory of its last use was carefully ignored. The girl said her name was Corin. She spoke of towns that smelled like bread instead of rot and rings of morning dew that helped people see, of a life still in motion. The witch listened, still and quiet, and when she laughed—once, startling herself into an awkward silence—it was like something cracked inside her. That night, she didn’t sleep. Memories flickered across her walls of others coming and their bodies going. Of her, clawing holes in the dirt with invisible hands as tears and blood mixed into her clothing. The next day, they wandered the edges of the clearing. Corin shared tales of life outside the wooden cage, the freedom to wander anywhere that she still didn’t know was gone. The witch taught her how to speak to moss and get it to point north, though she warned that here, even moss told lies. For a moment, she forgot what always came next, ensnared in the comforts of humanity. But the forest hadn’t. That night, it struck. The air thickened. The walls pulsed. Whispers became talons, dragging up old screams and blood that had never really dried. The witch clutched her head and screamed. Hot anger and frozen despair crashed together while the forest tugged at her deepest fears and whispered about her need to survive.&nbsp; “You brought me here!” Corin shouted, her voice sharp with betrayal. “You’re part of this!”&nbsp; The witch’s magic flared wild and hot in the face of Corin’s own surprising magic.&nbsp; “I didn’t ask for this,” she cried. “It makes me!” Their fear turned to fire. Spells crackled through the room—green sparks, violet flame, fury and panic colliding in midair. They didn’t want to fight. But the forest did. It pulled their strings like they were nothing but dolls, plucking at emotions that fueled their magic even as their hearts hesitated. Then, one mistake. One small misstep twisted the world sideways. Corin’s face remained still as her eyes widened in slow motion, reflecting emotion that the forest tried to push down. A spell struck her chest like a hammer made of ice. Corin’s face remained still as her eyes widened in slow motion, reflecting emotion that the forest tried to push down. She rushed to her side, shaking, her hands fluttering around, trying to find an invisible wound to put pressure on.&nbsp; “No,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to—”&nbsp; But the witch was already smiling, softly, like something heavy had lifted. Now she knew why the forest brought someone so soon. A chance at fresh blood or deeper horror. Either way, the forest wins.&nbsp; “Good,” she rasped. “It wasn’t me this time.”&nbsp; Corin cried. “Don’t say that.”&nbsp; The witch’s eyes, already dimming, held a sad kind of calm.&nbsp; “You’re a witch. It needs someone. And it’s hungry.” A whistling breeze flew through the window, the flames pulsating in unison with the forest’s laughter. The witch’s body grew still. She didn’t scream. Didn’t fight. She was free. But her heart broke for the girl who would take her place. Who would learn the rhythm of knocking. Who would bleed fear into the floor. Because the forest always brought them back. And a witch like her would be brought back again and again and again. That night, as the shadows deepened, Corin sat alone in the cabin. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were hollow. And from outside, the sound came—a knocking that tensed her shoulders. The forest outside creaked and groaned in glee at the terror as it began to feed.

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The Hungry Forest

Zephlare

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The Hungry Forest

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Emily

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