The Crying Forest
There was a forest at the edge of town known as the Whisper Woods, named for the soft sounds that seemed to fill the air day and night. But the townspeople had another name for it: The Crying Forest. Every full moon, a strange, chilling cry echoed through the trees, a sound so piercing it would carry all the way to the farthest edge of the village.
No one knew where the cry came from, and no one wanted to find out. The old folks warned that anyone who went searching would never come back. It was said the sound was the spirit of a mother, mourning for her lost children, who had gone missing long ago in the woods. As the story went, a creature in the forest had taken them, leaving their mother to wander endlessly, wailing in the night, desperate to find them.
One evening, a young man named Kola—brave but deeply skeptical of all the stories—decided to find the source of the cries. He laughed at his friends' warnings, assuring them it was only an animal or a trick of the wind. With a lantern and a knife, he stepped into the forest just as the moon began to rise.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became, until there was no sound at all—no birds, no wind, nothing but the soft crunch of leaves beneath his feet. Then, just as he started to feel uneasy, he heard it: a low, distant wail, like a child sobbing, echoing from deep within the forest. It sounded almost human, yet wrong, stretched out, warped.
Kola shivered, but he pushed on, his curiosity stronger than his fear. As he got closer, the crying grew louder, more urgent, and then shifted into something even worse—a voice. A faint whisper, coming from just beyond the trees.
“Kola…”
He froze. How did it know his name? He shined his lantern around, heart racing, and caught sight of something—a figure standing between two trees, just a few feet away. It was a woman, her clothes tattered, her face hidden by tangled hair. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, her back turned to him.
Relief washed over him. “Are you lost? Are you hurt?” he called out.
She stopped crying, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, she turned to him slowly, lifting her head, revealing hollow, sunken eyes, like black pits, and a mouth stretched into a horrifying, toothless grin.
“Where… are… my… children?” she whispered, her voice scratching and cracking.
Kola stumbled back, but her hand shot out, gripping his wrist with icy fingers. Her touch was cold, bone-chilling, as if she’d been dead for years. “You’ll help me, won’t you?” she whispered, tightening her grip as her nails dug into his skin.
Kola screamed, pulling away with all his strength, tearing his skin in the process. He ran, heart pounding, the woman’s cries now following him, echoing through the trees, growing louder and louder until it filled the entire forest. Every step he took, he felt her breath on the back of his neck, her bony fingers reaching for him.
When he burst out of the forest, the villagers found him trembling, his wrist bruised and bleeding. He never spoke of what he saw, but he would never go near the forest again. And that night, for the first time, the crying came closer to the village, haunting their dreams, as if the spirit were still searching.
To this day, the villagers warn against entering the Crying Forest. For each time someone goes missing, the crying grows louder, and the forest seems to come alive, calling out, always searching, always longing—for the next soul to join its endless lament.
The Crying Forest
There was a forest at the edge of town known as the Whisper Woods, named for the soft sounds that seemed to fill the air day and night. But the townspeople had another name for it: The Crying Forest. Every full moon, a strange, chilling cry echoed through the trees, a sound so piercing it would carry all the way to the farthest edge of the village.
No one knew where the cry came from, and no one wanted to find out. The old folks warned that anyone who went searching would never come back. It was said the sound was the spirit of a mother, mourning for her lost children, who had gone missing long ago in the woods. As the story went, a creature in the forest had taken them, leaving their mother to wander endlessly, wailing in the night, desperate to find them.
One evening, a young man named Kola—brave but deeply skeptical of all the stories—decided to find the source of the cries. He laughed at his friends' warnings, assuring them it was only an animal or a trick of the wind. With a lantern and a knife, he stepped into the forest just as the moon began to rise.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became, until there was no sound at all—no birds, no wind, nothing but the soft crunch of leaves beneath his feet. Then, just as he started to feel uneasy, he heard it: a low, distant wail, like a child sobbing, echoing from deep within the forest. It sounded almost human, yet wrong, stretched out, warped.
Kola shivered, but he pushed on, his curiosity stronger than his fear. As he got closer, the crying grew louder, more urgent, and then shifted into something even worse—a voice. A faint whisper, coming from just beyond the trees.
“Kola…”
He froze. How did it know his name? He shined his lantern around, heart racing, and caught sight of something—a figure standing between two trees, just a few feet away. It was a woman, her clothes tattered, her face hidden by tangled hair. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed, her back turned to him.
Relief washed over him. “Are you lost? Are you hurt?” he called out.
She stopped crying, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, she turned to him slowly, lifting her head, revealing hollow, sunken eyes, like black pits, and a mouth stretched into a horrifying, toothless grin.
“Where… are… my… children?” she whispered, her voice scratching and cracking.
Kola stumbled back, but her hand shot out, gripping his wrist with icy fingers. Her touch was cold, bone-chilling, as if she’d been dead for years. “You’ll help me, won’t you?” she whispered, tightening her grip as her nails dug into his skin.
Kola screamed, pulling away with all his strength, tearing his skin in the process. He ran, heart pounding, the woman’s cries now following him, echoing through the trees, growing louder and louder until it filled the entire forest. Every step he took, he felt her breath on the back of his neck, her bony fingers reaching for him.
When he burst out of the forest, the villagers found him trembling, his wrist bruised and bleeding. He never spoke of what he saw, but he would never go near the forest again. And that night, for the first time, the crying came closer to the village, haunting their dreams, as if the spirit were still searching.
To this day, the villagers warn against entering the Crying Forest. For each time someone goes missing, the crying grows louder, and the forest seems to come alive, calling out, always searching, always longing—for the next soul to join its endless lament.
