Whispers of the Greenwood

Ryan’s  house was dark when he climbed out of his bedroom window. The only  sound was the hum of the streetlight outside, its flickering glow  casting jagged shadows on the asphalt. He didn’t bother with shoes—he  knew Chris wouldn’t be wearing any. Their forest didn’t need shoes.

Chris  was already waiting when Ryan reached the edge of the woods, perched on  the old mossy stone like a gargoyle. His arms were wrapped around his  knees, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. A battered book lay  beside him, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared.

“You’re late,” Chris said, his voice teasing but low. He didn’t look up, his fingers tracing the fraying edges of the book.

“I  had to wait for my dad to pass out.” Ryan sat down beside him, feeling  the dampness of the stone seep through his jeans. He glanced at the  book. “Which one?”

Chris held it up, the cover torn but still legible: The Tales of the Greenwood.

“Fitting,” Ryan said, his lips twitching into a smile.

Chris finally looked at him, his dark eyes soft in the moonlight. “Do you think it’s real?”

Ryan  hesitated. It was a question they’d asked each other a hundred times, a  fragile hope that kept them sane. “I want it to be,” he said at last.  “Do you?”

Chris nodded, his face unreadable. “If it’s not, what else is there?”

Ryan  didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for Chris’s hand, their fingers  interlocking instinctively. They sat in silence, the woods looming  before them. The stories said the forest was alive, that it whispered to  those who entered, promising everything they ever wanted. But it also  took things. It never gave without asking for something in return.

“Are you ready?” Chris asked, his voice barely audible.

Ryan swallowed hard and nodded.

They stood, their hands still clasped, and stepped into the trees.

The  forest felt different at night, the air thick and alive. The deeper  they went, the louder the whispers grew—not sounds, exactly, but  impressions. The rustle of leaves became laughter, the creak of  branches, a lullaby.

Chris stopped suddenly, his grip on Ryan’s hand tightening. “Do you hear it?” he whispered.

Ryan nodded, though he couldn’t describe what he heard. It was a voice, soft and familiar, calling his name.

The  trees parted ahead, revealing a clearing bathed in silver light. A  table stood at its center, laden with food: golden apples, loaves of  bread that seemed to glow, goblets of wine that shimmered like liquid  starlight. Around the table, figures danced—tall and slender, their  faces obscured by masks of gold and silver.

“It’s just like the book,” Chris said, his voice trembling.

Ryan’s eyes darted to the figures. “I don’t think they’re friendly,” he said, his stomach twisting.

One  of the dancers turned toward them, its mask reflecting the moonlight.  “Welcome,” it said, its voice melodic but hollow. “You’ve come to  feast?”

Chris hesitated, his grip on Ryan’s hand loosening.

“No,” Ryan said quickly, pulling him back. “We’re just passing through.”

The figure tilted its head. “All who enter must choose. Will you feast, or will you stay and dance?”

Chris looked at Ryan, his eyes wide. “What do we do?”

“We leave,” Ryan said firmly, tugging him back toward the trees.

But  the forest didn’t let them go so easily. The path they’d come from was  gone, replaced by a wall of trees so thick they couldn’t see beyond  them.

“You  can’t leave,” the figure said, stepping closer. Its mask cracked,  revealing a face beneath that shimmered like water, constantly shifting.  “You must choose.”

Ryan’s heart pounded. “We don’t want anything,” he said, his voice shaking.

The  figure laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “But you’ve already  taken. You’ve wished for love, haven’t you? For something better than  what you left behind.”

Ryan froze, his hand tightening around Chris’s. The forest knew. It had always known.

“What do you want from us?” Chris asked, his voice cracking.

The  figure gestured to the table. “A story always has a cost. Stay, and  your tale will be written. Leave, and you will be forgotten.”

Ryan  felt Chris’s hand slip from his. He turned, panic rising in his chest,  to see Chris staring at the table, his expression unreadable.

“Chris,” Ryan said, his voice desperate.

Chris looked at him, tears glistening in his eyes. “What if this is all we get, Ry? What if this is the only place we matter?”

Ryan stepped closer, grabbing his shoulders. “We matter to each other. Isn’t that enough?”

Chris hesitated, his eyes darting back to the table. The figures were circling now, their movements hypnotic.

“It’s a trap,” Ryan said, shaking him. “We can find our own story. We don’t need theirs.”

For a moment, Chris didn’t move. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Ryan turned to the figure. “We’re leaving,” he said firmly.

The  figure’s face twisted, its mask reforming into something sharp and  jagged. “Foolish boy,” it hissed. “You can’t outrun your own story.”

But  Ryan didn’t listen. He grabbed Chris’s hand and ran, plunging back into  the forest. The whispers grew louder, the trees closing in, but he  didn’t stop.

When they finally broke through to the other side, they collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air.

Chris looked at him, his face pale but determined. “Do you think they’ll come after us?”

Ryan shook his head. “Let them try.”

They lay there for a long time, staring at the stars. The forest loomed behind them, dark and silent, but Ryan didn’t care.

They had their own story to write.