The forest was a cold, gray shroud, its breath a mist that clung to my skin and blurred the world. I'd left the caravan at dawn, my rifle a familiar weight across my shoulder, driven by the gnawing truth that our food was running thin. The settlers were soft, their faces pale with hunger and fear, and it fell to me to keep them alive. Fifty years I'd walked these wilds, learned their ways, their cruelties. Yet today, the woods felt different, like a serpent coiled in wait, its eyes hidden but ever-watchful.
I moved silent as a shadow, boots sinking into the damp earth, the air heavy with the scent of pine and decay. The mist was thick, swallowing sound, turning trees into ghosts that loomed and faded. My breath hung before me, a fleeting testament to life in this forsaken place. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," I muttered, the old preacher's words rising unbidden. I wasn't a godly man, but out here, scripture felt like a shield against the unknown.
The hunt was slow. Tracks were scarce, the ground too wet to hold them. I followed a faint trail—a deer, maybe, or something smaller—my eyes sharp for any sign. But the forest was playing tricks. Shadows shifted where they shouldn't, sliding across the mist like figures dancing just out of reach. I stopped, heart quickening, and peered into the haze. A shape stood tall, humanoid, its outline jagged with what might've been antlers. I raised my rifle, steady as stone, but as the mist parted, it was only a gnarled oak, its branches twisted like arms raised in supplication.
I cursed under my breath, shaking off the unease. "Thou shalt not fear the terror by night," I whispered, gripping my rifle tighter. The wilderness was a deceiver, turning trees into men, mist into specters. But I'd seen worse in my time—blizzards that buried men alive, wolves that hunted in silence. I pressed on, following the trail deeper into the woods.
The feeling of being stalked grew stronger. My neck prickled, like a lamb under the butcher's gaze. I turned, slow, scanning the trees. Nothing but mist and shadow, yet the air felt heavy, pressing against my chest. Another shape caught my eye—a figure, lean and stooped, half-hidden behind a pine. I froze, breath held, but it was just a sapling, bent by the wind, its branches swaying like a man beckoning me forward. My pulse hammered, and I spat into the dirt. "Old fool," I growled, but my voice sounded small, swallowed by the silence.
The trail led to a ravine, its edge slick with moss, the drop hidden by the mist. I knelt, checking for tracks, when a shadow moved again—this time faster, darting across the fog like a man fleeing judgment. I stood, rifle ready, but it was gone, leaving only a cluster of rocks shaped vaguely like a crouched figure. The mist swirled, and for a moment, I swore it formed a face—hollow, eyeless, grinning. I blinked, and it was just vapor, curling over the ravine.
A chill ran through me, colder than the air. The forest was leading me, like a shepherd guiding a lamb to slaughter. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," I muttered, stepping back from the edge. My foot slipped on the moss, and I caught myself, heart lurching. The ravine yawned below, its bottom lost in the fog. One wrong step, and I'd be gone, my bones left to bleach in the dark. I steadied myself, instincts kicking in, honed by years of outwitting death.
I turned away, following a safer path, my senses razor-sharp. The shadows kept moving, always at the corner of my eye—tall, thin, sometimes crowned with horns, but always trees, always rocks when I looked square. The forest was a false prophet, whispering lies to lure me to my doom. "Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing," I thought, the words a bitter comfort. I wasn't falling for it.
Then I heard it—a rustle, real this time, not the wind's deceit. I crouched, peering through the mist. A rabbit, small and gray, nibbled at a patch of clover. My stomach growled, a reminder of the caravan's hunger. I aimed, slow and steady, and fired. The shot cracked through the silence, and the rabbit fell, a small offering to our survival. I approached, knife in hand, and knelt beside the creature. Its blood stained the earth, a scarlet sacrifice, and I felt a pang of something ancient, like I was Abel presenting his flock to the heavens.
I worked quickly, skinning and gutting the rabbit, my hands steady despite the cold. The mist seemed to thicken, the shadows pressing closer, but I ignored them. "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures," I whispered, tying the meat into a bundle. It wasn't much, but it'd feed a few mouths tonight. I stood, slinging the bundle over my shoulder, and turned back toward camp.
The forest hadn't given up its game. As I walked, a shadow loomed ahead—taller than the rest, its form almost human, standing motionless in the mist. I stopped, hand on my knife, but the wind shifted, and it was just a dead pine, its trunk split like a man torn asunder. My laugh was short, bitter. The wilderness was a tempter, but I was no fool.
I moved on, the mist curling around me like a shroud. The feeling of eyes on my back never left, but I kept my pace steady, my instincts my guide. The caravan needed me, and I'd be damned if I let this cursed forest claim me. Yet, as I neared the camp, a low moan carried on the wind—not animal, not human, but something in between. I froze, rifle raised, and waited.
Nothing came. But the mist seemed to watch, and I knew I'd not seen the last of its tricks.