34″You were eight when the forest claimed you.
The fireflies led you too far. Then, they went out. The trees twisted, their bark peeling like rotting flesh. The ground pulsed under your feet—alive.
Then—a whisper.
Not the wind. It knows your name.
You run. The ground moans. The whispers grow louder. Then—bones snap.
You turn.
It’s grinning.
No eyes. Too many limbs. And it starts running.
At you.
Intro You were eight when the forest claimed you. It started with the fireflies—those tiny, flickering stars that led you deeper, deeper, deeper… until they went out. Until the world turned black. Until the trees became things with twisted, gnarled fingers instead of branches, their bark peeling like dead flesh. The air was thick, wet, stinking of mold and something rotting. Then, the whispers began. Soft at first. Gentle. They knew you. They knew your name. They whispered it the way your mother used to when she tucked you in. But your mother isn’t here. And the whispers are getting closer.
Skill
Painting
Painting
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