The Scent of Clover
He inhaled deeply, catching the scent of clover and damp earth—the only comforting reminders of the home he had left behind. Somewhere behind those hills still stood his village, its fires burning low beneath the stars. A week ago, his wife Katarzyna and his infant daughter Anja had made that same crossing through this very forest, led by whispers of sanctuary awaiting them across the border to the service lands, where the Voivode's debts could not follow. But neither had returned. No messenger came. Their loss was swallowed by the silence of shadowed trees.
Villagers had warned him—no, begged him—not to follow. The forest was cursed, they said. It preyed upon grief and longing, turning the hopeful into hollow footsteps that would tread its soil forever.
Elias hadn’t listened. He would rather face death than the sickening emptiness of uncertainty. Clutching an icon of Saint Hubertus in his palm, he had stepped past the Southern Cross and into the forest where the ground sank like quicksand and every tree seemed to stand differently when you turned away. Standing now among gnarly sentinel pines, Elias whispered her name. "Katarzyna, answer me..." His voice faltered. The sound skittered like a frightened animal, muffled by unnatural silence.
Shadows That Breathe
The ground buzzed faintly beneath his boots. Elias froze, eyes dancing over the swaying branches overhead. Something—or someone—was following him, close enough that he could feel its presence. He turned to see a blinding flash of red: a scarf tangled in the underbrush.
It belonged to her. Elias’s pace quickened, tangling in vines and roots as he pushed forward. He didn’t care about the thorny nettles cutting into exposed skin. His head spun as he imagined Katarzyna just steps ahead, arms outstretched, their daughter safe in her embrace.
Out of the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention. He pivoted to see a shape step into view between blackened trunks—a figure clothed in layers darker than the forest itself. Only its unmoving white mask reflected faint beams of light, smooth and featureless save for a carved slit where a mouth might have been. Then another mask appeared, and another. They were silent, watching him, their skeletal forms clad in fluttering sashes or armor that seemed to shimmer in the dimness.
The Unseen Bargain
Memories struck like flint. An elder had once told him tales of the "Lelki," or forest shades: memory-eaters who fattened themselves upon the despair of those who entered their domain. What they stole in spirit they refunded as hollow imitations—reflection-things, movement without life, laughter without warmth.
One of the Lelki stepped forward, smooth and deliberate. It extended an elongated hand, its cloak rippling behind like slow tides. Elias staggered backward, clutching his Saint's icon, his mind a tumult of prayer and blasphemy spun together in animalistic panic.
"What do you want?" His voice cracked, bouncing futilely among the trees.
The creature raised its mask toward him and tilted its head as if mimicking confusion. Then its vulturine fingers reached toward the bone beads encircling his neck. *Take what was stolen. Pay what must be paid.* Words rippled across Elias’s thoughts, not spoken but felt, as if they'd planted the ideas directly into his nerves.
To Be Forgotten
He understood then. They would guide him to Katarzyna, perhaps even Anja, even as they drained the essence from his mind. They would lead him to those he had lost, but he would return neither as Elias nor as a man. The warmth of his love, the tears he had shed in endless longing at twilight's fade—all of it would melt into the Lelki's mask.
And so his choices hung there, as stark as the skeleton-thin pines and the scent of forgotten clover now fading from the breeze. His hand trembled and fell limp at his side, the icon slipping to the ground.
He nodded.
The Night Fades
When the morning sunlight poured over the hills where his village stood, none in the square spoke of Elias. None wondered where he had gone, nor ventured into the woods to find him. He had been forgotten.
But deep in the forest where twisted trees mourned the dead, faint whispers lingered. A child’s laughter echoed softly, mingling with a woman’s voice. They would survive there—perhaps not fully themselves, but they would survive.
And snow fell like ash, erasing all difference between a grave and the ground where it lay.
The villagers prayed to Saint Hubertus for deliverance, never noticing the darker figures that sometimes crossed their courtyard at midnight.
Genre: Gothic Horror
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Lost on the Refugee Run between Belarus and Poland
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