Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Never go into the Red Woods...

Episode Date: December 8, 2021

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And profite. Via Rai, the voice that we love. Talk to nicely. Don't do it, Hans. Please don't do it. She's made that plea for days now. Ever since I told her my plan. She begged me not to go at first.

Until she saw the same things I did. a nearly empty pantry and the brave smiles of our sons despite their growing stomachs. She saw that I had no choice. To put her mind at ease, I left at noon. The sun is high in the sky, revealing the acres of tree stomps around me. In front of me stands the red woods. I don't know how it got its name. It's what my family always called it.

The shrubbery around it is the same green and brown you would expect. to find in any forest, thick and dense, untouched by my family all this time. An opening is there, a circle of empty space just wide enough for me to step through. It's so pitch black that the entrance looks like the mouth of some wild untamed beast. I swallow and step into the darkness. The trees loom high above me. Their branches and canopy of leaves are so thick that it might as well be midnight. Growing up as a boy, the woodland was filled with noise, chirping insects, singing birds, and the scurrying of animals big and small as they tried to survive off the forest, the same as my family. The only sound now is my footsteps as I make my way through the dark underbrush. The silence

is deafening. It's as if neither animal nor man have ever stepped foot into the red woods. My wife's words send a chill down my spine, and I wipe the sweat away from my forehead. I try to pretend that it's not cold, that my heart isn't raising as if trying to burst through my ribs. My father and grandfather had told me the same as a boy, that I should make my living in the inner part of the forest and avoid the red woods. The surrounding lands have been in my family for generations. The reasons for avoiding such bountiful woodlands were lost to time long before my grandfather was born. There were never any details, but both my father and grandfather always spoke of the red woods with grave reverence. When I was a boy, I trained under my father as a woodcutter.

I had lost track of him and crept to the borders of the dark woods out of curiosity. When my father had finally caught up with me, he struck me across the face. He shook me as he screamed in my face. Never go into the red woods! Thirty years later, and I'm breaking my word. What can I do, though? I am just a simple man, making my living through a simple trade. I don't have an education or any other skills to feed my wife and sons.

All I have are my hands, my axe, and our forest. But the world around us has grown smaller, and our forest is no exception. Really, it's a miracle that it has lasted this long. Every generation my family has had to cut closer and closer to the red woods, and now it has finally fallen upon me to enter it. My hands tighten around the axe slung over my shoulder. It's made for cutting wood and nothing more. But it has scared off its fair share of wild dogs and even the occasional stray wolf.

It's pointless as a weapon now, but I find its familiar way to comforting. Of course, I'm going to be scared, given the way my father always acted whenever talking about the red woods. I'm not an educated man, but what's that old saying? People fear what they don't understand? I've had to work late in the night before in the lands close to our homestead. homestead. I try to convince myself that this part of the forest looks the same, but I know it's not true. The trees, covered in darkness, are towering shadows with claws instead of branches. It feels

like they're watching me. The wind rustles through them, making it sound like they're whispering. The thick, pungent smell of rotted meat rises up and hits me like a fist. I retch and bend over, but my stomach is empty, and I hack up on the spit. I adjust the bandana on my neck and tie it tight around my mouth and nose. It's only a little better. Something had clearly been living here before, clearly. Instead of a sign of comfort, it only makes the voice and the wind sound more distinct. I'm letting my wife's worry get the better of me.

I just need to take an axe to the nearest tree and get this over with. I reach a handout to one of the nearby shadows and run my hand along its bark. Some pine ought to yield a nice price at this time of year, or maybe some nice birch. Something stings my finger, and I pull back my hand. Hot blood runs down my finger. I reach for the splinter, an occupational hazard for any woodcutter, but find nothing. It must have dropped on the ground. As much as the explanation makes sense, it still,

unnerves me. So I quickly unsling the axe from my shoulder. It takes longer than usual to find my stance. The times I've had to work late before, I at least had the moonlight to aid me. But it's so dark here, I can only see a couple of feet in front of me. I take a couple of practice swings, stopping short of the tree, then rear back and hit it with all my might. A scream tears through the red woods. The sound stops as soon as I pulled the axe back. It's there and gone so fast that I'm not sure that I heard it, but I'm sweating and breathing harder than I should be after just one swing. The sound wasn't like any animal I've ever heard, and it certainly wasn't human. I want to turn and flee, but the reminder of an empty pantry and of my starving children keeps me rooted.

Steadying myself, I take another swing. And the sound happens again, louder this time. I keep swing until the loud chopping of my work echoes in my head enough to block out the sound. Soon enough, a large crack fills the air. The tree is close to falling now. I ready myself to deliver the final blow. Something hot and wet splashes across my face. I hear the tree bend and break and crash to the ground.

I wipe my eyes and notice that my hands are caked and glowing. red fluid. It can't be what I think it is, but the smell is too thick for it to be anything else. Blood spews up from the empty jagged stump of the tree. Its glow casts a light onto my surroundings with the red tinge, revealing the tree I cut down. It doesn't have bark. Its trunk is covered in pale, sickly flesh. The branches end in long spindly fingers, and the leaves are clumps of thick, dark hair. The skin wrinkles, stretches, and opens. Red eyes stare back at me, and another hole opens and screams again as it thrashes on the ground. Surrounding me are the other grotesque trees made of flesh. They bend against the wind, not with it, and crowd around me.

A branch leans low and slashes across my face. This time the blood that splashes is my own. I scream, Drop my axe and run. Narned branch-like hands reach down and grab me by the shoulder. I keep kicking my feet until I hear the snap of branches and a fresh scream of pain accompanies a loud pop for my body. My shoulder is in excruciating pain, but I'm still able to run. I dash through the forest. My breaths are short and stifled. A stitch forms in my side, but I don't slow down. The glowing red follows me. The tree's blood clings to my face and clothing.

The whispers from before follow my every step, growing louder and closer. It's like the forest is closing in on me. The open path from before is crowded with branches and thorns that break across my skin, leaving a trail of my blood behind me. I keep running until a speck of light comes into view. The boundaries of my homestead. The pain in my side lifts with my second wind. My wife and children so close, I have to tell them to never come in.

into the red woods. Something kicks my feet out from under me. I land on the ground hard, knocking the wind from my lungs, and I taste blood. Sucking down deep breaths, I force myself to look up toward the exit. It's so close, just another dozen feet or so. But the whispering is all around me now.

Turning around, I see where tripped me. Roots coil around my feet and ankles like a snake. I reach down and try to untangle them, but I feel another sharp pain. So severe it drags a scream from my lips. I pull my hand to my face. The tips of two fingers are missing. The roots make a grinding sound and shake against my leg. Through the patch near the light, I just make out the skin on them.

Their tiny mouths open and close. Sharp, barb-like teeth loudly chew through the skin and bone of my missing finger. I gank my foot and it gives way just a little before the roots snap tight around my ankle. A loud snap echoes with my scream as bones break. My skin tears away as the fangs sink into my flesh, soaking the ground in blood. It absorbs quickly into the dirt as if the ground itself is feasting on me too. Fan of soccer, you could assist a moment historic.

You could get any of the finals of the Cup of the of the FIFA 2026 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit Visa, BMO, for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar obliq concourse. The reglements of the concourse is applicable. I flop on my stomach and claw at the dirt. The thing keeps eating my leg, but I'm making slow progress toward the light.

I reach a hand into the boundary of my homestead. My hands dig into the soil. Before I can pull myself into the light, something pulls me back into the shadows. I'm lifted high into the air and tossed from branch to branch. The trees aren't gentle, bones break, and flesh is torn away as I'm tossed deeper into the red woods, back toward the pool of glowing red blood, back to the thing that I accidentally killed, and beg for forgiveness. I pray to a God that I'm sure isn't listening as they lower me on a bloody stump.

Through the glowing blood, I see a jagged steak rise up from the stump. The tree I chop down is there, but it's silent and no longer moving. A whimper breaks through my lips as I struggle to get free. My vision is bloody and blurred through my one remaining eye. I kick and squirm until a branch wraps tight around my leg. Pain wrenches at the joint as they twist my leg and lift it away, tossing it far into the forest, and I scream again. They hover me over the stake, then slam me down.

The sharp wood pierces through my chest. My body is nothing but in pure agony. My throat is raw and bloody, so my last screams are silent. I reach up my hand toward the point that pins me through the tree. But my strength ebbs and my hand falls limply to my side. My blood rushes down through the tree limb. I close my eyes and my consciousness drifts off as the forest feeds on me. I didn't die that day, although I wish I had.

My new body rises up from my remains, a new sick and twisted addition to the forest. Through my connection with the forest, I can feel the trees awake. and thriving once more in my old homestead. The Red Woods is one with me. It and I are the same. But I feel less like myself the longer I'm here. I don't know how long I've been here. Sometimes I sleep for decades before I wake.

But it must have been a long time. I feel the trees in my homestead dying again. The Red Woods don't speak in words. but I gleaned some understanding of its origins. Of the nameless gods that once dwelt within, and the bargain they struck with my ancestors. They would supply my family with plenty of wood, but not for free. A sacrifice is required every few generations.

To keep the forest alive, someone of my bloodline has to give up their humanity. But my family had forgotten the deal. I am now the only keeper of this forsaken knowledge, and it's impossible for me to tell anyone. The Red Woods is more alert today than usual. It hums with excitement at the sound of footsteps. The first sounds it's heard since I foolishly wandered into its clutches a lifetime ago. The darkness means nothing to me, and I see the intruder clear as day. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and carries an axe.

He has the same dark hair that I used to have. One of my sons? No, it can't be. I don't know how long I've been part of the Red Woods, but it's been too long for my sons to still live. It's the only thing I'm thankful for. This man, though, is my blood, a grandson or great-grandson. My new mouth strains as I open it for the first time in ages.

I try to scream out a warning. The very same one that my ancestors tried to shout at me when I wandered into the red woods, but it only comes out as a whisper in the wind. Lazzangue sur-gillet, puissance-moyance-moly for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo. Preeto!

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