Whispers of the Death Forest
I shouldn’t have come back. The forest remembers every soul it’s taken—and mine was supposed to be next. Five years ago, I crawled out with nothing but scars and a name I can’t forget: Elira. They say she’s dead. But the dreams won’t stop. She’s calling me, not in words, but in blood. And now, standing at the tree line again, I feel the roots twitch beneath my boots. This place isn’t just alive. It’s waiting. For me. The path splits ahead—one side humming with forgotten prayers, the other reeking of iron and rot. If I turn back, I live. But if I go forward… I might finally learn what I did that night.My boots sink into the moss, and the ground breathes beneath me. It’s been five years since I ran screaming from this place, and now I’m back—drawn by dreams of a woman made of bark and fire. Her voice hums in my skull: You left me here.
The air tastes thick, metallic. Trees twist into arches overhead, their trunks scarred with names—some carved, some grown into the wood like living tattoos. Mine is there. "Elira." But that’s not my name. That’s hers.
A twig snaps. I freeze. From the corner of my eye, something moves—not an animal, but a shape wearing my face, half-formed from vines and wet leaves. It doesn’t attack. It waits.
Then the whispering starts. Hundreds of voices, all saying different things in perfect unison. One word cuts through: Remember.
My hand trembles on the knife. I can turn back now, flee before the path closes behind me. Or I can step forward, toward the grove where the trees bleed black sap. There’s no guarantee either way. But if I want answers, I have to choose.
De7nzy
works: 41
Cemetery Songs
Your decisions shape the echoes that rise from the dead. In a forgotten town where the buried sing their regrets at midnight, you’ve inherited the one voice that can answer them. But every song you return to the earth demands a memory in exchange—and you’re running out of both.
Dark Harvest
You wake up in a field you don’t remember entering, your hands stained with soil and something darker. The air is thick with the scent of rotting grain and iron. Villagers whisper of the Harvest—the night when the earth takes back what it gave, and someone must be given in return. This year, your name was drawn. But you didn’t die. You woke up… changed. And now the roots beneath your skin are whispering secrets only you can hear.
The Devil House
You shouldn’t have come back. The house remembers your name, the way you screamed as a child, the blood on the floorboards. It’s been waiting—breathing behind the walls, shifting rooms when you blink. Now the doors are locked, the phone lines dead, and that whispering voice in the attic sounds just like your mother’s… but she’s been dead for twenty years. This isn’t a haunting. This is inheritance.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.