Welcome back. In Part 1 and 2, Kael entered the Whispering Woods seeking the Architect's treasure. The trees began speaking to him. Now we discover what the Woods really are—and what they do to seekers.
Reminder of content warnings:
- ⚠️ Body horror and transformation (depicted)
- ⚠️ Psychological horror
- ⚠️ Tragic ending
This is where the Woods claim Kael. If body horror/transformation disturbs you, you may want to skim the middle section.
Ready?
Let's see what the Architect left behind.
Year 862 of the Second Age,
Deep within the Whispering Woods,
By the time the sun should have been setting—though he couldn't see the sun—Kael's feet had begun to ache. More than ache. They felt heavy, sluggish, as if his boots had filled up with mud. Each step required conscious effort, as though he were walking through water. He sat on a fallen log to rest, grateful for the chance to ease the burning in his calves.
That was when he noticed the silence.
The whispers had stopped.
The entire forest had gone quiet, holding its breath. Even the ever-present rustle of leaves had ceased. The stillness pressed against his ears until his own pulse became deafening.
Kael sat frozen, his instincts screaming danger in a way they hadn't since his days as a young man, hunting boar in the hills above his village.
Then, softly the whispers returned. But they were different now—focused, intentional, almost eager.
"Another one."
"Fresh."
"He'll do nicely."
Kael's fingers shook as he fumbled with his boots, desperate to check his feet. The laces seemed to fight him, knotting, tightening on their own beneath his shaking fingers. When he finally yanked off his right boot, his stomach dropped.
His foot was pale. Too pale. The skin had taken on a grayish-white, like birch bark, and when he pressed his thumb against the flesh, it didn't give the way flesh should. It felt hard. Dense. When he looked closer in the dim light, he could see faint lines running through the skin like growth rings in timber.
"No," he breathed. "No, this isn't—this can't be.. "
Kael tore off the other boot with trembling hands. Same thing. Both feet of his had transformed into something that was no longer entirely human. The toenails had darkened and thickened into something resembling bark. When he tried to wiggle his toes, they moved stiffly, reluctantly, like branches in a weak wind.
"It starts with the feet," whispered a voice, clearer now, coming from somewhere to his left.
Kael spun towards the voice. "Who's there? Show yourself! "
An oak stood there, vast and ancient, its bark knotted into what might have been the faint impression of a face.
"Always the feet, " said another voice, this one from behind him, from a different tree. "Because you need to stay still. Need to put down roots. Need to drink from the deep earth. "
"This is madness," Kael said, but even as he spoke, he could feel the wrongness already spreading up his calves. A tingling sensation, like blood returning to a limb that had fallen asleep, except it was moving in the wrong direction—not waking his flesh but numbing it, changing it.
"We all came seeking something, " the whispers multiplied, coming from every direction now, a chorus of soft voices that seemed to emanate from the trees themselves. Male voices, female voices, young and old, all blending together into a symphony of regret and resignation.
"The treasure. Always the treasure."
"The Architect's gold."
"The lost fortune."
"There is no treasure, friend. There never was."
"Only the Woods. Only joining. Only the long speaking."
Kael tried to stand, tried to run, but his feet wouldn't cooperate. He looked down and saw the truth: they'd become rooted to the spot, and when he looked down he saw with horror that thin, white tendrils had emerged from his soles, burrowing into the earth between the leaves. His legs had gone completely gray now, the transformation creeping past his knees toward his thighs.
Panic seized him.
"Please, " he gasped, reaching out to grab a nearby tree for support.
And his hand stuck fast.
The bark pulsed beneath his palm. Warm. Breathing. Alive. Through that surface, he felt something like a heartbeat—slow, ancient, and not his own. The tree was breathing. The tree was alive in a way that trees should not be alive.
Kael pulled hard, desperate to free himself, and when his palm finally came away, it left a layer of skin behind. No—not skin. Bark. His own palm had turned rough and ridged, perfectly matching the texture of the tree he'd touched, as if they were made of the same material. As if they were becoming the same thing.
"It happens faster if you fight it,"* said a voice that seemed to come from the very tree he'd touched, it's tone almost kind.
Now that Kael looked—really looked—he could see them. Faces. There were faces all around him now. Dozens of faces embedded in the bark of every tree around him. Some were faint, barely more than suggestions in the wood grain. Others were horrifyingly clear: eyes formed from knots, mouths twisted open in silent screams or whispers, expressions frozen in eternal horror or strange, resigned peace.
"No," Kael whispered, but his voice had gone hoarse. "No, no, no—"
"We all fought, at first," the chorus continued, almost gentle now. "Fought until our lungs became hollow. Until our hearts hardened into heartwood. Until our blood turned to sap. "
"The Woods needs us, you see. Needs our voices, our memories, our names. The Architect understood. That's why he came here. Why he brought others. Why he fed the forest what it craved. "
"Brought others? " Kael managed to choke out, even as he felt his spine stiffening, his vertebrae fusing into a solid trunk.
"The workers who built his manor. The servants who kept his secrets. The soldiers who asked too many questions. All of them, into the Woods. All of them, feeding the forest. Making it strong. Making it grow."
"He was the first, you know. The Architect. Gave himself willingly. Said the Woods showed him truth. Showed him eternity. Showed him how flesh fails but wood endures."
Kael looked down at his body in horror. The gray transformation had consumed his torso now, his ribs visible beneath bark-like skin. His arms had begun to lengthen, reaching upward despite his desperate attempts to keep them at his sides. His fingers stretched, multiplied, and were divided into smaller and smaller segments.
Twigs. He was growing twigs.
His last coherent thought was of his son.
Had the boy died quickly in battle, or slowly in some field hospital?
Had he called for his father at the end?
Kael wanted to weep, but his tear ducts had already sealed over, his eyes beginning the slow transformation into hollow knots.
"Don't be afraid," the whispers said gently. "The Woods remember everything. Your son's name, your wife's laugh, the smell of bread from your farm's oven. We'll keep it all. We'll keep you. Nothing is lost here. Nothing ends. It only changes. Only grows. "
The last thing Kael saw with human eyes was the face embedded in the oak before him—the bark arranged in the unmistakable pattern of a man's features, mouth open in an eternal whisper, eyes hollow knots that stared at nothing and everything. The face looked peaceful, almost content, and Kael felt a terrible understanding wash through him.
This was forever. This was eternity. This was the price of the Woods.
His mouth opened to scream, but only a creaking sound emerged, like branches rubbing together in a strong wind. His vocal cords were becoming strings of inner bark, vibrating not with sound but with whispers. And as his consciousness began to disperse, spreading out through roots and branches, joining the collective voice of the forest, Kael understood the final, terrible truth:
There was gold.
Deep beneath the forest floor, buried with the Architect's bones, lay a fortune in ancient coins and jewelry. It was real. It had always been real.
"Welcome, " the forest said with a thousand voices, and now Kael's voice was among them. "Now you can help us call others. There are always others. The Woods are always hungry. And the whispers... the whispers are always, always growing."
Epilogue.
The merchant who passed through Lyrondale three months later heard about the fool treasure hunter who had gone into the Whispering Woods and never returned.
He listened to the warnings in the tavern, nursing his ale while smiling at the superstitions, thinking about the Architect's Hoard.
Surely the stories were exaggerated. Surely a clever man who didn't believe in superstitions could find what others had missed.
He set out for the forest's edge the next morning, stepping past the mushrooms that glowed like purple lanterns in the dawn light.
He hesitated only once—when the air seemed to shift, carrying the faintest sound of distant voices.
"Turn back."
"Please."
"Another one…"
The merchant chuckled, adjusting his pack, and stepped between the trees.
And the Woods, with ten thousand voices, whispered their welcome.
End of Tale I — The Whispering Woods.
Let's talk about this tale:
The Whispering Woods is one of the cruelest curses in my collection because the victims remain conscious. Kael isn't dead. He's transformed, trapped, aware. Every seeker who enters the Woods looking for the Architect's gold becomes another tree, another voice, another warning that goes unheeded.
The Woods don't just consume—they collect. They build an eternal chorus of warnings. And people keep coming anyway.
Key elements introduced:
- 🌙 Pale blue light = Deep magic marker
- 🍄 Purple mushrooms = Reality is "thin" here
- 🌀 Spiral symbols = Ancient power/warnings
- 👤 The Architect = First Age figure who appears in other tales
- 🌲 Transformation as curse = Magic doesn't just kill; it changes you