Chapter 37: The Forgotten Ones
The forest grew quieter the deeper Damien ventured, the air thick with an unnatural stillness that gnawed at his nerves. The stone path he had chosen felt endless, winding between trees that loomed overhead like the twisted columns of some forsaken cathedral. Every step he took echoed faintly, as if the forest were holding its breath, waiting for something.
As the light faded, Damien lit a small torch from the flint in his pack. The flickering flame cast long, jagged shadows on the path ahead, but its warmth did little to ease the cold creeping into his bones.
Then, he heard it—a faint whisper, soft and fleeting, like the sigh of the wind. He froze, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of the iron sword.
The whisper came again, this time clearer. It wasn't the wind.
"Turn back..."
The voice was barely audible, but it was undeniably human. Damien's pulse quickened, his eyes scanning the shadows for the source.
"Who's there?" he called out, his voice firm despite the unease tightening his chest.
The only response was a faint rustling, like leaves brushing against each other, though the air was perfectly still.
Damien took a cautious step forward, the torchlight stretching further into the darkness. Then he saw them.
Figures began to emerge from the shadows—pale, translucent shapes that flickered like dying embers. They drifted toward him, their movements slow and deliberate. Each figure was different—men, women, even children—all clad in tattered, spectral remnants of clothing from different eras.
Their faces were pale and hollow, their eyes empty sockets that seemed to see everything and nothing at once.
Damien's breath hitched as the whispers grew louder, overlapping in a cacophony of despair.
"Why do you continue?"
"You'll never escape..."
"The forest consumes all..."
"Turn back before it's too late..."
He stepped back instinctively, the iron sword raised. But the ghosts didn't attack. They simply surrounded him, their forms flickering in and out of existence like shadows caught in a storm.
"Who are you?" Damien demanded, his voice cutting through the oppressive air.
One of the ghosts stepped forward—a man with a gaunt face and hollow cheeks. His form was more stable than the others, his eyes glinting faintly in the torchlight.
"We are the forgotten," the ghost said, his voice a hollow echo. "The ones who came before you, seeking freedom from this cursed place. We failed, and now we linger, trapped between life and death."
Damien tightened his grip on the sword. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"
The ghost's expression didn't change, but there was a faint flicker of something—pity, perhaps—in his gaze. "We want nothing from you, wanderer. We are here to warn you. This forest is a labyrinth of despair. It feeds on hope, on life, on the souls of those who dare to challenge it."
Another ghost, a woman with a tattered gown and sunken eyes, drifted closer. "You think you're different," she said, her voice laced with bitterness. "You think you can escape. But the forest sees all. It knows your fears, your weaknesses. It will break you, just as it broke us."
Damien squared his shoulders, forcing himself to meet the gaze of the ghostly crowd. "I've heard these warnings before. I've faced monsters, spirits, and worse, and I'm still standing. I'm not giving up."
The whispers grew louder, the crowd of ghosts shifting uneasily. The man who had first spoken stepped closer, his translucent form flickering like a dying flame.
"You are stubborn," the ghost said, his voice tinged with a strange mix of admiration and sadness. "Perhaps that will serve you well. But know this: the forest has no mercy. It will twist your mind, turn your own memories against you. It will show you everything you fear, everything you regret. And when it's done, it will take everything from you."
Damien met the ghost's hollow gaze, his jaw tightening. "Let it try. I've lost too much already to give up now."
The ghost tilted his head, studying Damien as if searching for something. Then, to Damien's surprise, the ghost's expression softened.
"Perhaps you are different," the ghost murmured. "Perhaps there is a spark in you that the forest has not yet extinguished. If that is true, then there may still be hope."
The woman in the gown scoffed, her voice sharp and bitter. "Hope? There is no hope here. Only death and despair."
The man ignored her, his gaze fixed on Damien. "Listen carefully, wanderer. There is a place deep within the forest, a place where the veil between worlds is thin. It is there that you will find the heart of this curse. If you are to escape, you must go there. But beware—it is guarded by a great and terrible force."
Damien frowned. "What kind of force?"
The ghost shook his head. "That is something you must see for yourself. We cannot follow you there."
The whispers grew fainter, the crowd of ghosts beginning to dissolve into the shadows. The man lingered for a moment longer, his form flickering.
"Remember this," he said, his voice fading. "The forest feeds on despair, but it fears the light of truth. Hold on to your resolve, for it is the only weapon you have."
With that, the ghost vanished, leaving Damien alone once more.
The silence of the forest pressed in around him, heavier than ever. Damien stared at the spot where the ghost had stood, his mind racing.
The heart of the curse...
The thought filled him with equal parts dread and determination. Whatever awaited him in the depths of the forest, he knew he had no choice but to face it.
Taking a deep breath, Damien tightened his grip on the sword and continued down the stone path. The whispers of the forgotten ones lingered in his mind, a reminder of the countless souls who had come before him—and the price of failure.
But Damien was determined. He wouldn't let the forest break him. Not now. Not ever.