Not knowing what to expect, he made his way into the dark of the forest. Unprepared without his usual backpack, mosquito repellant, and water, George questioned the safety in continuing. But he had no other choice.
The morning began normal enough. A short walk to clear his head. His dog, Lucy always led the way to the edge of the woods where they’d turn toward home. Home was a rented cabin in the middle of nowhere. Nothing to interfere with working on his unfinished novel.
But this morning the dog dashed into the woods after some small prey. George stood at the edge of the wood and whistled.
All was silent, save the song of a bird deep in the forest. He whistled again. This time there was no bird call.
A slight shiver went through him.
George had been warned about these woods.
What lay ahead terrified him. Worse than the demons that occupied his novel.
George raced into the trees following Lucy’s trail. Trees reached out to tear at his flesh. Shadows deceived him. He tripped and landed in a gully.
George slowly regained consciousness. Lucy was there bathing him with kisses. The woods were gone and he found himself in his own room with yesterday’s writing piled on the night-stand.