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Some doors never stay closed
Huling Na-update:
2025-04-27 04:20:18Years passed, and life went on.
Ben, Dylan, and Mark graduated, moved away, started families of their own. They buried the memories of WildWood deep inside themselves, convincing each other it had all just been fear and hallucination — tricks of the dark. But late at night, when the world was quiet and sleep wouldn’t come, Ben sometimes caught a glimpse in the mirror — not of his own reflection, but of twisted trees and rusted gates. And when he drove alone, sometimes the truck’s radio would flicker, a familiar wild laugh slipping through the static. The worst part wasn’t the memories. It wasn’t even the shadows he sometimes saw at the edge of his vision. It was the feeling that maybe — just maybe — he had never really left WildWood. That a part of him was still wandering the woods, still running through the endless night… Still trapped with Nadia, and Willy, and the others. Because some places, once they get inside you, don’t ever let you go. And some doors — no matter how hard you close them — will always find a way to open again. Wildwood waits for those who dare to return. ……. The years had softened the edges of their shared terror, but the shadows never truly disappeared. They lingered, quietly at first, like the chill of a winter morning that clings to your bones even after the sun has risen. Ben tried to dismiss it. Life had moved on. There was no reason to think about WildWood, no reason to think about what happened — about the things they saw, the things they did. But every now and then, the scent of pine would catch him off guard, a whisper of something too familiar, and his heart would race like it did back then. He’d push it aside, pretend it was just another fleeting thought. The past had its way of fading, right? Or so he tried to believe. Dylan had moved to the city. Mark had a house by the lake, a quiet life, far from the woods. They spoke occasionally, but the conversations always danced around that one summer, like an unspoken pact to never revisit it. It wasn’t until one fall evening, when Ben returned to his hometown for the first time in years, that he felt it again. That strange pull. Like WildWood was waiting for him, patient, unyielding. The air was different now. He could sense it before he even stepped out of his truck, as if the ground itself was holding its breath. The woods were still there — the same dark expanse of twisted trees and crooked paths. But now, they seemed to be watching him, just beyond the town limits, daring him to remember. He thought of calling Dylan. Of asking if maybe they should go back, face it together like they once did, like they should have all those years ago. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he found himself driving, following the road that wound toward the place they promised never to return. His hands gripped the wheel, his heart pounding in his chest. It was just a quick look, just to prove it was all in his mind. He was older now, stronger. He could handle it. But as he reached the old gate — the rusted iron, the overgrown vines — the world shifted. A flash of memory, a glimpse of the past, tore through him. And then, there it was. The laughter. Wild, twisted, familiar. Nadia. Willy. The others. They were waiting. And once again, the door to WildWood creaked open.
Kaugnay na kabanata
A Night at Wildwood The return
The moment Ben stepped past the rusted gates, everything felt wrong. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, like the earth itself was holding its breath. The familiar trees stood like silent sentinels, their twisted limbs reaching out in unnatural shapes. He hadn’t realized how much the woods had changed, or perhaps it was him that had changed, but the once-eerie landscape now seemed even darker, more alive. The breeze whispered secrets he couldn’t quite catch, but it didn’t matter — something was different, something had awakened.He couldn’t shake the feeling that the woods were watching him, waiting for him to make his next move.Ben hesitated, standing just beyond the threshold of the gate. The path ahead was overgrown, the dirt road buried beneath a tangle of roots and weeds. The forest seemed to close in around him, muffling the sounds of the outside world, leaving only the distant rustling of leaves and the faintest whisper of laughter — or was it a memory?He could feel
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The endless night
Ben’s heart pounded in his chest as he took another step back, his feet stumbling over the uneven ground. The laughter came again, louder this time, mixing with the whispers of the others—Willy, Nadia, the nameless faces of the past. They circled him like vultures, their eyes unblinking, their smiles twisted into something grotesque. “You’re one of us now, Ben,” Nadia’s voice echoed, her words distant and close all at once, like the forest itself was speaking. “No,” Ben gasped, shaking his head. His hands trembled, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “This isn’t real. This isn’t—” But the forest seemed to swallow his words. The trees groaned, their branches moving in slow, deliberate sways, as if alive, as if they were listening, responding. The air felt thick, oppressive, like something was closing in from all sides. “You were one of us,” Willy’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and mocking. Ben’s gaze snapped to the boy standing at the edge of the clearing—Willy, but
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The heart of wildwood
Ben’s world spun as the ground beneath him shifted and cracked, swallowing him whole. His legs gave out beneath him, and he tumbled into the deepening earth, his hands scraping against the jagged edges of the fissures. The sound of his breath, ragged and desperate, was drowned out by the cacophony of laughter and whispers that echoed from all around him. It was as if the forest itself was alive, twisting and pulling at him, dragging him deeper into its depths. He tried to scream, but the air was thick with the weight of WildWood, choking him, pressing against his chest. The laughter of his old friends — twisted and mocking — rang in his ears, warping into something alien, something inhuman. “Ben…” Nadia’s voice slithered through the darkness, and he could almost feel her cold, bony fingers brush against his shoulder. “You can never escape what you are.” The world shifted again, and suddenly, Ben was standing in the center of the camp clearing once more. But it wasn’t the camp he r
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The hollow core
The earth beneath Ben trembled again, but this time it wasn’t the pulsing of WildWood. This time, it was something else — a deep, guttural vibration that seemed to echo from the very heart of the forest, a force older and darker than anything he could comprehend. It rippled through him, through his bones, vibrating with an energy so pure and raw it almost felt like a living thing, like the very breath of WildWood itself. For a fleeting moment, Ben felt a shift inside of him — as if something was waking up, stirring to life in the deepest corners of his mind. His vision blurred, the shadows growing thicker, swirling around him like a storm. The faces of the others faded, their hollow eyes turning into something less human, more monstrous, until only the dark forest remained. The forest that had always been there, waiting, patient. “You feel it now, don’t you?” Nadia’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through him like a knife. “It’s in your blood. It always has been.” Ben clen
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The hollow soul
The world spun violently before Ben’s eyes, the dark shapes of trees and the cold, sharp air blending into a chaotic blur. His body felt weightless, his limbs numb as though he were floating, lost between worlds. He tried to scream, but no sound came, and the darkness thickened, suffocating him, drowning him in a void deeper than anything he had ever felt before. When the world finally righted itself, he found himself back at the camp. But it wasn’t the camp as he remembered. It was something worse, something twisted. The ground was slick with dark, inky tendrils that seemed to crawl toward him, wrapping around his ankles and tugging at his feet. The trees were even more grotesque, their gnarled limbs stretching upward like the hands of a thousand corpses reaching for the sky. And there, standing in the center of it all, was WildWood itself. Not a place. Not a collection of trees and stone. No, it was more than that now. It was a presence, an entity, a force that lived and breathed
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The last escape
Ben’s feet pounded against the cracked, uneven earth, his body shaking with exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop. He had no choice but to keep moving. The sounds of WildWood — the whispers, the laughter, the rustling of leaves — followed him, as if the forest itself was reaching out, clawing at his mind, urging him to stop, to return. But he refused. Every step felt like it was dragging him deeper into the forest, deeper into the heart of WildWood, but Ben wasn’t looking back. He couldn’t. He had seen enough. He had felt enough. This wasn’t just a place. It was a prison. And he wasn’t going to let it claim him. The trees seemed to shift around him, bending in unnatural angles, their dark branches scratching at the air, trying to grasp him, to pull him back. The ground felt soft, almost alive, as though it was pushing against him, making every step harder than the last. But he pushed forward, ignoring the pain in his legs, the burning in his chest. Somewhere in the distance, he thought
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The dawn
The world shifted again, violently, and Ben’s vision went white as he tumbled through the air. The wind whipped past his face, and for a moment, he thought he might be falling — falling back into WildWood’s grasp. But then, just as quickly, the sensation stopped. He hit the ground hard, his body crashing into something solid and familiar. He groaned, blinking through the blinding sunlight, his breath ragged. When his eyes focused, he saw it — the road. The one that led home. The familiar stretch of asphalt that ran through the town. He wasn’t in WildWood anymore. He had crossed over. For a moment, Ben lay there, gasping for air, his heart still racing in his chest, the taste of the forest still fresh on his tongue. He had done it. He had escaped. The woods were behind him. The shadows were gone. But as he lay there, catching his breath, a cold shiver ran down his spine. Somewhere deep in the distance, beyond the trees, he could hear it again. The faint sound of laughter. Twiste
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-27A Night at Wildwood The hollowing
Ben’s scream echoed, but the sound dissolved into the thick, suffocating air. The shadows seemed to stretch out, curling around his body like chains. Nadia’s twisted form stepped closer, her smile widening as if to savor his terror. “You never left, Ben,” she murmured, her voice hollow, as though it came from somewhere deep within the earth itself. “You never escaped. You were always ours, from the moment you crossed that threshold.” Ben stumbled back, his body trembling uncontrollably. He wanted to run, to fight, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. His heart raced, and his throat constricted, as though the forest itself was tightening its grip on him. “You think you can walk away from us?” Nadia continued, her voice growing darker, more insidious. “This place is in your blood. WildWood never forgets its children.” He could feel it now — something far darker than fear. It was like the very earth beneath his feet was alive, pulsing with a sick, rhythmic beat, as though the woods themselv
Huling Na-update : 2025-04-29
Pinakabagong kabanata
A Night at Wildwood Below the surface
Beneath WildWood – The Depths of the Forgotten Emily’s chest heaved in the damp air. Her arms, twisted and scraped, were held by the roots — no, by hands that were far older than the trees above. She had stopped screaming hours ago. There was no use in that anymore. Every time she had, the roots only tightened. There’s no escape, she thought. But she would not give in. The earth, once so alive beneath her feet, now felt like a grave. The roots had grown into her, had claimed her, but they didn’t just want her blood — they wanted her. They wanted to rewrite her. She gasped for air. It felt thinner the deeper she went, and the pain in her ribs was unbearable. There was nothing but the hum of the roots, the soft whispers of voices long lost. And beneath it, a darker presence. Her vision blurred. For a moment, Emily could hear Clara’s voice again, faint as if carried through time and space. Don’t stop fighting. But what could she fight when the forest had already made her part o
A Night at Wildwood Blood remembers
Old Creek Crossing – Near Dusk Clara hiked back from Hollow Hill with the fire still burning inside her. It hadn’t faded. If anything, it had rooted itself deeper, spreading through her veins like wildfire stitched into bone. Every step she took left a tingling print of heat in the soles of her feet. The forest no longer whispered to her — it watched. Aware. Wary. She stopped at Old Creek Crossing to refill her canteen. The stream there had dried up years ago, but a narrow vein still trickled under the broken bridge. As she leaned down, she caught a reflection beside her own: A face. Painted. Eyes like flint. Clara spun, reaching for the blade on her hip — but the woman had already stepped back, hands raised in peace. “You’ve awakened it,” the woman said. Her voice was low, sharp. “I felt the ember flare from half a valley away.” Clara didn’t lower the blade. “Who are you?” The woman stepped closer. Late thirties, maybe. Hair braided tight, feathers laced through in the ol
A Night at Wildwood The fire buried in stone
Hollow Hill – Midday Clara hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Not Devon. Not the few rangers left who still patrolled the outer trails. Some places asked for silence. Hollow Hill was one of them. She hiked through overgrown trails lost to modern maps, past a dry riverbed and two fallen markers carved in spiral patterns. They were warnings, according to the Yanuwah texts — spirals meant a descent, a place where time curled inward and memory became a trap. As she reached the summit of the hill, the air changed. Still. Electric. The wind stopped, though the trees swayed slightly, as if breathing. And at the very top of the hill, buried in moss and half-swallowed by roots, lay a flat black stone. She brushed the leaves away. Beneath it, etched in a language she didn’t know — and yet somehow understood — was a single word: “Ishtaya.” Clara whispered it. The ground responded. ⸻ The Descent The stone shifted. Not away — but down. It sank, groaning, revealing a narrow spi
A Night at Wildwood Names that should not be spoken
Ranger Station – Just Before Dawn Clara hadn’t slept. She sat at her desk surrounded by books — some borrowed from the Terrell Historical Society, others from the dusty back shelves of the town’s near-forgotten library, and one, far older, bound in worn deer hide. It was a gift. Left anonymously at her door six months ago. No note. No return address. Only a title burned into the cover in no language she could read. But tonight, when she flipped to its center, the same split tree symbol was there. Beneath it, in delicate, angular script: “Kaarayael. The Forgotten Root.” Clara exhaled, slow. The name vibrated in her skull. Just like the whisper from the forest. A call from below. She kept reading. ⸻ The Fragmented Record – Translated Excerpts “Before the settlers came, the Yanuwah spoke of two spirits: the Guardian and the Dreaming Root. One kept the balance. The other longed to become something else.” “The Root was not evil… but incomplete. Hungry. It did not understand dea
A Night at Wildwood The other half
Terrell State Hospital – Sub-Basement Level 3 The fluorescent lights above flickered once, then died. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need them. He moved by memory now — not his own, but inherited. Hand-me-down thoughts from long-dead voices. He muttered names as he walked: Halloway. Ishtaya. Marla. Emily. Over and over. Like steps in a staircase made of blood. In one hand, he carried a canvas duffel filled with tools: a chisel, two glass vials, and a fragment of bone etched with symbols that hummed if you tilted it just right. In the other, he held a map. Not one of paper. One burned into his palm. He had followed the corridor that used to house the hydrotherapy ward — the deepest part of the hospital. The place that, officially, no longer existed. Half collapsed after the fire in ‘73. Sealed since. Forgotten by the state. But the forest remembered. The Door Beneath the Ashes The hallway ended in melted iron bars and charred stone. He knelt, brushing away soot and ash until hi
A Night at Wildwood The first name
Hello! Before diving in I was just hoping to say I hope everyone has liked or enjoyed the story so far.. I know it’s changed a lot! I have decided this is the turn the story will take and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have while working on it! Thank you all for the support! Now back to the book!! ————————————————-Long Ago — Before the Founding of Terrell The forest did not yet have a name. It breathed with the quiet of sacred things, watched over by those who knew the rhythms of root and sky, who spoke to stone and river as kin. The people — the Yanuwah — did not fear the woods. But they respected it. And they never went beyond the Hollow Hill after dusk. Not even the elders. Because something had fallen there, long before even their time — not a god, not a demon, but something stranger: a dream left unfinished, still writhing beneath the earth. And its name was Kaarayael. The Dreaming Root. It whispered in the soil. ⸻ The Healer and the Flame Ishtaya was
A Night at Wildwood The forest waits
Six Months Later — Late Autumn in Terrell WildWood had grown still. Not silent — the birds had returned, deer moved carefully along the outer trails again — but the forest no longer watched. It no longer reached for blood or whispered in tongues older than man. The rift was gone. The old altar beneath the roots had collapsed into itself, swallowed by earth, sealed by whatever strange magic Clara had invoked. Yet something new had taken its place — a single grove of pale white trees, grown in a perfect circle, their bark smooth as bone. Locals called it the Heart Ring. No one entered it. No one even tried. Clara Moss — Caretaker Clara lived in the old ranger station now. Alone. The others had moved on. Devon, still shaken but alive, had returned to his life — a little quieter, a little less smug. Lucas had left Terrell altogether, vanishing into the city, chasing some promise of peace he hadn’t yet found. But Clara stayed. Every morning she walked the forest lin
A Night at Wildwood The hollow god
The Core of WildWood — Where the Rift Bleeds Through They stepped out of the tunnel and into a cathedral of rot. Above them, the sky was wrong — not made of clouds, but of tangled roots pulsing like muscle, and torn open to expose a void beyond comprehension. Below, the altar Emily had once bled upon now crackled with black fire. The vines had formed a crude throne where a figure sat hunched, spasming in fits of unnatural movement. Vareth’kaal. Or what remained of him. He was unraveling. Smoke bled from his seams. His limbs twitched in broken, uneven rhythms. From his chest leaked streaks of golden light, not his own, but stolen — borrowed — from Emily. Her essence. Her defiance. It was killing him. Clara gripped the bone key tighter. Lucas whispered, “Do you see that? His chest— It’s like something’s trying to burn its way out.” Devon, pale with awe, added, “It’s her. She’s still inside.” Vareth’kaal rose from his throne, taller than before — but less stable. One of his
A Night at Wildwood The last flame
Inside the Rift — Beneath the Altar Roots Emily no longer knew how long she had been there. Time bled in the rift. Days, hours, even thoughts bent like branches in wind. The altar had cracked beneath her. Her flesh was half-gone, devoured by the creeping vines of Vareth’kaal’s presence. Her soul? Stretched thin, but still intact. She had become less human. More… raw essence. Her voice barely worked. But her mind—her mind still held. And it defied him. Vareth’kaal circled her now, no longer hiding behind tendrils or disembodied whispers. He wore a shape. That of a tall, black-eyed figure of tangled bark and bone, crowned with twisted horns, each etched with the names of the dead. His mouth gaped like a wound — a pit of endless teeth and flame. “You were a flicker,” he said. “A moment’s resistance. But all lights go out.” Emily stood shakily. Her body wept sap and blood. “I’m not a light,” she whispered. “I’m the spark that burns you down.” ⸻ The War of Thought He lunged. N
