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The seed of return
Last Updated:
2025-04-30 23:10:15
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A Night at Wildwood The seed chamber
The Root Path — Beneath WildWood The tunnel narrowed as they descended, the air thick with a heady scent — not rot, but something older. Earth and blood. Salt and memory. The walls were pulsing gently with light now, not amber, but a deep green glow that seemed to recognize Clara as she passed. She didn’t speak. None of them did. Even Devon’s usual quips had died, buried beneath the sense that they were walking not just into the earth — but into something’s mind. And then… the passage opened. The Seed Chamber. It wasn’t a room in any normal sense. It was a living space, carved out not by hand or machine, but by will. A giant tree root coiled through the center of the space like a great serpent, petrified over centuries. Embedded within it were faces — faint outlines, ghostlike expressions in the bark. Hundreds of them. Some twisted in agony, others in peace. Clara stepped forward, her heartbeat syncing to a pulse within the chamber. Devon whispered, “What is this place?” Lu
Last Updated : 2025-04-30A 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
Last Updated : 2025-04-30A 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
Last Updated : 2025-04-30A 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
Last Updated : 2025-04-30A 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
Last Updated : 2025-05-01A 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
Last Updated : 2025-05-01A 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
Last Updated : 2025-05-02A 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
Last Updated : 2025-05-02
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A Night at Wildwood The hollow gate
Lucas didn’t remember falling asleep, but he remembered waking. The air was colder. Denser. Everything around him pulsed faintly in shades of gray-green and red — not from his lantern, which had long since sputtered out, but from the walls themselves. Bioluminescent growths spread across the passage like veins beneath skin, lighting the narrow corridor as he pressed on. The silence was different here. Less like quiet — more like anticipation. He’d descended for what felt like hours, through winding stone and living bark, past skeletons wrapped in vines and roots that pulsed when touched. Some of the bones had markings — symbols. Ritual cuts. Tattoos. Some bore resemblance to Ashani’s people. Others… to his own. Lucas felt that tug in his chest again. Not the totem — it had broken when he entered. But something older. Something in his blood. ⸻ The Gate of Teeth He stepped into a chamber shaped like a ribcage — massive roots woven into arching spires above, and at the far en
A Night at Wildwood The root below all things
The tunnel pulsed like a throat, slick and warm, lit only by the glow from Ashani’s blade and the flickering fire that still smoldered from Emily’s hands. Each step they took echoed like a drumbeat inside a living, dying god. Clara led. Emily followed, slower now, her strength waning even though her eyes still glowed with ancestral fire. Ashani watched them both in silence, every breath measured. “We’re close,” she said. “Too close. The air—it doesn’t breathe right down here.” They passed murals formed not from paint or carvings, but from growths — bark and sap frozen in shapes that hinted at stories. One showed a great tree, upside down, its roots devouring the world below. Another showed figures in flame, casting something ancient into the dark earth. And another—almost erased—showed three women standing at the edge of a hole, each bleeding from the eyes. Clara stopped. Her fingers brushed the final mural. “I’ve seen this in the journals,” she whispered. “The Daughters of
A Night at Wildwood Among the hollow
The path had long since vanished. Lucas moved through the trees with only instinct and the faint, pulsing tug of Ashani’s totem guiding him. Every few steps, it throbbed like a heartbeat in his palm, pulling toward the old quarry entrance — now swallowed by overgrowth and warded stone. The forest was quieter than it had any right to be. No birds. No insects. Just the creak of wood and the low groan of roots moving beneath the ground like tectonic plates. He passed the place where Devon had vanished — just a patch of dirt now, but he could still see his friend’s hand reaching up through the bramble in that last, horrible second. The vines had pulled him under like water. Lucas didn’t linger. He pressed on. And then the forest spoke. “Lucas.” A voice he hadn’t heard in years. He turned sharply — hand at his side where he’d tucked a broken hatchet — and saw someone standing just beyond the trees. A woman. Familiar. Long hair. Pale blue dress. Eyes like frost and winter wat
A Night at Wildwood Before the storm
The sky above WildWood was no longer a sky. It was a bruise. Dark clouds churned in unnatural spirals, greenish-black, pulsing like something diseased. Lightning arced across the horizon without sound, and the wind didn’t howl — it whispered. Lucas stood at the tree line, his hands deep in his jacket pockets, staring out over the forest that had already taken so much. His breath fogged in the sudden cold, though it was April. Behind him, the cabin groaned. Its wards still pulsed faintly — sigils burned into the wood, clay, and old bone — placed by Ashani before she left with Clara. Lucas hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Too much of him was still down there. Buried in that rotting earth with Emily. With Clara. With everything he’d run from once. The forest whispered. Not loud. Not forceful. Just enough. She’s gone, you know. They all are. Like Devon. Like the rest. You’re the only one left. Again. He gritted his teeth and turned away. But the memory of Devon’s face—that flicker
A Night at Wildwood The memory that bleeds
The tunnel pulsed around her like a living throat. Each breath Emily took felt like inhaling ash and sorrow. But she moved now—not dragged, not bound—her feet pressing into the Root’s spongy flesh as she descended deeper. The ember inside her burned steady. She was more than herself now. A vessel, yes—but one of defiance, not submission. The whispers tried to claw back in. She left you. They all left you. You belong to the forest now. But they didn’t have the same weight anymore. Emily touched her chest, feeling the heat beneath her sternum, where the memory of her grandmother still lingered like a ghost’s touch. And then she heard footsteps. Not behind her—ahead. She slowed. Something shifted in the path before her. The walls bulged outward, and from them stepped a figure. A girl. Blonde hair. Slender frame. Dressed in the same hoodie she’d died in. Emily’s heart stopped. “Marla…?” The girl turned. Her face was wrong. It was Marla—but warped. The eyes were black pi
A Night at Wildwood What lies beneath
Beyond the Bone Gate The moment Clara stepped through, the forest changed. The air turned thick, like soup. The heat pressed against her skin with oily fingers. The path was no longer dirt or stone — it was flesh, soft and slightly pulsing, covered in moss and bone fragments. The walls around them weren’t carved or eroded — they were grown. It wasn’t a cave. It was a womb. Ashani kept her blade unsheathed, its obsidian edge humming faintly with the spiritwork bound to it. She moved slower now, more deliberate. “It’s not just a root system,” she whispered. “It’s alive. Like a brain stretched through the earth.” Clara shuddered. “And we’re inside it.” Their lanterns barely pierced the thick dark. Shapes slithered just at the edge of sight — twitching limbs, eyes that blinked and vanished, small mouths set into the walls like tumors. It watched them. Every step. Clara’s heart pounded harder, but the ember inside her gave her strength. It pulsed in time with the deeper rhythms
A Night at Wildwood Beneath the root, beyond the flesh
There was no sky. There was no air. Only the pulse. Emily floated somewhere between memory and bone, her body a marionette strung in a cradle of roots. Her skin was pale, faintly glowing, threaded through with black vines that pulsed like veins. The pain had dulled long ago. The hunger — the longing to give in — that remained. But something else had begun to stir. Something that wasn’t the Root. A distant tremor in her bones, a flicker of something lost. It had started as a whisper. Not the cruel seduction of Varethkaal, the Root’s ancient voice, but something older. Warmer. Familiar. “You remember the river?” Emily’s eyes flicked open. The whisper had come from the dark — and yet it was inside her mind. She recognized that voice. Not from the hospital, or the forest, but from her childhood. She saw it in flashes. A fire. A drum. The scent of cedar and smoke. A woman’s face, painted with ash and ochre, cradling her hands and placing a glowing stone on her forehead. Her gra
A Night at Wildwood The root beneath the green
Deep WildWood — The Edge of the Threshold The ground had changed. The further Clara and Ashani moved into the WildWood’s heart, the more the forest stopped resembling anything earthly. Trees leaned at impossible angles. Bark had gone from deep brown to a pale gray, like the skin of something long dead. The leaves overhead no longer rustled — they hung still, as if holding their breath. The old ranger paths had vanished. Now, only roots marked the way — wide, veinlike things coiling through the dirt like exposed arteries. “We’re close,” Ashani murmured. “I can feel it pulling.” Clara nodded. The ember inside her had begun to burn hotter. Her chest felt tight — not from fear, but pressure, like something wanted out. “Clara…” Ashani paused, then lowered her voice. “What if what we find… isn’t Emily anymore?” Clara didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the warped horizon, the way the trees bent away from some central point ahead, as though recoiling from something too ancient
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
