Deep into the forest, there were secrets untold to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said demons will intervene, striking you down where you stand.
It was a beautiful autumn day with cool temps and colors like those of an artist's palette. My plan for the day was to drive to the state forest and hike the trails like I'd done many times before. Parking my truck in the visitors' parking area, I unloaded my backpack, checked for water bottles, and set off into the waiting arms of ancient grounds. It was like jumping into a shade of darkness as I took my first steps onto the trail I had no intention of walking on. I climbed over the rope and walked deeper into the unknown, now surrounded by darkness, with only pinpoints of light behind me.
Rumors said an ancient coven of witches lived in this forest as far back as the 1500s. They were a peaceful people who spent their time concocting nature's bounties into salves, creams, drinks, and potions, which they stored in an underground cave. The witches roamed the forest helping strangers in need, never asking for anything in return except total secrecy as to where they were seen. Legend has it that one peaceful day in the forest, the witches were ambushed and tried to escape, but all were caught and sentenced to death by fire. Someone had drawn a map of the burning spot so others could see where it began and ended. There were many maps, some old, others more recent, but the map he had purchased was from a local thrift shop. The shopkeeper, a unique kind of fellow with a knack for storytelling, told me that somewhere in the hundreds of items lining the shelves was the one true map of the forest. He told me to look around as he walked away into a curtained room with a sign warning people to stay out.
I spent hours on my first visit looking through old scripts of ancient lore. I leafed through hundreds of pages of local history, but so far, I have found only old newspapers depicting the times of witchcraft in the area. On my second day, I dug deeper and found a family journal written by a writer from a Northern state. It told of a covenant of witches that he and his family encountered while navigating the forest. They appeared out of nowhere, dressed in gray robes. One witch touched the horse's head, instantly calming it as she touched the rest with the same results. I continued to read the journal as the shopkeeper approached me and said that if I wanted to purchase the journal, I'd have to swear I'd never show it to anyone, never. And if my intent was to find the covenant, I'd have to use the map hidden within the pages of the journal.
The following morning, I set out for the forest and, with the journal in hand, began the almost impossible task of finding the convenient and the witches who called it home. On page twelve, a clue was written about a twisted, hundreds-of-years-old tree with a branch pointing due north. Page nineteen showed a clearing with people dancing around a fire, and on page twenty-seven, a cabin stood alone, surrounded by giant trees that had no branches. I followed the clues and, several hours of walking later, stopped in my tracks as I spotted a small cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. It was barely visible nestling among the heavy vines that almost covered the place entirely.
I was about to leave when the door opened. Five witches dressed in gray appeared. I don't know why I stood up and made myself visible, but I did. Suddenly, they floated toward me, their feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn't exactly scared, but I was curious about the unknown. They circled me, guiding me toward the cabin. My voice was useless; my mouth wouldn't work, screams gone unheard. Inside, the cabin smelled of nature. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters, drying, I supposed. One witch touched my head, and I fell to the floor, unable to move my legs. Another forced me to drink from a clay cup. Within seconds, I was on an acid trip—or so it seemed, as I’d experienced in younger days.
Night arrived, and dozens of gray-clad witches gathered around the bonfire. They chanted words I couldn't understand. One took a mouthful of something and, like a circus fire breather, spat it in my face. It was warm yet cold. Another chanted inches from my face. Their words felt like the beginning of my end. I was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape. I lost consciousness and did not know how long. When I woke, I was tied to a pole with vines. Fire circled at my feet, climbing higher. I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut. The pain rose. Heat became a weapon. The last thing I remembered was screaming hard enough to break free, filling the night with cries no one would ever hear.
The rangers found my truck days later. A note on the windshield read, If you find this truck, I am dead. Use this copy of the map to find where I lie. The ranger showed his deputy, and they both laughed at another prank. There had been many. 'Call for a tow, deputy,' the ranger said. 'Let's get lunch. Something smells good.'
Rumors said an ancient coven of witches lived in this forest as far back as the 1500s. They were a peaceful people who spent their time concocting nature's bounties into salves, creams, drinks, and potions, which they stored in an underground cave. The witches roamed the forest helping strangers in need, never asking for anything in return except total secrecy as to where they were seen. Legend has it that one peaceful day in the forest, the witches were ambushed and tried to escape, but all were caught and sentenced to death by fire. Someone had drawn a map of the burning spot so others could see where it began and ended. There were many maps, some old, others more recent, but the map he had purchased was from a local thrift shop. The shopkeeper, a unique kind of fellow with a knack for storytelling, told me that somewhere in the hundreds of items lining the shelves was the one true map of the forest. He told me to look around as he walked away into a curtained room with a sign warning people to stay out.
I spent hours on my first visit looking through old scripts of ancient lore. I leafed through hundreds of pages of local history, but so far, I have found only old newspapers depicting the times of witchcraft in the area. On my second day, I dug deeper and found a family journal written by a writer from a Northern state. It told of a covenant of witches that he and his family encountered while navigating the forest. They appeared out of nowhere, dressed in gray robes. One witch touched the horse's head, instantly calming it as she touched the rest with the same results. I continued to read the journal as the shopkeeper approached me and said that if I wanted to purchase the journal, I'd have to swear I'd never show it to anyone, never. And if my intent was to find the covenant, I'd have to use the map hidden within the pages of the journal.
The following morning, I set out for the forest and, with the journal in hand, began the almost impossible task of finding the convenient and the witches who called it home. On page twelve, a clue was written about a twisted, hundreds-of-years-old tree with a branch pointing due north. Page nineteen showed a clearing with people dancing around a fire, and on page twenty-seven, a cabin stood alone, surrounded by giant trees that had no branches. I followed the clues and, several hours of walking later, stopped in my tracks as I spotted a small cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. It was barely visible nestling among the heavy vines that almost covered the place entirely.
I was about to leave when the door opened. Five witches dressed in gray appeared. I don't know why I stood up and made myself visible, but I did. Suddenly, they floated toward me, their feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn't exactly scared, but I was curious about the unknown. They circled me, guiding me toward the cabin. My voice was useless; my mouth wouldn't work, screams gone unheard. Inside, the cabin smelled of nature. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters, drying, I supposed. One witch touched my head, and I fell to the floor, unable to move my legs. Another forced me to drink from a clay cup. Within seconds, I was on an acid trip—or so it seemed, as I’d experienced in younger days.
Night arrived, and dozens of gray-clad witches gathered around the bonfire. They chanted words I couldn't understand. One took a mouthful of something and, like a circus fire breather, spat it in my face. It was warm yet cold. Another chanted inches from my face. Their words felt like the beginning of my end. I was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape. I lost consciousness and did not know how long. When I woke, I was tied to a pole with vines. Fire circled at my feet, climbing higher. I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut. The pain rose. Heat became a weapon. The last thing I remembered was screaming hard enough to break free, filling the night with cries no one would ever hear.
The rangers found my truck days later. A note on the windshield read, If you find this truck, I am dead. Use this copy of the map to find where I lie. The ranger showed his deputy, and they both laughed at another prank. There had been many. 'Call for a tow, deputy,' the ranger said. 'Let's get lunch. Something smells good.'
Deep in the forest, there were secrets unknown to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said a demon will intervene, striking you down where you stand.
Mike 2026
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