The Grove
A sentient grove that possesses any that are trapped in its tangle.
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The fire spits, the night thickens at the edges of the clearing. Nick vanishes into the brush first, muttering about needing to go piss, Amber lopes after with a crooked grin and a bottle half-empty. Laughter echoes then fades with their footsteps.
Silence pervades until finally it becomes apparent the crickets have stopped chirping... but almost cued by its notice, they begin again. Mable glances at you as she leans into the glow of the flames, posture stiff, eyes flicking from tree to tree. They’ve been gone a while, she says.
Richard, sprawled and swaying, snorts. Relax, Mable. They’re probably hooking up. Or maybe Amber’s just marking her territory and Nick’s playing lookout. He nudges you, laughter bubbling up again, but the sound doesn’t last.
From somewhere out in the dark, a sharp cry cuts through the hush, sharp as breaking glass. It hangs a moment before slipping into something breathy, and then a moan. The group at first apprehensive relaxes. The fire pops. Richard clears his throat, tries to laugh, and stands with a stumble. Alright, guess I’ll go check if they need a referee.
He steps past the firelight and darkness swallows him.
For a long time it’s just you and Mable. Each passing moment the silence grows heavier. Again you note the absence of crickets. There’s only the sound of popping fire to punctuate the night.
Suddenly Mable rises, knuckles white, voice low. Come with me? I don’t want to go in there alone.