Mynegian

I know I shouldn’t be this deep in the woods, but legends have a way of calling you in.

Centuries ago, witches were accused here in droves. Most were executed—burned alive in the town square. All but one: a woman who refused to die.

The townsfolk gathered—trapped her inside her house until she had no choice but to leap from a window and bolt toward the treeline. They followed, pitchforks and torches in hand, as she ran deeper and deeper into the darkening forest.

Supposedly, they found and killed her—but no corpse was ever recovered, so who’s to say? Nothing but the echo of her scream in the evening woods.

As a horror blogger, I have immersed myself in a world of eerie tales—but this one particularly piqued my interest as it emerged from my own hometown.

About a decade ago, a girl disappeared in these woods—and some say it might be connected to the witch. A missing persons case and a folkloric tale in the same place? It was a story too good to pass up.

So now I’m here, in the midst of that very forest, snapping photos to post for my readers later tonight.

Nature is healing here. Flowers bloom where no one walks. The air exhales in pure silence. It’s so picturesque I can barely believe my own eyes.

I find myself in a clearing, tall trees circling me as if I were meant to be here. The afternoon sun shines down on it, making the whole area glow.

Perfect.

I pull out my camera and take a quick photo of the landscape directly across from me. Click.

Content, I continue toward it. But when I go to check the picture, all I see are fallen trees. Gray, splintered, and decayed wood resting on the forest floor as if it’s been there all along.

I look back up. Just normal ones.

Maybe it’s an old photo. Maybe the camera glitched and the one I just took didn’t work…or something? I did buy it secondhand, after all.

I brush it off and keep walking.

As I head even deeper into the woods, I can’t help but let my hands brush every tree I pass. I’m mesmerized by the bark—by the ancient patterns each one displays. There are years of history in these woods, memories that only these branches have seen.

Inspired, I raise the camera close to a trunk, focusing the lens on its center. Click.

When I check the photo, I notice something: scratches in the tree. Long, deep, and animalistic; in my mind, I can almost hear the sound of it—savage nail against bark.

I glance back at the tree. There’s nothing.

Probably a lighting issue…?

I give the camera a few frustrated taps as if it’ll make a difference. I’m no good with technology, it seems.

I won’t lose to a piece of lousy equipment, though.

The trees loom above me as I shake the stupid thing, their leaves casting shadows over my body. A stray breeze ruffles my hair, inviting me even further in.

Dissatisfied yet still determined, I start walking again. I keep the camera on as I go, pointed toward the ground.

The soft thuds of my stride are the only sounds emitted here. It’s spooky in the most fantastic way; I can’t wait to write about it when I get home.

I’m enjoying the scenery when my peripheral vision catches it first. Through the lens, I see it—footsteps.

Faded but unmistakably human footsteps. As if the individual were barely touching the ground at all, their bare feet merely brushing the dirt instead of pressing into it.

I bring the camera back to my face and trace the trail through the screen. I follow the prints for several minutes before they come to a complete stop.

I take a photo of where the trail ends. Click.

Pulling the camera away reveals only the untouched forest floor. But the photo, once again, says otherwise.

An eeriness fills the silent air.

Was someone here, too?

I whip around instinctively, eyes scanning the woods for something, for anything at all.

Only trees.

Someone must’ve been here recently, at the very least. Any longer and these would’ve been long gone, lost to the weather or other forces of nature.

But technically, they are gone. Just not according to the picture.

So which is it?

There are things in this forest I cannot see without the camera. Some anomalies are just clearer through a lens, it seems.

The thought of someone else here sends a chill down my spine.

I already shouldn’t be here. At least I have a reason—whether or not that defies laws is up for interpretation.

So why are they here?

I want to leave. My instincts are telling me to drop everything and bolt, just like how that woman fled her home.

But I don’t give up—not when my readers are expecting something good.

I hold the camera up to my face as I walk, led on by the promise of an incredible photo for the blog.

The forest seems ordinary, but goosebumps still creep up my arms. Dread shakes me down to my bones, and each step feels heavier than the last.

Every so often, a black silhouette appears through the camera. I tell myself it’s just the lighting—shadows glitching on the screen as the sun begins to set.

I’m not entirely convinced.

Each figure sends another wave of doubt through me, chilling me more than the evening air ever could.

I haven’t taken any photos in a while, so I raise my camera and snap one, just to break the silence.

It’s normal at first glance, though I already know I’ll find something abnormal when I take a closer look.

And there it is—

Another thing in the distance, carved into a tree trunk.

I approach the tree, all the while holding my camera up. I snap a quick photo and immediately pull it away from my face, a little worried about what I might find.

My eyes carefully study the bark. Completely normal.

Ever so slowly, I avert my gaze to the camera, where the bark is different. In the pattern, a distinguishable word is carved in: MYNEGIAN.

“Mynegian,” I say aloud, voice unnaturally loud amongst the trees.

The word means nothing to me, yet it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

The wind has picked up around me, blowing my hair every which way. I’m suddenly painfully aware that I am completely and utterly alone in these woods.

I shiver uncontrollably, shaking with an innate fear of something I’m unaware of.

I tilt the camera up, circling the treetops as if I’ll find the answer I’m desperate for.

And I do.

There, in the trees, is a figure. It’s a woman, dangling from the branches, noose around her neck. She sways gently with the wind, as if in some mystic, cryptic, ritualistic dance.

Her pale face is frozen, lifeless eyes wide open, and mouth agape in a scream preserved by time.

I drop my camera. She disappears. I pick up my camera. There she is, again.

It’s almost funny how the legends only make sense after the blood has dried.

I run.

I run and run and run.

I need to get out of here.

I don’t know what this is, I don’t know what’s happening.

But I know I have to get out of these woods.

My steps pound into the ground, sticks crunching under the weight, and my gasping breaths reverberating in this godforsaken forest.

I run until my legs feel like they’re about to give out, and even then, I continue to push myself.

Get me out.

Get me out.

But no matter how far I run, I can’t seem to find an exit. Nothing but the trees.

Trees that show up fallen, trees with scratches and words carved into them, trees with a woman hanging from their branches.

Finally, I stop, desperate for breath. After a glance, I realize everything around me looks exactly the same. Like I was running in place, going nowhere.

Tears flood my eyes. Is this the end of my story? Am I, Adelaide Daughtery, just another post on someone else’s blog?

Lungs heaving, I hold up the camera one last time.

On the screen, all I see is her. My fingers tremble as I instinctively take one final photo. Click.

Her empty, soulless eyes, her mouth forever in a silent screech…

A face I’ll carry with me into death.

Right in front of me.

Then the camera dies, and everything goes black.

—

Astrid Winthrop, a photography student, is taking photos for her final project of the semester. She has wandered deep into the local forest, capturing the natural beauty of it all.

They all warned her—a second disappearance has shaken up the town. But she doesn’t believe in ghost stories; all she believes in is an A on her final.

Astrid points her camera up to the sky, and that’s when she sees her.

There, through the lens, is the figure of Adelaide Daughtery as she hangs from a tree branch, lifeless eyes forever frozen in shock, mouth agape in an eternal scream.

She drops the camera and bolts.

But Astrid won’t outrun it. No one ever does.