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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MoeWanders on 2024-10-13 03:20:56+00:00.
There's something I need to get off of my chest. A decade-old memory. One that’s always scratching at the back of my mind, like the twisted branches of a dead tree.
It’s a tale so harrowing that I’ve never told anyone about it.
This story is set in a distant, desolate place called the Weeping Woods.
You’ll first need to understand why I was in that unspeakable place, so far from proper civilization, with three of my friends.
We were social science students, all four of us. Obsessed with culture, history, myth, religion – the works. We were looking to take on an honors research project, and naturally, we wanted it to be something big, something original.
It was Jack, my closest friend, who suggested it. He was from Pennsylvania originally; specifically a town some fifty miles from the forest. He told us about the Weeping Woods.
He told us about the Woodwick Walker.
Of the four of us, Tina was the folklore junkie, so naturally she snapped at the suggestion. “C’mon, guys,” she insisted, “we’d get to do a road trip, camping, and our project all in one. And I’d bet good money that none of the other groups are going to research anything as creepy or as intriguing as what Jack just told us about.”
I couldn’t argue with that, and I had no better suggestion. Marcus, our other friend, wasn’t as eager; spooky stuff really wasn’t his thing. But he saw the rest of us agreeing and sighed, “All right. Fine.”
So we packed Jack’s truck with everything we’d need to drive out of state for up to two weeks. Luckily for us, his Silverado was built like a goddamn dumptruck. It could fit the four of us, all our clothes, food, additional supplies, and – most importantly – our recording equipment.
Jack and I took turns driving, so the trek all the way up to Pennsylvania went by quick enough. We only stopped if we needed gas or the bathroom.
Along the way, Jack told us more about the legend. “The Weeping Woods are named as they are supposedly because those who escaped them were always in tears.”
“According to who?” I asked.
Jack shrugged. “That’s just the legend. As unlikely as it sounds, the tale took hold enough that no one from my town liked to go there.” He nudged his head at the rearview mirror. “The reason we brought the saws and towing cables are in case the road is stopped up. The dingy old track that leads to the woods is used so little that it often ends up blocked by fallen trees.”
Marcus’s breath hissed through his teeth. “We had to choose the scariest, most backwater place in the world, didn’t we?”
“Hell yes,” Tina replied. “You’re damn right we did.”
“So,” I asked, “why were people crying? I guess it had to do with the Woodwick Walker?”
“Sort of,” Jack said. “They were crying because they’d been forced to leave people behind. When asked about what had happened, they’d always have a hard time talking about it. A few gave vague descriptions of a man in the woods who was . . . part of the forest.”
“Oh,” Tina sighed, “I love this shit. Please, go on.”
Jack nodded. “The one bit of info that solidified over the decades as the rule of the woods is this: Do not look at his face. If – when – you encounter him . . . Do. Not. Look. Up.” His voice grew stiff as he explained. “Close your eyes. If you can’t do that, then stare at your feet. Nothing else.”
“Jack,” Marcus murmured, “you got awfully serious just now.”
Jack cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the road. “Did I?”
“You definitely did,” I agreed.
“Sorry. I still bug out over it a little, even all these years later.”
“Have you been to the Weeping Woods?” I asked him.
“I’ve only been to their edge. To tell you the truth, this legend scared the living shit out of me as a kid. The area around the house I grew up in was forested, too, and I’d always imagine seeing him between the trees.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “If you’re damn-well traumatized by this thing, why’d you suggest it for the project?”
“The only way to overcome a fear is to face it,” he said.
“True enough,” Tina agreed.
I have to admit, the way Jack talked about it during that ride got to me. Even Tina was a little more reverent about it all after that. And Marcus was so spooked we were worried he’d jump ship and hitchhike back south.
But the four of us pressed on. The road meandered, rose, and fell until eventually the rainy, autumnal woodland of Pennsylvania appeared on the horizon. It was late autumn, so the pretty colors had given way for the most part to barren trees with only a smattering of rusty brown leaves left on them.
We drove through Jack’s town, which in itself was so backwoods that it was hard to imagine any place more far flung. There was one diner in the whole of the place, a local spot offering breakfast on the overcast morning we’d arrived. We knew we’d be living off our camp food for the next while, so we popped in there.
When we told the friendly waitress what we were up to, she stopped being nearly as nice. “You kids promise me one thing,” she said in low tones. “You keep your eyes to the ground in them woods.”
We laughed a little at that. She didn’t.
I finished my food quickly, eager to get out of there. As we walked back to the truck, Jack said, “See? It’s a whole thing out here.”
“And you thought this was a good idea?” Marcus groaned.
“Relax, guys,” Jack went on. “It’s just a legend. A story.”
Tina said, “We should stop by here again when we’re done camping. A recorded interview with that waitress – or any other locals who might have something to say – would be great for the project.”
“Hell,” I said, “we ought to record an interview with Jack. He’s got plenty to say, too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack sighed as he thumped his door shut. “Get in. We’re losing daylight.”
“Just how far do we have to go?” I asked.
“Twenty, maybe thirty miles,” Jack explained. “No one actually knows how far the Weeping Woods are. The road there is kinda . . .”
“‘Kinda’ what?” Marcus prodded.
“It’s kinda weird. You’ll see.”
He wasn’t kidding. Even the turn onto the road was decrepit: the pavement of the highway gave way to mulchy dirt, so littered with branches and fallen leaves that only Jack’s trained eye could have spotted it.
The road itself was derelict, a vestige of some bygone era. The way it veered and twisted was illogical; oftentimes we felt like we were turned all the way around and going back towards the highway. And the whole way, the only real indication that we were still on the road was the tall, gnarled trees lining the track.
After a few minutes of winding through, I pointed at the compass on the Silverado’s dashboard display. “We’ve turned this way and that, yet the compass has read northwest the whole time.”
Jack gave a tentative nod. “The road leads northwest, into the Weeping Woods. No matter what.”
Tina said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I told you it’d be weird, didn’t I?” Jack had an edge of irritability to him now – in his voice, in the knit of his brow.
“You good, bro?” I gently said.
“Sorry,” he sighed. “My bad, guys. This road gives me the creeps, is all. I’ll chill.”
It was just then that we rounded a dense thicket of trees and saw a massive fallen log blocking the road.
“Perfect,” Marcus groaned.
Jack cursed under his breath, his eyes darting left and right, peering through the trees.
I raised my hands. “Hey now. We’ve got the tools to deal with this. No biggie. I’ll take care of it.”
Tina shuffled about before raising her DSLR camera. “Marcus and I will take a few pictures while you deal with it. And maybe a video or two.” She rolled down her window.
“Sounds good!” I unbuckled my seatbelt, opened my door, and jumped out. The ground I fell onto would have been soft and inviting if not for the thick tree root that jabbed into the sole of my foot.
As Jack clicked the ignition and shut the Silverado’s engine down, the first thing I noticed in the chilly autumn evening was the silence.
A deep, encompassing quiet lay over the road, broken only by the hissing of the wind as it bothered the dark leaves that had yet to fall. “Damn,” I whispered to myself, not entirely certain why I felt the need to keep my voice down. A dense fog had descended on the woodland; I supposed that was dampening the forest’s sounds.
As I walked to the back of the truck, Jack stepped out and joined me. I told him, “I don’t mind handling this on my own, you know.”
He shook his head. “Nah. I’ll help you. It’s all good.”
I nodded, though with how shifty he was being, I almost wished he’d have just stayed in the damn truck. In any case, we grabbed a couple saws and walked over to the log.
It was the corpse of a huge tree, and several of its thickest limbs were tangled with other still-living trees at the edge of the road. I gestured toward those limbs, then looked at Jack. “What do you think?”
“Yeah. We saw off the big arms. The jammed ones. Then we tow the log once it’s loose.”
Nodding, I got started. Both Jack and I went hard; the sky was dimming, though it wasn’t even late into the afternoon. The grinding and zipping of our saws seemed to violate the serenity of the forest, its near-perfect silence spoiled by the sounds of men. It was awfully uncomfortable, both because of the disturbance, and because getting through those limbs was a ton of work.
“We should have brought a friggin’ chainsaw,” I chuckled.
“Heh,” Jack murmured in reply.
“It’s weird,” I called over the scraping of our saws, “the way it feels like it’s almost evening. It’s overc...
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