The Watchers

Ben Whitmore wasn’t supposed to be off the trail.

But after three days of heavy storms and washed-out markers, he found himself wandering the dense forest, low on supplies and lower on hope.

Then he stumbled into the clearing.

A village — maybe a dozen houses, all wood and stone, huddled close together under the towering pines.
The air smelled sweet, almost unnaturally so.
The villagers stood outside their homes, watching him.

They didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.

Just watched.

Ben raised a hand in greeting.

No response.

A chill gnawed at his gut, but the need for food and shelter outweighed his unease.
He approached the largest house, where an old woman in gray stood motionless.

As he stepped closer, he realized her eyes weren’t blinking.
They weren’t even eyes — just smooth, glassy surfaces.

Mannequins.

All of them.

The trees shuddered, though there was no wind.
From the forest behind him, a soft scraping sound began — hundreds of tiny footsteps, approaching.

Ben turned to run, but the clearing was gone.
Only endless trees.

And behind every tree,
a watcher waited.

Smiling.