Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The forest of Mournvale was forbidden. Not because of beasts or rot—but because it bled.

Every tree oozed crimson sap. Every root twisted like veins through dark earth. Locals whispered that the trees grew not from soil, but from flesh and sacrifice.

At its heart stood the Bloodroot Tree, towering, ancient, pulsing faintly like a living heart. They said it remembered every ritual ever performed beneath its boughs—and demanded more.

Adira had no choice.

Her brother Jalen had been bitten. Not by a zombie, but by something older, deeper—a thing that slithered under the world and surfaced only to feed. The wound wasn't rotting… it was changing. His eyes had turned black, his breath wheezed in strange syllables, and his shadow no longer matched his shape.

The doctors of the living had failed.

So she turned to the dead.

Led by scraps of old cult journals and whispered rumors, Adira dragged her fevered brother into Mournvale, the path opening like a slit wound before them.

At the base of the Bloodroot Tree, she set him down.

The roots reacted instantly—curling around Jalen's body like eager fingers. The bark split open, revealing an altar of tangled bone and red-glowing fungi. The air thickened with decay and incense.

Then the Bloodroot Witch appeared.

She was tall and bark-skinned, with vines for hair and no mouth—only a bloodstained slit across her throat that pulsed with whispers.

Adira didn't flinch.

"I offer my blood for his life," she said, slicing her palm.

The witch tilted her head. The wound on her throat widened, speaking in a voice like leaves burning:

"Life given, life taken. The boy is marked. He is not yours to save."

Adira screamed. "Then take me instead!"

The forest shuddered.

The witch stepped back.

The altar split open.

Roots pierced Adira's arms and legs, lifting her like a marionette. Her blood flowed freely now, winding through the altar's channels, glowing brighter with every heartbeat.

Jalen's eyes snapped open.

He convulsed.

Screamed.

And then…

Went still.

Adira's vision blurred. Her blood watered the roots. Her voice joined the whispering choir beneath the soil.

Jalen rose—whole. Clean. Human again.

But he didn't look back.

The forest let him leave.

Now the Bloodroot Tree stands taller. Redder. Stronger.

And somewhere deep in its hollow trunk, a new root grows—one that hums with Adira's name and memory.

Those who enter Mournvale at night sometimes see her silhouette standing beside the altar, her mouth sewn shut, her arms open in welcome.

The forest still feeds.

And the Bloodroot Ritual is never truly done.