by John Xero
The dawn mist hung low and tattered through Shawton Wood. The gnarled hawthorn trees were riddled with bulbous galls and their split bark oozed dark sap.
To drunken Toby there were shadowy assailants behind every trunk and he jumped as a low branch touched his shoulder. He took a deep breath.
The branch wrapped tightly around his arm. He pulled at it but more wound round him, pulling against each other until his body could take no more and he came apart in a gushing, splattering rush of blood.
The woods creaked like the fog-dampened screams of a dying man.
Author bio: John Xero knows never to go into the deep, dark woods. Not in the real world. But sometimes the deep, dark woods of the mind are where the best stories sleep...
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