The Forest Granny Should Never Have Found

Every evening, young Granny and her best friend Amrita walked into the forest that lay behind their village. It was their little ritual. The sun would dip low, the birds would sing sleepy songs, and the wind would rustle the leaves gently. It was a place of peace. A place where they could collect wild fruits, vegetables, and stories to share with their families over warm dinners.

But that one evening—that cursed evening—something changed.

They had wandered a little farther than usual, chasing the sweet scent of wild berries and the soft laughter that only old friends share. The trees seemed taller, the ground softer, and the air cooler. They followed the sight of a group of snow-white rabbits hopping between bushes. Then, a peacock spread its glorious feathers, shining with blue and green. It felt like they had walked into a hidden paradise. 

“I’ve never seen this part before,” Amrita whispered, her eyes wide with wonder.

Granny nodded slowly. “Neither have I… but it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Just as she spoke, the wind grew still.

From behind a group of twisted, low trees, a fox stepped into the clearing.

Its fur was dirty orange, its body thin and sharp like broken glass. But its eyes—its eyes were what froze the girls in place. They were red. Not just red like apples or roses. Red like fire. Red like blood.

The fox didn’t growl. It didn’t bare its teeth.

It smiled.

And then it ran.

Straight toward them.

Granny screamed. Amrita grabbed her hand, and together they ran, deeper and deeper into the forest. The trees seemed to lean in from all sides, their branches knotting together like arms trying to trap them. Branches scraped their arms and legs. The sun vanished. Their baskets fell, spilling apples, roots, and flowers behind them.

They didn’t stop until the world around them turned completely black.

Thick fog curled around their ankles. The air was cold and wet, and it smelled like something long dead had been left to rot under the leaves. There were shadows in the fog, some tall, some crawling, none of them shaped like anything they’d ever seen.

A sound filled the air.

It was not birds, or insects, or the rustling of leaves.

It was whispers.

Too many voices speaking too close, all at once. Some laughed. Some cried. Some called out Granny’s name.

Granny wanted to scream but didn’t know if she had any voice left.

That’s when they saw him.

A man, sitting cross-legged under a leafless tree.

He wore a faded robe that might have once been white. His head was shaved, his face thin and long. But it was his eyes—they were dark, empty holes, as if he had forgotten how to see.

The monk didn’t move when they approached, but he spoke in a voice that felt like it came from the ground itself.

“You should not be here,” he said.

“Please,” Amrita begged, “we are lost.”

The monk tilted his head slowly, as though he were listening to something far away. “Follow the path of silence. Walk until you hear the birds again. And do not come back.”

Granny looked into his eyes again and suddenly felt cold down her spine—as if something was watching her through him.

They thanked him and walked, following the only direction they hadn’t come from. The fog lifted a little. The whispers faded. And, after what felt like hours, the trees began to look normal again. Birds chirped. The sky turned a soft evening pink.

They were safe.

Granny returned home, her body aching, her mind spinning. She barely said a word before collapsing into bed.

Later, her mother knocked on the door gently. “Dinner’s ready,” she said with a warm smile. “You brought such beautiful vegetables today. I made your favourite aloo baingan.”

Granny sat up, blinking. “What?”

Her mother laughed. “You and Amrita always find the best things. We’re lucky to have you.”

Granny walked into the kitchen. The table was full—wild carrots, green leaves, forest mushrooms. All the things she had dropped while running from the red-eyed fox.

She said nothing during dinner.

When the plates were cleared, she walked to Amrita’s house. Her friend answered the door with wide eyes and a pale face.

“Amrita,” Granny whispered, “did you… bring back your basket?”

Amrita shook her head. “No. I dropped it. We both did. You remember that, don’t you?”

“I do. But… my mother said I brought everything back. Our dinner was made with it.”

Amrita stared at her, horror growing in her eyes.

“Granny,” she said slowly, “do you think we ever left the forest?”

Granny’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Amrita went pale. “It felt like a nightmare. But maybe we… maybe we brought something back with us.”

That night, Granny did not sleep.

Not because of the fox. Not because of the shadows or the whispers.

But because outside her window, under the moonlight, a basket sat quietly on the ground.

And beside it stood the monk—his eyes no longer empty, but burning red.