The Broken Silence of the Woods ♪

You know, there’s a thing about autumn that draws a certain kind of photographer—one who can’t resist the lure of orange leaves, crisp air, and the perfect shot of pumpkins strewn across the forest floor. The photographer was one of those, the kind who woke up before dawn, eager to capture the first light creeping through the trees.

One October morning, he found himself wandering into a secluded stretch of woods, camera in hand. There was something about this place, an air of mystery that made it feel like the woods had held their breath for centuries, waiting for the right visitor. And the photographer, with his eye for the unusual, was ready to capture whatever it offered.

He spotted a strange sight through the trees—a cluster of broken pumpkins, their seeds scattered like they’d been torn apart in a frenzy. But there was one pumpkin that was different, though he didn’t see it then. He set up his shot, adjusting for the morning shadows that danced on the broken shells. The leaves crunched underfoot as he framed the scene, each click of the shutter breaking the silence.

Yet, for every shot he took, there was a growing unease, a chill that the morning light couldn’t chase away. It wasn’t just the cold of autumn; it was something else, something that made his hands unsteady as he adjusted the focus. The forest seemed to press in closer with each breath, the trees leaning in, as if they too were waiting.

The photographer tried to brush it off. After all, he was alone in the woods with a few broken pumpkins—nothing to worry about. But just as he packed up his gear, he snapped a final wide shot of the scene, more out of habit than intent. He glanced around the woods one last time, catching a glimpse of something moving in the corner of his eye—a shadow, darting between the trees. He turned, but the woods were empty.

Back home, he uploaded the photos, scrolling through each frame, but it was the last one that made him pause. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, some glitch in the shot. But there, among the broken pumpkins, nestled perfectly amidst the debris, was a plastic pumpkin with a grin far too wide for the scene. He zoomed in, and a chill crawled up his spine.

It wasn’t just that Mr. Pumpkin Head was there, bright and cheerful among the smashed pumpkins—it was that the photographer knew he hadn’t seen it when he was there. He would have noticed. He scrolled back through the earlier shots, but the plastic pumpkin wasn’t in any of them. Not until that last wide shot.

He leaned closer to the screen, studying the shadows around Mr. Pumpkin Head. They didn’t match the rest of the scene. They curved in strange directions, bending toward the smiling face as if drawn to it. And the more he looked, the more he felt like those hollow eyes were staring straight through the screen, right at him.

The photographer tried to laugh it off, telling himself it was a prank, a leftover from some kids who had come through the woods earlier. But he knew it didn’t make sense. He’d been alone. He was sure of it. And as he stared at the screen, he realized there was something else—a footprint in the mud beside the plastic pumpkin, far larger than his own. It wasn’t there in any of the earlier shots.

A sense of dread settled in. He remembered the shadow he’d seen in the woods, the way the silence had deepened around him. The weight of the camera strap around his neck suddenly felt suffocating, like a noose tightening. He shut the laptop, heart pounding in the quiet of his room, but that feeling wouldn’t go away.

The next morning, he went back to the woods, telling himself he needed to prove it was just a mistake. But when he arrived, the scene was just as he’d left it—shattered pumpkins and scattered seeds, but no sign of the plastic one. The forest was silent, but the air felt thick, oppressive, as if the trees were holding back a secret they weren’t ready to share.

He left quickly, the camera swinging against his chest with each hurried step. He never returned to that part of the woods, but he kept the photo. He kept it because he couldn’t stop thinking about those eyes, that grin, and the way it seemed to appear out of nowhere. He never shared it, not with anyone.

But sometimes, late at night, he’d pull up the photo on his screen, zoom in on that grinning face, and wonder if he really had been alone that morning. And sometimes, just as he’d shut his laptop, he thought he heard a whisper, soft as the rustling leaves, echoing from somewhere just beyond the edge of the trees.