The first drop of blood fell onto the forest floor with a wet, glistening sound. I watched it spread across the mossy earth, darkening the green in its path before it was absorbed by the damp soil. My hand trembled as I gripped the hunting knife in my pocket, its blade still warm from the kill. The deer's entrails lay scattered nearby, and the faint smell of iron mixed with pine needles hung in the air. This wasn't the first time I'd seen blood in these woods, but it was the first time I'd been the one to spill it.

The forest had always been a sanctuary for me. My father had taken me here every summer since I could remember, teaching me to track game and identify edible plants. But something had changed since the incident that left me with this knife. The authorities had declared the woods safe again after the "accidental" encounter with the bear, but I knew better. The unease in the air, the way the shadows seemed to cling to the trees, the strange whispers that echoed through the canopy... they all pointed to the same truth. The woods were watching me.

I moved cautiously through the undergrowth, my boots crunching over acorns and pine cones. The knife felt heavier than usual, a constant reminder of what I'd done. Three days ago, I'd stumbled upon a group of hikers in the northern part of the forest. They'd been arguing about a map, their voices rising until one of them - a man with a scarred cheek - lunged at them with a rusted knife. I intervened, and now here I was, standing in the aftermath. The man lay motionless, his eyes wide and unblinking. His blood had mixed with the leaves, creating a crimson path that led straight to the spot where I'd found his backpack, still tied with a frayed rope.

As I turned to leave, something caught my eye. A trail of fresh footprints led deeper into the woods, heading towards the old logging trail that connected to the main road. My stomach tightened. These weren't animal tracks - they were human, and they were moving faster than any hiker I'd seen. I froze, my heart pounding against my ribs. Had the others found the site? Or was there something else out there?

The answer came in a guttural growl, followed by the snap of a branch. I spun around, my knife already drawn. In the moonlight, I saw three figures emerging from the trees. They were hunched, their movements jerky, and their faces were obscured by burlap sacks. But I recognized their boots - the same style I'd seen on the hikers from three days ago. They carried nothing but empty hands, but their eyes glinted with something primal.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice cracking. They didn't answer, just stepped forward, their sacks slipping to reveal jagged scars across their faces. The leader - the one with the scarred cheek - moved first, snarling as he swung a club. I dodged, the impact of the blow sending me sprawling. Pain erupted in my shoulder, but I pushed myself up, drawing my knife. The second figure lunged, but I parried with the blade, slicing through the burlap to expose a hunting knife identical to the one I carried.

The fight was brutal. We traded blows in the moonlight, the forest floor becoming a bloody mat. They were stronger, more experienced, but I had the advantage of speed and surprise. When the leader's club cracked against my ribs, I seized his arm and twisted, dislocating his shoulder. He crumpled, and the other two hesitated, their eyes darting between us. I pressed the knife to his throat, feeling the pulse beneath his skin.

"Where's the others?" I demanded, my voice hoarse. He didn't answer, just gurgled something incoherent. I released him, and he collapsed into the underbrush. The remaining two turned and ran, their footsteps fading into the trees. I stood there, panting, my shoulder burning. The blood on my hands felt like a curse, a stain I couldn't wash away.

As I limped back to my car, I saw the first glimmer of dawn in the eastern sky. The woods had swallowed the last of the night, but I knew they'd still be watching. I'd have to be more careful now. The authorities would never believe me if I said the woods were alive, or that the people I'd killed had been part of some kind of cult. But I'd seen the symbols carved into the trees, the strange rituals that took place during the full moons. There was something out there, something that had been waiting for centuries to claim another victim.

I stopped at the edge of the forest, staring at the sunrise. The first drop of blood had fallen, and it would not be the last. I tightened my grip on the knife, knowing that this was only the beginning. The woods would have their due, and I would become part of their story. But for now, I would drive away, leave the evidence behind, and pretend that everything was normal. Because normalcy was all I had left.