In “The Storyteller,” Ed, a lost hiker, stumbles into a mysterious forest clearing where he meets Teddy, a cryptic old man tending a campfire who shares an unsettling tale about a young man claimed by a possessive, living wilderness.
Ed staggered through a tangled forest path, the sharp scent of a campfire cutting through the damp, earthy air. His boots sank into the mud, each step a battle against gnarled roots and thorny vines that seemed to clutch at him.
He’d been hiking for hours, his 12-pack slung over his shoulder, the cans clinking softly. The sun had long vanished behind the dense canopy, leaving only a faint, gray dusk.
He’d set out from the cabins that morning, eager for a solo trek to clear his head after a long week, but the trail markers had disappeared, and the path twisted in ways that didn’t match his map. Now, a flickering glow pierced the underbrush ahead, promising warmth and maybe answers. Clutching his beer, he pushed through the final thorny bushes, ignoring the scratches on his arms.
The clearing was small, almost unnaturally perfect, ringed by tall pines that leaned inward like silent sentinels. At its center, tending a modest fire, sat an old man, his face weathered as cracked leather, his thick, scruffy beard streaked with gray.
A neat pile of wood rested beside him, each log cut with eerie precision. His eyes, sharp and glinting in the firelight, flicked up as Ed approached.
“Evening,” Ed said, catching his breath. He dropped onto a moss-covered log opposite the man, pulling two cans from his 12-pack. “Man, these woods are brutal! Thought I’d be lost forever.”
He offered a beer, his hand trembling slightly from exhaustion.
“Forever’s a long stretch,” the old man replied. “Call me Teddy.”
He took the beer and cracked it open with a faint hiss. He raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving Ed.
“Ed,” he said, mirroring the gesture. They clinked cans, the sound sharp in the quiet clearing. Ed downed a third of his beer in one gulp. Teddy took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring it like a ritual.
Ed jerked a thumb toward the dark woods behind him. “You know the way back to the cabins? I must’ve gotten turned around. Been walking for hours.”
Teddy’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Must have. The cabins are right over there,” he said, pointing to the path Ed had come from.
Ed frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. “No way. I just came from there. Walked for an hour. It’s all forest—loops and dead ends.”
Teddy nodded, his smile unchanging. “Mind if I share a story, Eddy? A SCARY campfire story.
“Ed,” he corrected, leaning back. “But yeah, go ahead. Got nothing but time out here.”
Teddy took another slow sip.
“A young man ventures into the wilderness,” he began. “He breathes the fresh air, takes in the sights—moss on the rocks, birds in the canopy. He forges his own trail, thinks he’s free. He loves Nature, you see. And, in time, Nature loves him back. Loves him so much she wants him to stay.”
Ed raised an eyebrow, sipping his beer.
“One day, the man treads a familiar path. But this time, it twists into an odd loop. Before he knows it, he’s in a clearing. At its heart sits an old man, tending a fire. The young man sits with him, and soon, a story passes between them. Like most things of weight, the story’s meaning escapes the young man.”
Ed smirked, the beer loosening his nerves. “Cute. So I’m the young man, huh? And you’re the old guy spinning yarns?”
Teddy smiled too, but sadly. “You were right, Eddy. These woods are a beast. And this story is her favorite.”
Ed shrugged, draining his can. The fire crackled, spitting embers into the night. The clearing felt smaller now, the trees closer, their branches weaving a cage overhead. He shook off the unease, chalking it up to the dark and the beer.
“Eddy…” the old man said. “Know what every good story needs?”
“An ending?” Ed said, chuckling.
Teddy laughed softly, too.
Both men drained their beers and tossed the empty cans into the fire.
Teddy gazed at the flames with longing. Finally, he said, “Every good story needs a storyteller.”
Ed grinned and shook his head. “You’re something else, man,” he said. He grabbed his 12-pack and stood. “Thanks for the story, Ted—”
Teddy’s head was bowed, his form rigid and dark in the wavering light of the fire.
“Teddy?” Ed said.
He reached over and touched the old man’s shoulder. The charred wooden figure that was Teddy tipped forward and crumbled into the campfire.
