The Watcher
The Watcher was a huge old tree, in a place deep in the forest on the Olympic Peninsula. People had known about it for years and years. The old, large, hollowed trunk stood alone at the end of the twisted trail, with holes for eyes and a wide mouth that appeared frozen in a silent scream. Some said the hollows had been made by weather or insects. But others thought something older, and much darker, etched them into the flesh of the old tree.
The legend of The Watcher is about a vengeful forest spirit – a being that once took care of the woods and all who lived in it. Long ago, the spirit turned against the people as they began burning the trees and scarring the land. In despair and anguish, the spirit retreated into the oldest tree in the forest seeping into its roots and screaming through the tips of its highest branches.
Townspeople warned passersby to leave The Watcher alone at dusk. ‘It’s not the tree that’s looking at you,’ they said. ‘It’s what’s in it.’
One cold October night, hikers decided to put the legend to the test. They’d heard the stories and scoffed at them, a foolish rube’s superstition they told themselves. Heedless of the warnings, they explored the forest, following the knotted trail until it led them to The Watcher.
As they walked, the woods seem to grow strangely quiet. The chill wind that had been snapping and mocking in the treetops went unexpectedly calm. Here, at The Watcher, the dark hollow eyes seemed to gaze outward, as if expecting their arrival.
James, the lead hiker, laughed and stepped closer. “C’mon—,”he started to say, but his sentence was never finished. He stumbled forward, pressing his hand flat against the tree. In that instant, an unseen weight settled over them, dark and oppressive. The hollow eyes of the tree seemed to stir, and the ground beneath their feet shivered like the waking-breath of a great creature. "Run..." the voice hissed, low and venomous, like a predator toying with its prey. "Before I consume you."
The group froze and looked around uneasily. ‘Did you hear that?’ asked Tracy. Her question was barely a whisper. ‘Yes,’ the others nodded and took a step back from the tree. ‘No,’ said James. He had seen movies like this. He knew the legend had to be a lie.
‘It is the wind,’ he insisted but his voice faltered. He turned to the tree cringing and gestured to his friends. ‘See? There is–.’
Just as James was about to speak, a deep rumble echoed from within the tree. Its hollow, gaping mouth twisted, the bark creaking as if it might snap. "Get out..." the voice snarled, dripping with malice, each word a dark promise of unspeakable horrors lurking just beneath the surface. It wasn't a warning—it was a threat.
The earth near his feet parted. The roots heaved and twisted. Faster than a heartbeat and too quick for the eye to follow, James was pulled shoulder deep into the earth. Saved from being completely swallowed by the pack he was carrying. His friends screamed and rushed forward, Tracy reached for him, but the roots coiled tighter, dragging him mercilessly toward the gaping hollow. The trunk yawned wider, its dark maw seeming to stretch unnaturally, like a beast preparing to swallow him whole.
"Help me!" James screamed, his fingers clawing frantically at the earth, but it was already too late. The Watcher’s gaping mouth slammed shut with a deafening crack, engulfing his flailing hands. With a final, bone-chilling clink of teeth—or wood—snapping shut; James was swallowed into the suffocating darkness.
The forest fell silent once more.
The remaining hikers, gripped by terror and disbelief, bolted from the woods, abandoning their friend to the shadows. But even as they ran, the memory of The Watcher’s hollow, unblinking eyes lingered, trailing them through the trees. They would be forever haunted by that night.
Even now, townsfolk say that if you wander too close to The Watcher, you can still hear the faint, desperate whispers of its long-lost victims. And when the howling wind dies for just a breath, you’ll hear James, his voice clear and trembling, calling out from the endless dark of its gaping maw.
But no one who hears the voice ever dares to return. The Watcher waits, its hollow eyes ever watchful, its mouth forever agape, hungry for the next soul foolish enough to stray too close.
While hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, I came across this tree with a face carved into it by woodpeckers or maybe some other wildlife. The “eyes” and “mouth” looked so distinct that it gave me chills, almost like the tree was watching me.
That moment set my imagination spinning, and I came up with The Watcher, a fictional story about a vengeful forest spirit trapped inside an ancient tree. In the story, the tree becomes a sinister presence, waiting for anyone foolish enough to get too close. It’s all made up, of course, but the eerie “face” on that tree was all it took to inspire this dark legend!
