Dark Wood | A Supernatural Survival Tale From Oregon

The Boy Scout troop entered the forest under a clear sky, the setting sun casting long shadows through the trees. It was supposed to be a warm summer night, perfect for camping in the Oregon wilderness. The troop, led by their scoutmaster, Mr. Harris, had been planning this trip for weeks. Twelve boys, all around fourteen or fifteen, eager for adventure. They pitched their tents near a gentle river, its waters sparkling in the fading daylight. Everything seemed right, like it was going to be the perfect weekend.

But Oregon’s forests had a way of hiding secrets, even from those who thought they knew them well.

As the boys gathered around the campfire, roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories, the first sign of trouble appeared on the horizon. A dark line of clouds, almost invisible against the deepening night sky, began to gather. None of them noticed, their laughter echoing through the woods. Mr. Harris did, though, his eyes narrowing as he glanced up.

“Alright, boys,” he said, standing up and tossing his marshmallow stick into the fire. “We might have some rain tonight. Let’s make sure everything’s tied down tight before we hit the sack.”

The boys groaned but obeyed, securing their tents and gear as the air grew thick and heavy. By the time they finished, the wind had picked up, whispering through the trees like a warning. Still, they crawled into their sleeping bags, thinking nothing of it. They were Scouts, after all. A little rain was nothing they hadn’t dealt with before.

But this was no ordinary storm.

The rain began as a soft patter on the tents, almost soothing. Then it grew, the drops slamming down like stones. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl that crept closer with each passing minute. The river, which had been a quiet companion to their camp, started to rise, its waters churning angrily. Within an hour, it was clear that this wasn’t just a passing shower.

“Everyone up!” Mr. Harris shouted, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. “We need to move to higher ground, now!”

The boys scrambled out of their tents, their gear already soaked. The once calm river was now a beast, spilling over its banks and flooding the campsite. They grabbed what they could and followed Mr. Harris, who led them away from the rising waters and into the dense forest. The trees closed in around them, their trunks like ancient sentinels.

They climbed higher, away from the river, but the storm showed no mercy. Lightning split the sky, revealing a twisted landscape of gnarled roots and dark shadows. The rain blurred everything, turning the ground into a slippery mess. They had no choice but to keep moving, each boy following the one in front, their breaths coming in gasps.

After what felt like hours, they reached a plateau, a flat area where the trees were thicker, their branches weaving together like a dark canopy. The ground was uneven, covered in roots that seemed to pulse with the beat of the storm. The air was heavy, almost suffocating.

“This will have to do,” Mr. Harris said, though there was little confidence in his voice. “We’ll wait out the storm here.”

The boys huddled together, their backs against the massive trees. The wind howled through the branches, and for a moment, it seemed like the worst had passed. But as the minutes dragged on, something changed.

The forest grew still—too still. The rain softened to a drizzle, and the wind quieted, as if the storm was holding its breath. The boys looked around, sensing something was wrong, but unable to pinpoint what.

Then the trees began to move.

At first, it was subtle. A branch here, a root there, shifting as if adjusting to the storm. But soon, the movements became deliberate. Branches reached out, curling like fingers. The ground beneath them trembled, the roots twisting and writhing like serpents. One of the boys, Jason, let out a yelp as something cold wrapped around his ankle.

It was a root, thick and gnarled, coiling up his leg. He kicked at it, but the root tightened its grip, pulling him toward the base of a tree. The other boys stared in horror as more roots emerged from the ground, snaking toward them.

“Run!” Mr. Harris shouted, grabbing Jason and yanking him free. But there was nowhere to run. The trees formed a wall around them, their branches weaving together like a living net. The roots lashed out, grabbing at the boys, pulling some of them off their feet.

One by one, the boys were dragged toward the trees, their screams swallowed by the storm. The roots pulled them into dark pits that opened in the ground, the earth closing over them like a hungry mouth. Mr. Harris fought to keep the boys together, but the forest had other plans.

The trees groaned, their trunks bending as if in pain or hunger. Branches swept down, grabbing at the boys’ clothes, their hair, their skin. The forest was alive, and it wanted them.

Sam, the youngest of the group, tried to climb a tree to escape the roots, but the branches twisted around him, pulling him down. The roots coiled around his arms, his legs, dragging him toward the dark opening at the base of the tree. He screamed for help, but the other boys were too busy fighting their own battles, wrestling with the forest that had turned against them.

Then the river returned.

A wall of water crashed through the trees, surging toward the plateau. The boys barely had time to react before it hit, the force of it knocking them off their feet. The water was dark, filled with debris, and it moved with terrifying speed. Some of the boys were pulled under, their screams silenced as the river swallowed them whole.

The water washed over the plateau, tearing at the trees, breaking their hold on the boys. Some of them were swept away by the current, carried down the slope and into the raging river below. They thrashed and fought, trying to keep their heads above water, but the river was relentless, dragging them toward the Columbia.

The roots and branches tried to hold on, but the river was too strong. It tore the forest apart, uprooting trees, ripping through the earth. The boys who had been trapped by the trees were now at the mercy of the flood, their chances of survival slipping away with the current.

For a few of them, the river offered a grim salvation. They were swept out of the forest and into the open waters of the Columbia River, where they were eventually rescued by a passing boat. Exhausted, terrified, they were pulled from the water, their bodies bruised and battered.

But they were the lucky ones.

As dawn broke over the Oregon wilderness, the forest lay in ruins. The river had receded, leaving behind a landscape of destruction. The trees, once towering and ancient, were broken and twisted, their roots exposed like the limbs of fallen giants. The pits where the boys had been pulled into the earth were now filled with mud and debris, as if the forest was trying to cover its tracks.

The survivors, shaken and silent, could only wonder what had really happened that night. The forest had shown them its true nature, and it was something they would never forget.

The woods are alive, and they are hungry.