They called it the world's most haunted forest, the second deadliest next to Aokigahara. There were no suicides in Grittlecot, every death was somehow ruled as accidental and politely ignored by anyone who was unaffected by the loss of the presently deceased.
Bodies were found in the central lake trapped between moss covered rocks that were always too slippery to go close to yet somehow even the most experienced locals had been found floating there in a puddle of their own bodily fluids and lake water. This was, of course, an accident and not at all caused by the witches who had been drowned there almost three hundred and thirty years ago.
Children would go there to climb the witch trees and never come back, their little blue hands clutching at the ivy that had somehow wrapped itself around their necks as they slipped and fell from the branches to their deaths. This too was an accident, everyone knows ghosts aren't real and the thought of one being able to wrap a vine into a near perfect noose it preposterous.
The occasional family would visit the woods with a picnic, hoping to offer food to the more active death zones (as they had so kindly been dubbed) and never coming back together. The forest of Grittlecot was one of the few areas of England where Cortinarius Orellanus (or Fools Webcap) is most heavily concentrated. The chances of a few spores slipping into a drink, getting caught on your lip or your hand were apparently high enough that whole families had been found poisoned on their tartan blankets, surrounded by cold tea and spore-ridden sandwiches. This was an act of nature, not supernatural in the slightest.
And finally, no death in the forest of Grittlecot had anything at all to do with an old man who lived in an old army bunker hidden beneath a moss smothered tree stump. Even though he'd been declared dead some forty years ago and hated the thought of encountering another living being anywhere within his personal solitude,it couldn't have been him to cause so many deaths.
Surely not?
Bodies were found in the central lake trapped between moss covered rocks that were always too slippery to go close to yet somehow even the most experienced locals had been found floating there in a puddle of their own bodily fluids and lake water. This was, of course, an accident and not at all caused by the witches who had been drowned there almost three hundred and thirty years ago.
Children would go there to climb the witch trees and never come back, their little blue hands clutching at the ivy that had somehow wrapped itself around their necks as they slipped and fell from the branches to their deaths. This too was an accident, everyone knows ghosts aren't real and the thought of one being able to wrap a vine into a near perfect noose it preposterous.
The occasional family would visit the woods with a picnic, hoping to offer food to the more active death zones (as they had so kindly been dubbed) and never coming back together. The forest of Grittlecot was one of the few areas of England where Cortinarius Orellanus (or Fools Webcap) is most heavily concentrated. The chances of a few spores slipping into a drink, getting caught on your lip or your hand were apparently high enough that whole families had been found poisoned on their tartan blankets, surrounded by cold tea and spore-ridden sandwiches. This was an act of nature, not supernatural in the slightest.
And finally, no death in the forest of Grittlecot had anything at all to do with an old man who lived in an old army bunker hidden beneath a moss smothered tree stump. Even though he'd been declared dead some forty years ago and hated the thought of encountering another living being anywhere within his personal solitude,it couldn't have been him to cause so many deaths.
Surely not?
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