The town of Drechmere was slowly being swallowed by the forest and nobody could do anything to stop it. They'd tried everything they could think of - from axe to chainsaw to fire to hell with the damned place that seems intent on burying them all in moss.
By the mid 1960s Drechmere's last inhabitant had left and with a final glance behind he saw the forest creep over his home, formerly the last on its outskirts and now another pile of broken stones to be forgotten. A part of him wondered if it would continue to spread, to devour the road and the river and the neighbouring towns.
A crueller part of him said it wasn't his problem, he no longer lived there and once he reached his new home in the city he could forget all about Drechmere and the wandering moss-smothered scarecrows that patrolled the old homes within the forest's boundaries.
They wore the clothes the townsfolk left behind. It made sense, after all when one wakes up to find their windows blocked by leaves and their front door wide open, packing isn't as much of a concern as running to the a safer house is.
Sometimes they even made it past the trees. Not often but often enough that nobody ruled it out as an option, should the worst come to pass and they awoke to scarecrows peering over their bedside. Everybody had seen them, most up close too, but not a single soul could draw their faces or even remember their eye colour.
And so as the last resident's car passed out of sight, the forest of Drechmere seemed to stretch out after him. The scarecrows lingered at the utmost edges, still sheltered under the boughs but able to see the road crack as roots grew through it.
The forest would find a new town.
It always did.
By the mid 1960s Drechmere's last inhabitant had left and with a final glance behind he saw the forest creep over his home, formerly the last on its outskirts and now another pile of broken stones to be forgotten. A part of him wondered if it would continue to spread, to devour the road and the river and the neighbouring towns.
A crueller part of him said it wasn't his problem, he no longer lived there and once he reached his new home in the city he could forget all about Drechmere and the wandering moss-smothered scarecrows that patrolled the old homes within the forest's boundaries.
They wore the clothes the townsfolk left behind. It made sense, after all when one wakes up to find their windows blocked by leaves and their front door wide open, packing isn't as much of a concern as running to the a safer house is.
Sometimes they even made it past the trees. Not often but often enough that nobody ruled it out as an option, should the worst come to pass and they awoke to scarecrows peering over their bedside. Everybody had seen them, most up close too, but not a single soul could draw their faces or even remember their eye colour.
And so as the last resident's car passed out of sight, the forest of Drechmere seemed to stretch out after him. The scarecrows lingered at the utmost edges, still sheltered under the boughs but able to see the road crack as roots grew through it.
The forest would find a new town.
It always did.
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