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The woods had always been my sanctuary. Growing up in the quiet countryside, I knew every trail, every hidden nook, every whisper of wind that danced through the trees. When life overwhelmed me, when sorrow or frustration threatened to drown me, I'd retreat into those woods. They had a way of grounding me, of making me feel small in the face of something much larger, something eternal. The trees stood as silent guardians, their leaves whispering secrets I could never quite understand, yet somehow felt comforted by.

But everything changed two years ago. It was the night that my world shattered - the night Angela was taken from me. Angela. My wife. My best friend. My reason for waking up every morning. Her laugh, her smile, the way she'd brush her hair back when she was deep in thought. Her voice - soft, warm, like a soothing balm. When she died in that car accident on a rainy night, I lost everything. My grief spiraled into a black abyss, and I fell into a deep, unrelenting depression.

For six months, I drowned myself in alcohol, every day a blur of whiskey, regret, and broken dreams. I knew I had to stop, had to find some way to heal, to forget. But I couldn't. The pain clung to me like a second skin. It was then I decided to escape - escape the memories, the grief, the hollow emptiness that gnawed at my soul. That's when I packed my camping gear and headed into the woods, hoping solitude and nature could somehow mend what was broken inside me.

The first night was pure hell. Sleep was impossible. I was restless, aching for a drink, haunted by memories of Angela, the nights we spent together, the future we'd planned. I sat by the campfire, sipping bitter coffee, smoking cigarettes, trying to silence the ache inside. I stared into the flames, wishing I could forget everything, wishing I could find peace.

But on the second night, something changed.

It was late. The woods were alive with a symphony of sounds - crickets, distant hoots of owls, the rustling of leaves. I was lying in my tent, curled up in my sleeping bag, trying to sleep, when I heard her voice. Soft, familiar, calling my name.

"Jim?"

My heart stopped. My blood ran cold. I sat bolt upright, clutching my flashlight, my pulse pounding so loudly I thought it might burst out of my chest. That voice - it was her. Angela's voice - calling from the darkness beyond the fabric of my tent.

I froze, trembling, staring at the thin, crinkled nylon walls. I told myself it was the effects of withdrawal, hallucinations brought on by grief and exhaustion. But deep down, I knew better.

"Jim?," the voice called again, clearer this time, almost urgent.

I stayed perfectly still, listening intently, as I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps - soft, deliberate, circling my tent. The sound was strange - almost unnatural, like leaves crunching under heavy weight, but without the usual rustling. Then I heard her voice again, this time a whisper - so faint, yet unmistakable:

"Come out, Jim? I'm waiting."

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Fear gripped me, icy and unrelenting. I wanted to scream, to run, to hide. But I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a primal terror I'd never known before. Something in that voice - so familiar, yet distorted - made me feel like I was caught in a nightmare I couldn't wake from.

Suddenly, I heard something crawling around the outside of my tent. The sound was hideous - like walnuts cracking open in slow, uneven bursts, the sickening sound echoing through the night. My stomach clenched. My hands trembled as I gripped my knife tightly, knuckles white, heart hammering in my chest.

Then I heard her voice again, louder, more insistent - almost desperate:

"Come out, Jim. See me. I'm right here."

I didn't want to believe it. I refused to believe it. But I knew, instinctively, that this wasn't her. It couldn't be.

A surge of primal instinct took over. Summoning every ounce of courage I had left, I reached out and grabbed the zipper's edge. With a swift, desperate motion, I yanked it open.

As the fabric parted, I looked up - and I saw her. Or what I thought was her. But it wasn't her. It was something trying to look like her, something twisted and grotesque.

My fear turned into rage. I wanted to destroy it. How dare it pretend to be my Angela? With a voice thick with fury, I shouted, "How dare you try to look like my Angie!"

The creature didn't care. It had an evil laugh - low, guttural, filled with malice. It was as if the very sound of it was designed to make my blood run cold.

What I saw was a creature trying to mimic Angie, but something was terribly wrong. Her head was twisted at an unnatural angle, her face contorted into a crooked, grotesque smile. Only one eye looked at me - the other was a deep, dark socket, empty and hollow. Her hair was uneven - one side long and flowing, the other completely bald and matted. Her skin looked pallid, almost translucent, like a corpse stretched thin over a skeleton. Her movements were sluggish yet jerky, as if her bones were cracking with every step.

The smell hit me then - a sickening, rotting stench, like death itself had seeped into the air. Her voice, though eerily similar to Angela's, sounded hollow and cracked, like a record skipping.

"Jim? come out and see," she rasped, her voice distorted and unnatural.

I took a step back, trembling, trying to keep my composure. My mind screamed at me to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there.

"You're not my wife," I managed to say, voice trembling. "You're not Angie. What are you?"

The creature's crooked smile stretched wider, revealing jagged, rotten teeth. It tried to look at me directly, but its head kept tilting and twisting, eyes darting erratically.

It was like staring into the face of pure evil, a nightmare made flesh - a thing that should not exist in this world.

Without thinking, I turned and ran, with everything I had. I abandoned my tent, my gear, everything behind me. I crashed through the underbrush, stumbling over roots and fallen branches, my heart pounding in my ears. I didn't stop until I reached the safety of my cabin, where I slammed the door shut and locked it tight.

In the days that followed, I couldn't shake the image of that creature. It haunted my every waking moment. Sleep was impossible. I kept seeing her face - twisted, grotesque, mocking me. I became paranoid, constantly looking over my shoulder, convinced it was still out there, waiting.

Eventually, I left the woods altogether. I moved out of the country, away from everything that reminded me of that terrible encounter. I started a new life - got a new job, found new friends, even tried to forget. But the memories lingered, insidious and unrelenting.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if that thing is still out there - lurking, waiting, trying to look like my wife, Angela. I still hear her voice sometimes. Not in dreams, but in the silence of the night. Whispering. Calling my name.

A few days ago, desperate for answers, I went online. I read everything I could find about creatures that mimic loved ones - about mythic beings called skinwalkers, shapeshifters, entities that can take the form of animals or people, twisting reality into a living nightmare.

And I believe it.

Because I saw it. I saw that twisted, grotesque thing, trying to be her, trying to lure me outside. I know now that the woods hide something sinister - something that preys on grief, loneliness, and despair.

That night in the woods changed me forever. I am no longer the country boy who found solace in nature. Now, I am just haunted by the memory of that twisted face - by the whispering woods that almost claimed me.

And I know, deep down, that it's still out there. Waiting. Watching. Ready to strike again.

Because some things are better left undisturbed, and some shadows are darker than they appear.

And in the woods, they whisper.

Always whispering.

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**The End.**