THE TREE TERROR! 🌴

As I stepped into the dense forest, the crunch of leaves beneath my feet echoed through the silence. The trees seemed to close in around me, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to entangle me. I’d always been drawn to the mysteries of nature, but nothing could have prepared me for the terror that awaited me in this place.

I’m Rohan, a botanist. For months, I’d been studying the unique plants of these woods, but one, in particular, had captured my attention—a rare, ancient species known only as “Kalindi.” The legends surrounding Kalindi spoke of its powers, beyond anything modern science could explain. And I was determined to uncover its secrets.

The deeper I went, the thicker the air became, weighed down with a pungent, earthy scent. That’s when I saw it: a patch of Kalindi plants, their leaves a deep, blood-red color that seemed to pulse with life. I approached cautiously, heart hammering in my chest.

A gust of wind swept through the trees, and I heard it—a soft, raspy whisper, like a voice speaking a language I couldn’t comprehend. Then, the voice shifted, becoming clearer, more sinister. It spoke a single word: “Welcome.”

I spun around, my breath catching in my throat, but no one was there. The voice seemed to echo from every direction, bouncing off the trees. Fear gripped me, but something—curiosity, maybe—kept me rooted to the spot.

And then, I felt it. A gentle pressure on my arm. I looked down to see a tendril from one of the Kalindi plants coiling around my wrist. It was warm, alive in a way that felt… wrong. I tried to pull away, but it held fast.

"Let go," I whispered, forcing my voice to stay steady.

The tendril tightened, pulling me closer to the plant. I could feel its leaves brushing against my face, soft but deceiving. The voice came again, this time in Hindi: “Tum ab humare ho.” You are now ours.

As I struggled, the forest around me began to twist and warp. The trees contorted, their branches stretching like snakes, reaching toward me. The sky darkened, and a coldness settled over everything.

Then, everything went black.

When I regained consciousness, I was lying on the forest floor, my head pounding. The Kalindi plants were still there, but they’d moved closer, their leaves now a sickly shade of green. The voice was silent, but I knew I wasn’t alone.

I staggered to my feet and froze, blood running cold in my veins. On the nearest tree trunk, scrawled in what looked like blood, was a message: “Rohan, tum ab humare gulaam ho.” Rohan, you are now our plant.

I turned to flee, but my feet felt heavy, like roots were growing into the earth, anchoring me in place. The plants seemed to watch, waiting, as though anticipating the moment when I would fully join them.

Then, it began. A creeping sensation spread from my limbs, a strange itching and prickling under my skin. My fingers, my toes—they began to lengthen, shifting, turning into branches.

I was becoming one of them.

As the transformation spread, the horror of it all finally sank in. I might never escape the grip of this cursed place. The last thing I heard was the voice, soft and unyielding: “Ab tum humare saath hamesha rahoge.” Now, you will be with us forever.

And then, everything went black again.

But this time, when darkness took me, I didn’t wake up—at least, not as myself.