Whispers of Moss Bloom
The Elderwood Trail had always been one of the region’s best-kept secrets: winding paths beneath towering oaks, carpeted in emerald moss, dotted with ancient stones carved in forgotten runes. At sunset, the forest glowed amber, and at night, little phosphorescent fungi bathed hidden paths in a spectral light. But no hiker ever expected to find perfect blooms of pastel pink growing out of mossy roots, nor did they imagine those flowers were the calling card of Moss Bloom guardian and jailer of the forest’s deepest heart.
Ellie Hartwell had come in search of solitude. A botanist recovering from heartbreak, she needed a place untouched by human sorrow. She arrived at dusk, following fading trail signs etched into rotting wood. Somewhere near the old chapel ruins, she saw them: clusters of toadstools crowned with spore-dusted caps, and among them, petals so pale they seemed made of moonlight. Each blossom grew at the base of a tree, its stem nestled in moss, as if placed there by delicate hands.
Ellie knelt to examine one flower. Her breath caught at the texture silken, cool, almost sentient. She felt a shiver on her neck, as if the forest itself exhaled. When she looked up, there it stood: a small figure carved from polished mahogany, its hollow eyes black as obsidian. In one stubby arm it held a tight knot of red-capped mushrooms, roots wrapped in vibrant moss; at its feet lay a single pale blossom. Ellie held her hand out, but the wooden ghost Moss Bloom remained motionless, silent as stone.
The wind rustled overhead. Ellie felt drawn forward, curiosity mingling with unease. Moss Bloom’s matte surface reflected the moonlight, giving the illusion of breath. Ellie rose, heart hammering, and stepped past a line of toadstools that formed a natural path. The air turned thick with damp earth and faint, sweet perfume. Birds fell silent. Ahead lay a hollow ring of ancient oaks whose trunks arched inward like a cathedral. Petals drifted through the air in slow spirals, carpeting the ground in pale pink.
Ellie’s flashlight beam danced across the inner clearing. In its center, a stone basin lined with moss brimmed with water so still it mirrored the stars. Moss Bloom appeared at its edge, silent sentinel. Ellie glimpsed movement in the basin tiny ripples that spelled out words in mossy foam: “Blessed Offerings.” She swallowed hard, voice trembling as she asked, “What do you want?” No answer came, only the steady pull of those black eyes. Against every instinct, Ellie stepped closer.
As her foot touched the moss, the toadstools glowed with phosphorescence. Their caps opened to reveal shimmering spores that drifted upward like fireflies. Ellie reached out to touch one but a sudden gust scattered petals across her face. The basin’s water shimmered, and from its depths emerged a pale hand clad in bark. Moss Bloom lowered its mushrooms into the basin, and ripples turned to spirals that pulsed with light. Ellie realized with a jolt: the ghost was feeding the forest’s magic.
Drawn by fascination and fear, Ellie knelt beside the basin. The air thrummed with energy as spores coalesced above the water, forming spectral shapes of ferns, vines, and tiny woodland creatures. Moss Bloom extended its free hand in a silent invitation. Ellie hesitated—then placed her palm on the wooden wrist. A surge of warmth flooded her veins, and whispers filled her mind: voices of travelers lost, leaves unfallen, roots unwoken. The forest offered her a gift and asked for a price.
Ellie staggered back, heart racing. She could feel the spores weaving through her thoughts, promising clarity, healing, connection. Behind her, a fallen log sprouted blossoms in real time, and mushrooms unfurled like velvet. Moss Bloom rocked forward as if urging her on. In that moment, Ellie understood the legend: those who followed Moss Bloom’s offerings found enlightenment, yes but their souls became part of the forest’s endless tapestry. To gain peace, one surrendered self.
Fear flared. Ellie stumbled toward the path she’d come. The toadstools blinked and bowed, creating a tunnel of fungus that guided her back. Moss Bloom’s wooden form drifted alongside, silent but watchful. Petals swirled at her feet, beckoning. Ellie’s lungs burned for air beyond the glade; the forest whispered of eternity. She broke into a run, tearing through ferns and brambles, guided by shard of moonlight. Behind her, a soft crash of wood on stone marked Moss Bloom’s disappointment.
Ellie burst from the tree line into the empty meadow where the old chapel stood. The ghostly glow faded behind her; toadstools and petals vanished, as if never there. She pressed trembling hands to her chest, gasping for breath. Above, the stars pulsed once then dimmed. In her palm she found a single pink petal, limp but real. She slipped it into her journal, tears mingling with rain that began to patter from a clouded sky.
Back home, Ellie pressed the petal between book pages. Her heartbreak eased, dreams grew vivid with images of mossy grottos and whispering trees but every morning she awoke human, unchanged. Yet sometimes, late at night, she heard the forest’s call: faint footsteps on damp earth, petals drifting through her window. She knew Moss Bloom watched, waiting for the next traveler brave or foolish enough to follow the gifts into the woods.
And the Elderwood remains, its secrets safe beneath layers of moss and bloom. On full-moon nights, hikers still report finding perfect pink flowers at the trail’s edge an unspoken invitation to step beyond the path. Those who accept find wonders and terrors in equal measure: whispered wisdom, healing spores, and the promise of becoming part of the forest forever. Moss Bloom’s wooden form may vanish at dawn, but her offerings endure, blooming for the next soul in need…or the next to disappear.
