Woodborer

"He did not come. He was always inside you."

It is said that every fear has its own scent. This one's is the aroma of wet graveyard soil, fallen pine needles, and fermented wild berries. You will not meet it in the forest; it needs no fangs or claws. Its home is the human mind, its hands are gnarled roots that enter beneath the skin precisely like needles. It does not kill quickly. It seeks out the happy — those who have something to lose — and feeds on their terror to the last drop. The previous victim escaped by chopping off her own hand. But the Woodborer is not one to stay hungry for long. It has already found new soil. And this story will begin when a mark suddenly appears on your wrist — exactly like the annual rings on a cross-section of a tree.

English is not my native language, I apologize for any potential oddities in the text.

Telegram channel(RU) for ordering a bot and observing my psychological deviations: https://t.me/kefir_cai