The Story of the Woodsman’s Axe

Under a sky heavy with stars, deep in the shadowy heart of Camp Hollow, a group of scouts huddled close around a crackling campfire. The flames flickered and danced, casting long, eerie shadows against the trees. Their Scoutmaster, a man with a face weathered by years of wilderness, stood by the fire, his voice low and foreboding as he pointed to an old, rusted axe leaning ominously against a nearby tree.

“That axe,” he began, “once belonged to the Woodsman of these very woods.”

The scouts exchanged uneasy glances as the Scoutmaster’s story unfurled. Many years ago, he said, there was a man who lived in these forests, a woodsman who was as much a part of the land as the trees themselves. The woods had provided everything he needed: food, shelter, and peace. But one harsh winter, a famine struck. The forest grew silent, barren, as if the life had been drained from it. The woodsman’s family, too, was not spared. One by one, his wife and children succumbed to hunger, their bodies wasting away in front of him while the unforgiving winter raged on.

With a heart torn to pieces, the woodsman buried his family in a secluded cemetery, deep in the darkest part of the forest where the sun never touched the ground. He made a vow to watch over their graves, to ensure that their rest would remain undisturbed for all eternity. But as grief festered within him, the woodsman became a ghost of the man he once was, wandering aimlessly through the woods, his sorrow turning to a quiet, simmering rage.

One night, years later, a group of campers, ignorant of the sacred ground they had pitched their tents on, desecrated the burial site. They lit fires, trampled the earth, and laughed as they told stories, oblivious to the restless spirit they had awakened. But the woodsman had not forgotten his vow. His fury, long dormant, ignited like a flame, and he took up his old, trusted axe—now a symbol of his wrath—and set off into the night to hunt those who had disrespected his family’s final resting place.

The Scoutmaster’s voice dropped to a whisper as he described how the woodsman moved like a shadow, silent and unseen, through the trees. The campers, once full of laughter and bravado, soon found the air around them growing cold, the fire flickering strangely, and the sounds of the forest falling to an eerie silence. It wasn’t long before they realized they were not alone.

From the darkness came the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps, the crunch of leaves underfoot, followed by the rhythmic, menacing sound of an axe dragging along the ground. Panic set in, and the campers fled in all directions, their screams echoing through the trees. But no matter how fast they ran, the woodsman was always behind them—stalking them, hunting them.

By dawn, the campsite was abandoned, the tents torn and scattered. The only thing that remained was the smoldering remains of their fire and an overwhelming sense of dread. The campers were never seen again, swallowed by the forest, claimed by the woodsman’s vengeance.

The Scoutmaster paused, letting the silence fall heavy over the group. The flames from the campfire sputtered as if struggling against the growing tension in the air.

“Some say,” he continued in a voice barely above a whisper, “that the Woodsman still roams these woods, waiting for the next fool to disturb the peace of his family’s grave. And if you listen closely on a quiet night like tonight, you can hear the faint sound of his axe, cutting through the silence…”

As if on cue, a sudden, sharp ‘chop’ rang out through the stillness of the forest. The scouts jumped, eyes wide with terror, their hearts pounding in their chests. A cold breeze swept through the clearing, making the flames flicker wildly. Then came another sound—a distant, blood-curdling scream that seemed to reverberate through the trees, freezing the blood in their veins.

The Scoutmaster turned slowly toward the axe by the tree—but it was gone.

The scouts’ eyes darted around the darkened woods, the trees now looming larger, their branches curling like skeletal hands reaching out from the night. The fire dimmed, casting an eerie glow on their terrified faces. Their breaths came in shallow, quick gasps as they realized the tale might be more than just a ghost story.

Somewhere in the distance, the steady sound of chopping wood echoed again. This time, it was closer. The story of the Woodsman’s Axe wasn’t a legend—it was a warning. And now, it seemed the Woodsman had returned.