The small town of Pinegrove was tucked deep within the whispering woods, surrounded by pine trees that never stopped swaying, even when there was no wind. A place where birds used to sing, now only echoed with a silence that pressed heavy on the chest.
Nobody really visited Pinegrove anymore, and those who lived there barely left. They remembered the stories—passed down from older generations, half-whispered warnings about an old logging site deep in the woods. A place where a bird once laughed too loud.
It started with the trees.
For weeks, strange markings appeared on trunks throughout the forest. Jagged, spiral-shaped holes in unnatural patterns—like some wild animal had been hammering its beak into the bark. But no woodpeckers lived in Pinegrove anymore. They had disappeared years ago.
All except one.
They said he was born from the forest itself. A twisted, vengeful spirit wearing the skin of a bird—blue feathers, red crest, and a smile too wide to be kind. His laugh echoed through the woods, a screeching, maniacal cackle that curdled blood and shattered silence.
Teenagers dared each other to go to the edge of the woods and listen. If you heard the laugh, you’d be cursed. And if you laughed back? You’d be found the next day, face frozen in a contorted grin, holes burrowed into your chest—like a beak had tried to drill straight through your heart.
They called him: Woody.
Not the cheerful cartoon. Not anymore.
Anna was a journalist who didn’t believe in ghost stories. After all, she’d grown up in the city, where danger came with sharp edges and statistics, not legends. But after hearing rumors of disappearances in Pinegrove, she took a train out to investigate. Her plan: document the hysteria, expose the hoaxes, and maybe win a few awards.
The town was quiet when she arrived, quieter than she’d expected. The streets were nearly empty, shops shuttered, and the only hotel had a single dusty room available.
“You here to write about the Screech?” the old woman behind the desk asked, sliding the room key across the counter.
“I’m here to write about whatever’s keeping this place so scared,” Anna replied.
“Then you’ll write about him. And he’ll find you.”
Anna chuckled politely, but the woman didn’t smile. She just raised a gnarled hand and pointed toward the trees.
“He’s listening.”
That night, Anna reviewed old police reports. Most of them were vague—missing persons, abandoned vehicles, hikers never found. But she noticed a pattern: the deeper into the forest they went, the faster they vanished.
Then she found something peculiar: a photograph taken by a drone camera over the forest canopy. In the lower corner, almost obscured by shadow, was a flash of red and blue. And eyes. Glowing, yellow eyes staring directly into the lens.
She zoomed in until the pixels blurred—but the smile remained. Sharp. Inhuman.
Anna decided to hike into the forest the next day.
It began well enough. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and the dirt path seemed harmless. She passed the rusted remains of an old logging cart and a few broken branches, all normal signs of nature reclaiming industry.
But then the sounds stopped.
No birds.
No insects.
Only wind whispering in circles.
Anna checked her phone—no signal. Her compass needle spun erratically.
Then she heard it: the laugh.
High-pitched. Metallic. As if scratched into her eardrums.
“Ha-ha-ha-HAAA-ha!”
She froze.
The sound didn’t echo like a normal laugh—it tunneled into her skull, vibrating behind her eyes. She turned and saw nothing. But a tree behind her had a fresh hole. It hadn’t been there before.
She turned back around.
Another laugh.
Now it was closer.
Then she saw it—perched on a branch just twenty feet away. Its head tilted unnaturally, neck twitching in bursts. It had a beak, but it wasn’t made of bone. It looked like rusted metal—razor-sharp. Its red feathers were matted, and blood dripped from its wingtips.
Its smile spread further than any bird’s could. Ear to ear.
“Ha-ha-ha-HAAA-ha!”
Anna ran.
Branches whipped her face, thorns tore at her clothes. The laugh chased her, bouncing from tree to tree. She didn’t look back, not even when something grazed her shoulder—a cold, splintering touch.
She burst into a clearing and fell to her knees. Before her stood a totem pole made of bones—human bones. Stacked and drilled through, each skull wearing a carved, grotesque grin. And atop the pole… was a blue feather.
She screamed.
Anna awoke in the old hotel bed, drenched in sweat. Was it a dream?
No.
Her shoulder throbbed, and when she pulled back her shirt, there was a puncture wound. A perfect, spiral-shaped hole.
She left town that morning.
But she took the story with her.
The article went viral. Anna described her experience in chilling detail, though she left out the photos she’d taken. None had developed. All came back black except for one—an image of trees with a single glowing eye in the center.
People flocked to Pinegrove. Paranormal investigators. Curious influencers. Even horror fans.
Some never returned.
Some did—but changed.
They laughed at everything.
They couldn’t stop.
Their faces twisted into wide, painful grins. Doctors couldn’t explain it. Therapists failed. Eventually, they stopped speaking altogether—only laughing, and scratching tree trunks.
Always in spirals.
Anna moved far away. She changed her name. But the laugh followed her.
It came in dreams at first.
Then, on radio static.
Then, behind her when she brushed her teeth.
She tried to ignore it, but it never left. And then one morning, she woke to find a hole drilled into her headboard. A perfect spiral.
A single blue feather sat beside it.
She knew then: the Screech never lets you go.
If you hear it, you carry it.
Now she laughs too.
And deep in the woods, the Screech waits.
A creature of metal, feathers, and madness.
Woody.
Not the cartoon.
Not anymore.
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