Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition Chapter 1147: Story 1147: The Beast Who Remembers

Chapter 1147: Story 1147: The Beast Who Rembers

They called it the Cairn Beast—a legend among hunters, whispered of in ale-soaked taverns and scrawled into the margins of bloodstained journals. Tall as two n, draped in hide and moss, its eyes glowed like amber coals, and its claws left gouges in stone. But it wasn’t the teeth or the strength that made it feared.

It was its mory.

It rembered everything.

Thorne Grayson didn’t believe in tales. He was a trapper, seasoned and scarred, with no room in his life for superstition. But when his younger brother disappeared near the ruins of Old Halverick, he ca anyway—rifle in hand, jaw set with grief.

The ruins were quiet. Overgrown. A cairn stood at the center—a mound of mossy stones, undisturbed for centuries.

And then the carvings caught his eye.

Not ancient runes, but nas. Hundreds of them. Scrawled in rough letters across stones.

He ran his fingers across one: “LINA GREYSON.”

His mother.

Below it, half-buried under fallen leaves, another na: “WILFRED GREYSON.” His father.

Then one more. Freshly scratched, still red with blood.

“CAL GREYSON.”

His brother.

Thorne staggered back, heart pounding. “Who did this?”

From the woods ca a slow, dragging breath.

The beast erged not with fury, but with deliberation. Its shoulders were broad, fur streaked with ash and bone. Antlers grew like twisted branches from its head, and its eyes—those damnable eyes—fixed on him with sorrow.

“You carry a na without weight,” it growled.

Thorne raised the rifle. “You killed them.”

“I rember them,” the beast said. “I rember all who take. All who forget. Your line salted sacred roots. Hunted suckling beasts. Burned shrines buried beneath the moss.”

The words cut deeper than the claws ever could.

Thorne faltered. “That… that was years ago. We didn’t know.”

“I know,” it said. “I rember.”

It pointed a claw to the cairn.

“Nas of the guilty. Rembered forever. Their blood soaked these woods. And still it grows.”

The wind howled through the stones.

Thorne lowered the gun. “What do you want from ?”

“To choose,” the beast rumbled. “Forget like the others… or rember, and carry the weight.”

A stone rose from the cairn, hovering before him.

Blank.

Waiting.

Thorne reached out, fingers trembling, and carved his na with the barrel of the rifle.

The beast bowed.

And then, it vanished.

No flash. No scream. Just stillness.

Thorne returned to the village weeks later. He sold his traps. Burned his rifle. Beca a guide, warning all who dared approach Moonwood’s edge.

“Don’t cut where it bleeds green,” he would say. “Don’t take what grows alone. And never, ever forget.”

Because in the deep of night, when the mist rolled in low, he would sotis feel those amber eyes on him.

Watching.

Rembering.

The woods do not forgive.

But they rember.