The old men at the tavern never laughed when they spoke of the meadow. They only drank deeper, eyes drifting toward the pine-rimmed horizon, as though the forest itself were eavesdropping. Tourists came and went, some for the hiking trails, others for the clean air and the silence.
But those who stayed longer, those who asked questions about the strange opening in the forest, were met with one sentence, always the same:
"Avoid the meadow."
No signs warned of it. No paths pointed that way. Yet somehow, every few years, someone wandered in. Some said it was children who drew them, giggling, playful, just out of sight, their voices flitting through the trees like birdsong. Others claimed it was a woman singing, soft and sad. But all agreed: the moment you stepped into the clearing, the laughter stopped.
And the forest never gave you back.
Locals said the trees shifted overnight, paths twisted. Compasses spun. One man swore the air grew warmer the closer he got to the centre, a sticky heat that clung to the skin even in winter. He turned back, trembling. He was one of the few who had heard the laughter and lived.
They called him 'Half-Taken'. He never slept without lights after that.
But for every one like him, there were more who vanished without a trace. Hikers. Campers. A botanist from Liège. A pair of honeymooners who strayed off the trail. Every time, the search parties would form, led by dogs and men with radios. They'd comb the woods for days. And always, they'd stop at the edge of the meadow.
No one crossed it.
Not since '79, when Old Gérard went in with a rope tied to his waist and four men holding the other end. They said he reached the centre. Said he knelt there, arms slack at his sides, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Said the rope went taut and began to fray, slowly, like something was sawing through it, fibre by fibre.