Vines crisscrossed along the stony wall, intersecting each other and creating a mesh of tangled leaves and thorns. They reached far up above the wall, creating a viridian labyrinth. They coiled around and clung to each other, pushing high above. Masses of thin, olive-green leaves grew on them. Their fine veins were hardly visible to a good eye, and they created a canopy that left no trace left behind of the stone wall the twines clung to desperately. They snaked into the wall and entered its mild fractures, creating unseen ruptures that eventually left a crumbling wall covered in the densest of foliage.
In the blink of an eye, fresh, olive-green leaves emerged, and while it truly was a wonder, the twines could not be stopped. They began to grow over the wall and beyond it. They intersected trees, and cutting them would do no harm, as new stems would grow back within hours— stronger— almost as if to spite one’s efforts. They would go right through other plants and barriers; there was no obstacle they could not conquer. The wall crumbled down, leaving fragments of broken stones scattered on the ground. The vines had enough support by the time the wall came down, leaving a high green wall that stretched several meters high and grew taller with every passing day.
Often when people attempted to trim it back, they found that vines had crept around them, and leaves that were never there before had sprouted out of seemingly nowhere. The vines seemed to grow endlessly: endlessly to the point where no one was quite sure where they began and where they ended.
Then came the flowers: translucent, pointed-white blooms with the thinnest of petals. They only opened at night and by the morning they had fallen away to the forest floor. White blooms covered the vines, drenching the forest in a fragrant, almost too-sweet smell.
It had been a week since the blooms began when the first person went missing by the vines, last seen hacking away at them to no avail. Before then, it had simply been a fable that it would not be wise to step too close, else one may find themselves ensnared by the twists and turns of the maze. Upon combing back the thick stems and dense foliage, occasionally something would be found: a dead insect that missed its chance to escape and caught by the vines, dead leaves obscured from the sunlight, or perhaps even an object carelessly left behind. As evening came and the sun fell below the horizon that day, an eerie silence passed through the forest. The flowers bloomed innocuously, continuing on with life, but the person never came back. They found the corpse a week later, embedded in layers of vines and with coils that wrapped around the bare bones. The incident was only the first.
After that came a renewed effort to kill the vines. No matter what we did, it would never admit defeat. Acids and poisons devastated the ground below them, but if anything, spiked the vines’ wrath. They grew stronger, more fiercely, almost in retaliation. We tried to burn them, but while the leaves burnt away, the stems remained hardy and replaced the leaves in moments. It fueled the fire until we doused it. By the time that incident was over, several had gotten injured in the chaos and flames, and the village went back to deliberation. In the meantime, everyone kept cautious at all times. No one would cut away at the vines-- snaking into their backyards, grazing the window ledge, or curling around a fence-- alone. Children would never play around them and no one would risk a mere step into a coil that would silently wrap around an unsuspecting leg.
However, while we stayed inside, the intoxicatingly sweet scent of the flowers lured a few outsiders too close. Despite efforts to warn those who wandered to our remote village, travelers would often stumble across the vines and after several hours of struggling, free themselves from the tangles, if they were lucky. They shared their harrowing tales wherever they roamed; whispers of close encounters to death after surviving the vines drifted through households. Monsters no longer lurked under childrens’ beds anymore: there were tendrils now. People would take the long way to town to avoid passing underneath the vines, as they created an obstacle between our village and the nearby town. They twisted and turned around, creating a dense maze. People would duck under the vines at first or pull them apart, but as time passed by, it became more difficult. Gaps had to be created, but maintaining them was an arduous, nearly impossible task. Gradually, the number of openings past the vines began to dwindle, until we found ourselves closed in, for the most part. It took some time to sink in: staggered weeks would pass by, where we would avoid leaving for supplies to ensure our safety. No one wanted to take more risk than needed. Some tried to leave the village, but most tenaciously clung to their livelihoods and the surroundings that the generations before them had seen. With every passing morning and the creak of doors opening, the noxious smell of the flowers would waft in, and the twines would reach closer. Wary eyes glanced at them, treading lightly.
Those on the outskirts of the village fell first. Overnight, the vines would force their way through slats of wood in houses and into meshes in front of windows. They attacked silently, but relentlessly. They snaked around bed posts and lamps, and snatched anything within their reach, as their range grew out of proportions. In the darkness of the night, people vanished. As the vines grew by leaps and bounds, we knew we were trapped.
What started as an offense became a desperate attempt at a defense. Last lines began to fall, as supplies began to diminish. Some made attempts to escape as the vines closed in on us, in all directions. We would never know if they made it out. The many that stayed behind threw together barricades upstairs and ventured underground with the remainder of supplies. We counted the days, hours, and minutes before the vines would breach the many bookshelves, cupboards, and tables that we piled against the door.
We could only hope someone who had gotten out would come back with more help, but as time counted down for us, we grew more anxious. After a few days came the overbearing scent of the flowers, and with it, the vines. We held our breaths as tables upstairs clattered down, pulled down by twines twisting around the leg. When the first ones slithered through fine cracks in the door, someone let out a cry. We’ll be gone by dawn.
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Content from a documentation journal of an unknown author, found in the ruins of a village, buried under several meters of forest growth. Remnants of a human skeleton, found within a meter, surrounded in dead, dried vines. Many more were found, left behind similarly in the vicinity.
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