Woods Descriptive Writing

After the never ending, halogen lights of the city, I had severely underestimated the sheer blackness of night-time in the woods. In my mind, the trees would be black trunks against a charcoal sky, the path would become the deepest of browns and the moonlight would bleach the stones within it. Hadn't every painting of the woods at night been like that? Even if there was a moon tonight, its silvery rays would not penetrate the dense canopy above. I was too far in to turn back; the twilight I had mistaken for night had passed rapidly. It could be no blacker in a coffin, six feet under and piled with dirt. I began to breathe the cool air more rapidly. The darkness pressed in on me from all sides and my body screamed for me to run. I sank to my

No sleepiness, no slow warming up. Within seconds of realising I was unconscious I am on my feet, eyes wide, dreams not just forgotten but erased. Aside from my own noisy breath there is nothing to be heard and the woods are simply too dark to see much at all. Black trunks against an almost black backdrop doesn't make for much too see and my imagination begins to supply horrors to fill the void. I jump to my feet within seconds, immediately feeling wary. Why did I wake? Another loud snap of twigs answers my question. I freeze. The beacon I had lit earlier has been diminished to a few, barely glowing embers. I squint and try to peer into the impenetrable blackness. Another stick cracks, closer to me this time. I hear a low growling and the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Then silence. I know tensing against the shaking of my limbs is useless but I do it instinctively, trying to suppress for a few more moments what I know I cannot. I need to drink in the silence to counteract the fear that threatens to engulf me. This kind of thick silence would normally chill me, especially on an inky night devoid of even moonlight or stars, but tonight it works like a salve. I feel it. The more absolute it is the stronger its medicinal effect. It must be gone. It has to be gone, or at least very far away. I realise too late that I've misjudged the rapid onset of the shaking; my limbs are no longer taking directions from my mind. As I fall all I can

I try and illuminate the area ahead and a cave comes into view, the entrance is so small I almost miss it. The cave is built into the muddy brown rock of the cliff, the stone guarding the entrance I jagged and uneven, arranged in such a way that it would be difficult for passers-by to spot. Inside, the halo of light from my blazing torch is enveloped and lost in the blackness; I have to move around by following the damp wall of the cave with my hands. Realising it is useless to me now, I drop my torch to the floor and wince as it impacts against the cool, stone ground. Shuffling slowly as to avoid being tripped by the many jagged rocks that erupt from the floor, I explore deeper into the cave. When my hands come to an abrupt stop I know I have reached the end of the cavern. I am not as deep in as I would have preferred, but at least it provides some cover from the bitter wind. I slide down the back wall of the cave to a huddled sitting position and realise with a lightening heart that the darkness outside is not as intense. I can vaguely make out the caves’ walls and a stalagmite that hangs to the right of my head. I raise my hand to my face and wave it, delighted to discover than I can see my fingers moving. I relax, hoping that my ordeal is over. I consider falling asleep again, but those aspirations are shattered as I hear the crunching of gravel, rapidly approaching me. As the