Omar was twelve.
He was far, far away from his home in Libya. He remembered the desert, the burning sun, and the comforting presence of his family around their small plot of land. Goudakzla was different. Oppressive, even. The trees were too tall, the shadows too long, the silence… too absolute.
He kicked at a loose stone, the sound swallowed by the dense undergrowth. His Uncle Moussa had brought him here, promising a fresh start after… after what happened back home. Moussa had gotten a job at a small lumber mill outside of the Goudakzla forest, and Omar, having lost his parents, had little choice but to go.
"Stay close to the road, Omar," Moussa had warned, his voice gruff but kind. "The forest is not safe. Especially at dusk."
Omar hadn't listened. The endless work at the lumber mill had gotten to him quickly. He was nothing more than an errand boy. Run this to this machine. Run that part to that guy. Day after day, from before dawn until after sunset. And his mind always drifted home.
He just needed some peace, some quiet away from the relentless work and the constant reminders of what he'd lost. So he had ventured into the forest, ignoring his uncle's warning, seeking a moment of respite. Now, dusk was creeping in.
The light filtering through the canopy grew thin and weak. The air cooled, and a strange scent permeated the woods, something like damp earth and… something else. Something indescribably foul.
Omar pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, a shiver running down his spine. He told himself it was just the temperature, the changing of the day. He was not scared, just… vigilant. Aware of his surroundings. It's why he wasn't running back to the road, he reasoned. Not at all scared.
A twig snapped behind him.
Omar spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw nothing but trees and shadows. "Hello?" he called out, his voice trembling slightly. Silence. Only the rustling of leaves, and the distant hoot of an owl.
"Probably just an animal," he muttered to himself, trying to regain his composure. He began to walk again, faster now, in what he hoped was the direction of the road.
Another snap. Closer this time.
He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. This wasn't an animal. Animals didn't snap twigs with such deliberate, almost mocking, precision.
He began to run, his feet pounding against the soft earth. Branches whipped at his face, and his lungs burned with the effort. He risked a glance back, but saw only the deepening shadows.
Then he heard it. A sound unlike anything he had ever encountered. A wet, gurgling chuckle, followed by the rustling of something large moving through the underbrush. The sound seemed to wrap around him, coming from everywhere at once.
Omar stumbled, falling to his knees. He scrambled back to his feet and pressed on. Desperate to escape the oppressive feeling of being watched. Stalked.
"Uncle Moussa!" he screamed, his voice cracking with fear. "Help me!"
His cries were met only with the mocking echo of the forest. The gurgling laughter drew nearer. It was right behind him.
He dared one more glance, and saw it. Just a glimpse, a fleeting image burned into his mind. Something large, and dark, and impossibly twisted, moving among the trees. Its form was fluid and undefined, constantly changing. An abomination, made of shadow and nightmare.
He screamed again, a primal sound of pure terror, and ran. He sprinted, blindly, weaving between the trees, desperate to escape the clutches of whatever was pursuing him. He knew, with chilling certainty, that it was not just an animal.
The trees began to thin. He could see a faint glimmer of light through the branches. The road. He was almost there.
But then, something slammed into him from the side, sending him sprawling.
He landed hard, the air knocked from his lungs. He looked up to see the creature looming over him.
Its form was clearer now. Or perhaps his mind had just accepted it for what it was. The Odd Frop. Its body was a mass of writhing tentacles and pulsating flesh, all centered around a grotesque head with too many eyes and a mouth filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth.
Its smell was overwhelming now, like rot and decay and something else, something metallic and acrid.
The creature let out another wet chuckle, and reached for him with one of its tentacled arms.
"Please," Omar sobbed, tears streaming down his face. "Please don't hurt me."
The Frop tilted its head, as if considering his plea. Then it spoke, its voice a chorus of guttural whispers that seemed to claw at his sanity.
"You should have listened to your uncle, little one," the chorus gurgled out.
Omar tried to scramble away, but the creature's grip was too strong. It lifted him off the ground, its tentacles squeezing the breath from his body.
"What do you want?" he choked out.
"We want… what was lost," the Frop hissed, its many eyes boring into him. "What was taken."
Omar had no idea what it was talking about. He had taken nothing, lost nothing. He was just a boy.
The Frop opened its maw, revealing the rows of jagged teeth. A dark, viscous fluid dripped from its lips.
"Now be silent and close your eyes," the chorus rumbled, the maw slowly growing wider and wider as if ready to devour Omar whole.
And then it bit down.
The pain was unimaginable. A searing, all-consuming agony that filled his entire being. Omar screamed, a sound that was quickly cut short as the Frop tore into him, ripping flesh from bone.
He watched as the creature feasted upon him, the moonlight reflecting off its wet maw. The sound of bones being splintered filled the air, drowned out only by the Frop's incessant gurgling. And then, darkness.
Moussa found him the next morning. What was left of him.
The scene was too gory, too unreal, too raw to fully process at a single view. Limbs contorted in grotesque angels and covered in an unfamiliar gelid ooze. A mass of splintered bones and ruined meat. The image would never truly depart from his vision.
The lumber mill shut down. There was something foul about the earth, about the wood the workers were expected to cut. About what happened to the poor boy, dragged away when trying to free his mind of the burden the work had been pressing. A shadow had fallen over the town. The workers did their jobs and kept their mouths shut. They wouldn't stay there too long.
Moussa stayed though. He spent the rest of his days searching Goudakzla forest, and with a crazed conviction, tried to unearth the source of that little boy's ruin, to maybe get some measure of reconciliation for his loss.
His journey only further estranged him, his work suffered, he was laid off, and even though he had enough stowed away for several months he would usually use that money on booze.
All those months were squandered and went by in a flash, as he descended further into alcoholism. All because of what he did for Omar. Bringing him to such an evil place when he'd only ever wanted some security for him. And that damn beast, it did this? Over some "Lost and taken away"? The Frop didn't just ruin the boy, he ended up cursing the adults to endless doom and sorrow.
It was simply too much pain to deal with by himself, yet Moussa was sure that as long as he persisted in this world, someone would have to endure this torment alongside him.
This realization alone kept him searching, fighting off delirium, hoping one day it would all be solved. Maybe it was the only way that he would once again know that sweet comfort. As he was once comforted so he would bring closure to his nephew's memory.
But he found nothing. Only shadows and the whisper of the wind through the trees. The Frop was gone, its appetite sated. It left only a ghost of horror hanging in the air, and a stain on the forest that could never be washed away.
The locals whispered stories about the incident for generations, stories of a creature lurking in the shadows, waiting to prey on the lost and the unwary. Children were warned to stay away from the forest, especially at dusk. And the name of Omar became a legend. A reminder of the darkness that could lie hidden beneath the surface of the most beautiful places.
Omar would not be remembered in Libya. There were too many other tragedies that had occurred back home for anyone to be interested in this lone victim from a distant land.
Back in his former place of residence, it would be as if he had never existed at all. No one knew what would happen next in this grim and wicked forest, but at least he was at rest.
Rest for the moment. Maybe those strange whispers in the trees, those things always moving behind the eye, would someday reveal more about that beast, and one could perhaps stop something such as this from ever happening again. This all seems so far-fetched.