Father used to take me to the shallow forest every week to help him chop down trees. I always loved it, the feeling that a simple mortal man could fell such mighty oaks and firs with just the right tools and some strength. The way the bark flew and subsequently struggling bits out of my hair. The crash as those viridescent giants hit the ground. And the extra money we got selling firewood. There was really nothing better.

I was older now, grown and living on my own, and Father was aging too. He had retired from woodcutting several years ago, and I thought we had stopped it for good until he called and asked if I wanted to take down one last tree. I agreed, for old time’s sake. He picked me up in his broken-down old truck, axes in tow, and I expected to be taken to the shallow forest as we had always done before. But instead, he kept driving until we reached the deep forest.

It was forbidden to enter the deep forest, let alone cut trees there. But Father insisted, stating that our last tree should be a special one. He selected a douglas fir that was bigger and older than any we had chopped before. I’ll admit, it was all the same fun as it was when I was a teenager. I couldn’t help but feel as if we were being watched the whole time, however. That sensation was hard to shake. The air was tense as the tree finally fell.

Father proclaimed that we’d killed the matriarch, and likened it to the french revolution. That was the kind of thing he used to say to make me laugh, pretending our axes were guillotine blades and whatnot. Afterward, we left without taking any wood home, just leaving the ‘fallen queen’ at her subject’s feet. Lord knows what the rest of the town would think if they knew we even set foot in the deep forest. Something about an awful curse, I guessed. Father thanked me for coming with him and dropped me off before going home.

About a week later, I hadn’t seen Father since then. I decided to pay him a visit. After a relatively short walk to his house, I knocked on the door and waited for a response. Nothing. Knocked again. Nothing again. His truck was still in the driveway, so he had to be home. I tried the door. It was unlocked. In the small, tackily-decorated living room, Father was laying on the floor. Or rather, his body was. Dead. If the foul smell didn’t give that away, the vacant blankness of his face would’ve.

Technically, not all of him was lying on the floor. Father’s feet and legs, up to his knees, were still standing. Shoes, pant legs and all. There was a large leaf at his feet, with a message scribbled on it in terrible penmanship:

You turned my parent into a stump, so I returned the favor.