He punished me with a curse, sealing me within this grove of oak and ash. He warned me I'd never leave him, and I'm afraid he's right. For centuries, I've waited for someone to free me. But the road leading past this wood is forgotten, overgrown and entangled with weeds and undergrowth. Even when storms unleash their wrath, this enchanted copse is spared. No matter how much I pray for its destruction.
He was well-versed in the black arts. He knew these trees were sacred. Told me if cut, vengeful souls would pursue the offender until his or her death. I later learned he'd buried his victims beneath the trunks. Said their corpses fed the trees.
Moments after he professed his undying love, he stabbed himself in the heart as I watched, unable to stop him. His blood spilled over the ground. His ghost forced me to bury his body in the grove and plant a weeping red rose tree over the corpse. Ever since then, roses always bloom. When the buds open, malicious eyes watch me.
I wish I had that dagger. I'd stab those eyes to see if they bleed.
But I'm afraid of what he might do from beyond the grave.