The forest had a way of whispering after sunset.

Branches creaked even when the wind slept. Hollow logs hummed like distant voices. Pale fog slid between the roots of ancient trees as if the ground itself were breathing.

In the middle of all that unease lived a very small mouse named Alder.

Alder was not the brave sort. His whiskers twitched at every snapping twig. His ears perked at every owl’s distant hoot. And tonight, the forest felt… wrong.

He had only left his burrow to gather a few acorns. Simple task. Quick dash out, quick dash back.

But now the fog had thickened, and the path home had disappeared.

A long groan echoed through the trees.

Alder froze.

The sound rolled through the branches again, deep and hollow, like a giant wooden door slowly opening. The mouse’s heart thumped so loudly he was sure the entire forest could hear it.

Something moved in the mist.

A tall shape leaned between the trees. Its crooked “arms” stretched across the trail.

Alder squeaked and dove behind a mushroom.

The shape creaked again.

Closer.

Slow.

Terrible.

Alder peeked out.

The monster loomed… and then the fog shifted.

It wasn’t a monster at all.

Just an old fallen tree, its branches swaying gently in the night breeze.

Alder let out the tiniest sigh of relief.

Then something hooted behind him.

The mouse launched three feet straight into the air.

An owl blinked down from a branch above, confused by the sudden acrobatic rodent.

Alder didn’t wait for introductions. He bolted through the fog, skidding over roots and leaves until—finally—he spotted the small round entrance to his burrow.

He dove inside and curled into the soft moss bed.

Outside, the haunted forest continued its whispers and groans.

Inside, Alder’s whiskers slowly stopped shaking.

He had learned an important lesson that night:

The forest might be full of strange sounds and spooky shadows…

…but most monsters turn out to be trees.

Still, Alder decided something else too.

Tomorrow’s acorn gathering could absolutely wait until daylight.