The Face

In the mountains lived an old hermit. Children spoke of how scary he looked and how he would set animal traps, joking that he used those traps to capture children to eat.
In reality, Samuel was a lonely old war victim. His face and body had been scarred badly from an explosion and the shrapnel of a grenade. Some of his fingers were gnarled or not even there.
One day, in his extreme depression, Samuel carved a face into a fallen tree. He would visit this tree and tell it his desires, secrets, and everything that he would tell a friend. The tree was his friend. It understood him. He even gave it a name - Quincey.
With the new face came new rumors from the children and people of the town near his cabin. It was evil, the old hermit used it for rituals or would eat children near it, hanging their bones on the branches as prizes to dry out. No bones were ever found there. Samuel always buried any animal carcasses after eating them. He sighed at the wind of new rumors as children were chased off, screaming all the way about not being eaten.
Samuel sighed, sitting down to talk to Quincey and even stroking the smooth, carved face of the old tree. Oddly, it was beginning to look more and more like him as the days rolled on. The face became scarred, weathered, the branches gnarled like Samuel himself. He thought nothing of it and continued to talk, consoling him. "They won't hurt you." He said with a smile of misshapen lips.

He left one night, adamant about starting a fire and drinking with his 'friend', maybe even telling old stories about the war and women that once adored his formerly handsome face. Then Samuel stopped, getting into some bushes to creep ever closer to the unfamiliar voices that were heard around Quincey. He could see them now with their flashlights - four distinct figures.
"I dare you to kiss it!" One girl teased another, "It's so ugly! If you don't, we'll just tell everyone you're a wuss." Laughter followed..
"No!" The other girl cried, "You've heard the stories!"
"As if those are true." A boy chimed in, "Just things to scare kids from coming into these woods."
"I don't know..." She whined, "Remember the kids that never returned home?"
"Shit." Another huffed.
"Kiss it!" They chanted, "Kiss it!"
"Fine!" She wailed, swallowing hard then pressing lips to the horrific face's, trying in vain to pull away. She dug her fingers into the bark of the log, tearing with muffled screams.
"Holy shit!" The boy shrieked, taking her by the waist and tugging as blood painted the log. One of his hands dug into the bark with effort to free his friend, "You guys, I'm stuck!" The two remaining girls screamed in terror and fled, whether it was for help or cowardice.
They rushed past Samuel in the bushes, the man watching in horror as the teens were consumed by his friend. Bones crushing, blood spewing, sounds of gurgled, muffled terror filling the woods. That wooden mouth opened to consume it's meal, branches bending with a new-found flexibility to shove those children in with another spray coloring the trees and ground. "Q-Quincey?" Samuel mumbled, a hand lifting to his forehead in dread, "No.."

People would be told of those that had disappeared, and all of the children that went missing, whether eaten by the log or no, would be blamed on the hermit. No one would believe a log ate their children. So Samuel walked home, mourning and pacing as he thought. He wouldn't be able to keep the children away.
A knock was heard on the door the next morning, waking Samuel from his fitful sleep that began on the floor after a bottle of scotch was downed. He lifted one hand, shielding his eyes from the sun glaring through the windows while stumbling to unlock the door for his unannounced visitor, "Yes?" His voice was ragged from a hangover.
"Samuel Welch?" The officer began, holding up his badge.
"That's me." Samuel answered, rubbing those red eyes as he tried to clear them.
"I've gotten a report about two teens missing on your property." He went on, "Two teenage girls were hysterical when they visited the station last night."
"What are you getting at?" Samuel asked, stretching. "That I had something to do with it?"
The officer shrugged his shoulders, "We're going to have to look over the property." He nodded toward the house.
"I know my rights." Samuel narrowed his eyes, "Teens run away all the time."
"I'll have a warrant and be back with a team." The officer tipped his hat, stepping back to his squad car.

Samuel paced, looking around the cabin and resting his eyes on that old axe, knowing what had to be done. He trekked out to the log and touched his hands to it, stroking its face, "I'm sorry." Breath ragged before he tried to draw his hand away, he found it stuck, wooden mouth opening with a creak of splinters and shuddering of branches as they encroached on him.
"You made me." A gasping voice spoke, Samuel struggling. "I'm your only friend. I was protecting you!" It screamed, wrapping limbs around the man's legs.
"Don't do this!"
Samuel yelled, "I'm sorry!" With the axe wielding hand, he hacked at his friend's face, cracking it, splinters flying while he struggled not to become the next meal.
To Samuel's horror, the old log began to bleed red blood, and not that of sap. "I was going to be real!" Quincey shrieked, "Real for you!" Samuel hacked some more at the branches, the trunk, anywhere the sharp tip of the axe would reach until his friend was a bloodied pile of shredded wood. Samuel was left to cry, beating the ground with that axe. He made him, and now he had to destroy him...alone once more.