Back then, the forests were lush and full of life. Just a few blocks from my house, a thick forest provided us with all the firewood we needed.

Every two days, my brothers, Carlos and Javier, and I ventured into the forest to gather firewood for cooking. The shade of the trees grew denser with each visit. Mosses spread over the enormous trunks, creating a soft, green blanket. Carlos, the eldest, led the way, his ax slung over his shoulder, while Javier and I carried baskets for the wood. As we walked, Mom reminded us of the old tales about the forest. 

"Stay close, children. The Mancarito loves to play tricks," she warned, her eyes scanning the thick foliage. We nodded, half-listening, more focused on our task.

Mom was a strong woman, her face weathered from years of hard work, but her eyes held a certain warmth that comforted us. She always wore a red shawl, a splash of color against the green and brown of the forest. Her warnings about the Mancarito were often brushed off as mere tales, meant to keep us obedient. But that day, everything changed.

Carlos and Javier, being older, often teased me for my vivid imagination. They called me a dreamer, always lost in my thoughts. As we gathered wood, they chatted about mundane things, their voices mingling with the sounds of the forest. I, however, was drawn to the enchanting sights around me—the dancing shadows, the rustling leaves, and the mysterious whispers carried by the wind.

"Maria, stay close." Mom called, pulling me from my daydreams. I nodded, but my curiosity was piqued when I saw an old, moss-covered trunk a few steps away. It looked like the perfect toy. Dreaming, I climbed the trunk, imagining it as the tallest, most magnificent tree in the world. Javier laughed, encouraging me to climb higher.

"Look at you, Maria, queen of the forest!" Javier exclaimed, his laughter echoing through the trees. I smiled, feeling a sense of accomplishment as I reached the top of the trunk.

After a few minutes, I tried to locate Mom and Carlos, but they weren't where I thought they would be. Instead, they were several dozen meters away, their figures blurred by the thick undergrowth. Frightened, I yelled, "Mom, why are you so far away?"

She looked at me with horror in her eyes and shouted, "Get down from there! Can't you see the Mancarito is taking you?" 

Terrified, I leaped off the trunk, dragging Javier with me. We ran into our mother's arms. She held us tightly, tears in her eyes.

Carlos, ever the skeptic, looked puzzled. "What do you mean, the Mancarito?" he asked, stepping closer to inspect the trunk.

Mom pointed to the trunk I had climbed. It was now twisting and shifting, revealing a face in the moss. The eyes of the trunk glinted mischievously, and it let out a low, mocking laugh.

"The Mancarito," Mom whispered, "a mountain goblin who takes the form of old trunks to play pranks on hunters and visitors to the forest."

We stared in horror as the Mancarito's face slowly disappeared back into the trunk. The once still and silent forest now felt alive, watching us with unseen eyes. From then on, whenever we went to the forest, we stayed close to each other, always wary of the mischievous Mancarito. The forest, once a place of adventure, had become a place of caution and respect for the unknown forces that lived inside.

In the days that followed, we heard whispers from other villagers about strange occurrences in the forest. Tools disappearing, footprints leading nowhere, and the weird feeling of being watched. The Mancarito's presence had always been a legend, but now it was real and terrifying.

Carlos, who had always dismissed Mom's stories, became more vigilant. He would often glance over his shoulder, his grip tightening on his ax. Javier, who had always been carefree, started carrying a small charm around his neck, a gift from the village elder meant to ward off spirits.

As for me, I could never forget the sight of the Mancarito's face emerging from the trunk. It haunted my dreams, and I often woke up in a cold sweat, the sound of its mocking laughter ringing in my ears. I became more attuned to the forest, noticing things I had overlooked before—the subtle shifts in the wind, the patterns in the moss, and the rustling leaves that seemed to whisper secrets. One evening, as we sat around the fire, Mom told us more about the Mancarito.