When I Was Visited by the Dryad

Photo by Kotenko on Deposit Photos

Today’s Creative Spark (#3) — Inspired by Greek Mythology

As I sit on the sofa, the wind rattles branches against the windows, their scraping making it hard to hear the TV. I reach for the remote and turn the volume up louder.

Outside, the storm intensifies — scraping, banging, gusts of wind humming through the cracks in the walls and beneath the doors. The house creaks like it’s bracing itself against something ancient and angry.

“How long is this storm supposed to last?” I mutter, eyes drifting to the weather report. Tornadoes, blizzards, record-breaking winds — a once-in-a-lifetime event, they say. “This world is going to hell…” I sigh, half to myself, half to the empty room.

I hear banging and scratching at the door, irritation rising in my chest as I try to ignore it. It’s just a branch or something… nothing serious.

Then a heavy thud makes me jump. “What the hell?” I whisper. Another thud follows — louder, closer.

Panic kicks in, and I rush toward the basement for better shelter, but just as I reach the stairs, a third impact hits the door. Softer this time… but somehow worse.

Then, as if to answer my question, I glance one last time at the front door. The handle turns — slow, deliberate — as if someone is trying to get in. Just a branch… right?

My foot feels glued to the floor as I hesitate, torn between running for the basement and staying put. But curiosity wins. Slowly, I step toward the door — the handle still turning, inch by inch.

I stop just a few feet away, heart pounding louder than the wind. “No,” I mutter, shaking my head and letting out a breathless laugh. "I’m just losing my mind." I turn to walk away, already feeling a little ridiculous.

But then — out of the corner of my eye — I see it. Something slithering beneath the door.

Thin, green vines curl through the gap at the base, coiling upward along the wood. They move, reaching like fingers. One wraps itself around the doorknob. Another slides toward the lock.

Click. The lock turns. I stop breathing.

The door creaks — just a little at first — then slowly opens. No gust of wind. No force. Just a quiet, deliberate movement, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

I take a step back. Then another. My eyes stay fixed on the widening gap, heart hammering against my ribs as I watch the vines continue to slither along the frame, pulling it open inch by inch. I don’t know what I expected to see. But I know whatever it is… it isn’t human.

To my bewilderment, it was a woman — or something shaped like one — standing in the doorway.

She was covered in leaves, vines, and other earthy textures, her skin a deep, mottled green, like moss clinging to stone. Strands of wild, tangled hair spilled around her shoulders, threaded with blossoms and bits of bark. Her presence brought with it a scent so sharp and vivid it overwhelmed me — fresh-cut grass, damp soil, rain-soaked wood — as though the forest itself had stepped into my home.

She didn’t speak or move — just stood there, one hand resting on the doorframe, vines trailing from her fingertips and curling into the floorboards like roots searching for soil.

My mouth was dry. I took another step back, almost tripping over the corner of the rug.

"What… what are you?" I whispered.

Her head tilted, the way a tree bends toward sunlight. Eyes unlike anything human met mine — deep, amber, and shimmering. But there was no cruelty in them. No malice. Only a strange kindness.

Her lips parted, and a voice like rustling leaves rasped out — dry, brittle, as if speaking was a long-forgotten art.

“It’s quite wild outside… may I stay here?”

The wind howled beyond the walls, rattling the windows like a warning. But in here, silence settled between us — heavy, still, waiting.

Something in me hesitated — every instinct urging me to run, to hide, to question everything. But another part, deeper, quieter, rose to the surface like a memory I didn’t know I had.

My body felt distant, detached, as though I were watching myself from just outside the moment. And then, almost without realizing, I nodded.

That was all she needed. She stepped inside.

And as she crossed the threshold, something changed.

The vines slipped from her arms, curling back toward the door like obedient roots retreating to the soil. Leaves drifted from her hair, falling to the floor. Bits of bark and moss crumbled away from her skin, disintegrating before they touched the rug. It was as if the house itself was stripping it all away — reclaiming her wildness, or refusing to let it follow.

What remained was a woman draped in a dress woven from earth and forest, still organic, still strange — but gentler now. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the floor, yet the room felt fuller, like the air itself had thickened with her presence.

She looked at me again, and this time, she smiled — soft, kind, and fleeting, like sunlight breaking through a canopy.

“Thank you for letting me intrude,” she said gently, her voice now steadier, smoother, though still touched by that brittle, leafy undertone.

“My name is Thalinna.”

And that’s how I met — and began my weekend with — the dryad named Thalinna.

This is part of my ongoing series, Today’s Creative Spark — myth-inspired fiction, short stories written from daily inspiration.
Browse the full series here.

Should this story be expanded into a full version? Would you want to see more from this world? Let me know in the comments — I’d love to hear your thoughts.