Black Hollow Wood

It was said that once, long ago, a terrible crime had been committed in the heart of Black Hollow. A young woman, Elara Drummond, had disappeared one cold autumn night. She was never found, though her shawl, torn and bloodstained, was discovered near an old stone well, deep within the woods. The villagers believed she had been taken by something not of this world, something old and vengeful that lingered among the ancient trees.

Time passed, and though the memory of Elara’s disappearance faded from common conversation, the woods remained a place of mystery and fear. Yet, for young Thomas Granger, none of the village superstitions held much sway. He was a sceptic, a man of reason, and he scoffed at the tales of spirits and curses. Black Hollow, to him, was just a woodland, dark and ancient perhaps, but no more haunted than the empty churchyard on the hill.

One autumn evening, determined to prove his point, Thomas announced he would spend the night in Black Hollow. The village elders tried to dissuade him, warning of a spirit entity said to guard the woods. Some said it was the ghost of Elara, others claimed it was something far older, a presence that predated the village itself. But Thomas laughed off their warnings, packing a bag and setting off just before dusk.

The air was beginning to turn cold as he entered the woods, the trees looming high above, their branches twisted like skeletal hands against the darkening sky. Thomas walked in deeper, following the forgotten paths that wound through the forest, until he found a clearing near the old stone well—the same location where Elara’s shawl had been found decades before—and set up camp.

Thomas sat by a fire, feeling a growing sense of unease. The shadows seemed to be pressing in closer, the trees around him appearing more like figures, their limbs moving slightly in the flickering firelight. But he shook off the feeling, reminding himself that it was all just an illusion in his mind.

As midnight approached, he began to hear something. At first, it was just the faintest murmur, like a breeze brushing through the trees. But then it grew louder, more distinct—a cacophony of whispers, overlapping and indistinct, swirling through the woods around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw movement darting between the trees. He stood up, scanning the darkness, but nothing was there.

As he turned back to the fire, he stopped cold. There, at the edge of the clearing, stood a woman. She was dressed in a long, tattered gown, her hair hanging loose and wild around her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes—wide and unblinking—were fixed on Thomas. She did not move, just stared, with an intensity that terrified him.

“Hel-lo?” he stammered.

The woman did not respond, but slowly, she raised a hand and pointed towards the well. He turned to look at the well, its stone rim slick with moss, the darkness within it seeming to pulse.

When he looked back, the woman was gone.

Thomas, startled, moved towards the well. The closer he got, the colder the air became. The fire, once a source of warmth and light, seemed feeble and dying. He stood at the edge of the well, staring into its depths.

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing his wrist, exerting a freezing grip. Thomas screamed, stumbling backwards, but the hand held fast. As he struggled, he saw it—a face, pale and gaunt, rising up from the well. It was Elara, her eyes hollow and empty, her mouth twisted into a silent scream.

Thomas desperately pulled back and broke free. He ran through the woods, branches tearing at his clothes, the sound of movement stirring in the undergrowth behind him. He didn’t stop until he burst from the tree line, gasping, his body heaving with fear.

A group of villagers found him the next morning, huddled at the edge of the woods, trembling and pale. He wouldn’t speak of what he saw that night, but the haunted look in his eyes told them what they already knew. Black Hollow Wood was not a place for the living.