An Horror of a Thunderstorm

The Night the Lightning Brought Death

The sky had been churning all afternoon, a rolling sea of thick, angry clouds blotting out the sun and casting Black Hollow into an early dusk. The wind whispered warnings through the skeletal branches of the trees, carrying a scent that was both earthy and sharp, like rain mixed with something old and rotten. Folks in the town knew better than to ignore a storm like this. Not just because of the rain or thunder, but because of the stories—the stories that clung to Black Hollow like a dark stain.

Old Mrs. Carter told them once, during a storm like this one: “When the lightning strikes the oak in the graveyard, the dead don’t stay buried.”

No one believed her, of course. Until tonight.

The town lay quiet except for the rising roar of the wind. Street lamps flickered and swayed as thunder growled in the distance. Inside a ramshackle farmhouse on the outskirts, Emily sat by the window with her family. Her mother clutched a candle, her father sat tensely by the door, and her little brother trembled under a blanket.

Emily’s eyes were fixed on the ancient oak tree standing sentinel at the edge of the cemetery across the field. It was a gnarled, twisted thing, bigger than any tree in the county and older than anyone alive. The locals called it the Dead Man’s Oak.

Lightning flickered, then split the sky with a blinding crack. The bolt struck the oak with a thunderous boom that rattled windows and shook the earth. The tree groaned and cracked, its ancient bark splintering like broken bones. For a moment, the night fell silent—so silent it seemed the whole world was holding its breath.

Then came the scream.

It wasn’t the howl of the wind or the crack of thunder. It was a soul-shattering, blood-curdling scream that seemed to come from the tree itself. A sound that carried the pain and rage of a thousand lost souls.

Emily gasped, clutching her mother’s hand as a cold gust blew through the cracked window. Outside, the wind howled louder, almost in response to the cry.

From the shattered roots of the oak, pale figures began to rise—wraithlike shapes twisting through the mist that had started to roll over the fields. Their faces were hollow, eyes glowing with a sickly green light, mouths frozen in eternal screams. They drifted forward, silent except for the soft rustling of their tattered clothes.

“Mom,” Emily whispered, her voice trembling. “What’s happening?”

Her mother’s face was pale, eyes wide with terror. “The curse... the curse is real.”

The spirits of the dead, trapped for decades, were breaking free.

No one in Black Hollow dared to cross the cemetery after dark. It was said that many who tried were never seen again. The dead, bound by some ancient magic linked to the oak tree struck by lightning, returned to claim new souls each stormy night.

The thunder rolled closer now, louder and more threatening, like a beast awakening. Lightning illuminated the night in harsh bursts, revealing the ghosts’ slow advance toward the town.

Emily’s father grabbed a rusty iron poker from the fireplace. “We have to stay inside. Don’t let them touch you.”

But the wind rattled the door and windows with such force that it seemed the house itself might be torn apart.

Suddenly, the power failed, plunging them into darkness. Only the candle flickered weakly, casting long, trembling shadows on the walls.

From outside came faint scratching sounds, like fingernails scraping wood. Emily’s heart pounded so loud she thought it would burst.

A ghostly hand appeared at the window, pale and translucent, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate patterns on the glass. Emily shrank back, eyes wide with horror.

The wraith whispered through the glass, its voice a haunting echo: “Join us… forever…”

Her mother grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her away, but the shadows seemed to press closer, filling the room with cold.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the room. In that instant, Emily saw the faces of the spirits—twisted, mournful, and full of despair. Their eyes burned with a desperate hunger, searching for warmth, for life, to steal.

The thunder cracked, louder than ever, and the house shook as if caught in the storm’s wrath.

Emily felt a cold chill wrap around her ankle. She looked down and saw a ghostly tendril slithering up her leg. She screamed and kicked it away, but more reached for her, invisible but icy cold.

“Emily!” her father shouted. “Run to the cellar!”

They stumbled through the darkness toward the trapdoor. The spirits wailed and shrieked behind them, their voices a terrible chorus of anguish and rage.

As they descended into the cellar, the storm outside reached a furious peak. Lightning cracked again, and the oak tree outside finally collapsed with a deafening crash.

For a moment, the wailing ceased. The ghosts froze, then vanished into the night air like smoke.

The silence was unbearable.

In the cellar, the family huddled together, trembling and soaked from the cold sweat of terror.

“Is it over?” Emily whispered.

Her mother shook her head. “No. It’s just beginning. The curse will follow the storm… and next time, it will be worse.”

Emily looked up at the cellar ceiling, hearing the distant roll of thunder fading into silence.

Outside, the dead waited—restless, hungry, and bound to the lightning’s deadly call.

And somewhere, deep in the earth beneath the fallen oak, the ancient curse stirred once more, waiting for the next storm to bring death.