The Creek Remembers

The town of Hollow Creek had always been quiet, a place where people lived simple lives and kept to themselves. Tucked away in a forgotten valley, it was surrounded by thick forests that whispered in the wind, and a river that wound through the town like a lifeline. But something was wrong with the creek. It had been for as long as anyone could remember, though few dared to talk about it.

It started with the disappearances. People—always the lonely ones, the outcasts—vanished without a trace. A schoolteacher here, a farmer there. No one ever found their bodies, just strange footprints that led to the edge of the forest and stopped, as if swallowed by the trees.

The town had learned to live with it. You don't go out after dark. You don't stray too close to the woods. And you definitely don’t ask about the old house at the edge of town, the one that sat empty, abandoned for decades, its windows like dead eyes watching the creek below.

Jack had heard the stories. Growing up in Hollow Creek, you couldn’t avoid them. The legends, the warnings—they were all woven into the fabric of life there. But Jack never believed in ghosts, in curses, or the dark things people whispered about late at night. So when his mother passed, leaving him the old house, he didn’t hesitate to move in.

It was only a house, after all.

The day Jack arrived, the sky was a dull gray, clouds hanging low like a heavy curtain. The house was exactly as he remembered—large, looming, with a sagging roof and peeling paint. But there was something about it, something he hadn’t noticed as a child. It felt wrong, as if the house itself was alive and waiting for him.

The first night was restless. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, and the creek gurgled in the distance, louder than he remembered. Jack lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake the feeling that something was watching him. The silence in the house was suffocating, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards.

At midnight, a noise woke him—a faint tapping sound, like fingernails against glass. Jack sat up, his heart racing, and listened. Tap… tap… tap. It came from the window, rhythmic and deliberate.

He crept to the window, pulling aside the dusty curtains. Outside, the yard was still. No movement, no sign of life. Just the wind stirring the leaves and the soft rush of the creek. Shaking his head, Jack closed the curtains and crawled back into bed.

The tapping returned.

This time it was louder, more insistent. It came from the window in the next room. Jack cursed under his breath, grabbed a flashlight, and padded down the hallway. As he approached the room, the tapping stopped. He hesitated at the door, hand hovering over the knob, a chill running down his spine.

Slowly, he opened the door.

The room was empty, just as he had left it, bare except for a single chair by the window. But the air was heavy, thick with something he couldn’t name. The flashlight beam wavered as his hand trembled.

Tap… tap… tap.

Jack whirled around, the light darting to the window. Something was there—just a glimpse, a shadow moving past the glass. He stumbled back, heart pounding in his chest, and slammed the door shut.

By morning, the tapping had stopped, and Jack tried to convince himself it had all been a dream. But the unease lingered. The house felt different in the daylight, no longer just an old, neglected building. It was watching him.

The townsfolk avoided Jack when he went into town. They always had a reason not to talk—too busy, too tired, too distracted. But it wasn’t hard to see the fear in their eyes. They knew about the house, about the creek, but no one would speak of it.

That night, the tapping returned, more insistent, more demanding. Jack barricaded himself in his room, refusing to open the door. But the noise grew louder, filling the house, echoing through the walls. It wasn’t just tapping now. It was whispers, voices murmuring from the dark corners, calling his name.

Jack could feel them—eyes watching him, shadows creeping closer. The air was thick with dread, suffocating him. His chest tightened, and he struggled to breathe, as if the house itself was squeezing the life out of him.

In the midst of the whispers, one voice rose above the rest, clear and sharp.

“The creek calls. The creek takes.”

Jack’s heart raced. He threw open the door and ran. The house groaned as if in protest, the walls shaking, the floorboards creaking under his feet. Outside, the night was pitch black, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. But Jack didn’t care. He had to get away, had to escape the thing that lived in the house.

But the further he ran, the louder the creek sounded, the rushing water filling his ears. He stumbled down the hill toward the creek, his flashlight flickering in the darkness.

At the edge of the water, Jack stopped.

The creek wasn’t just water. It was alive, bubbling and churning, a swirling mass of blackness. And there, in the middle of the creek, something moved. Dark figures, their faces pale and hollow, stared up at him from beneath the surface. Their mouths opened, but no sound came out, just the endless gurgling of the water.

Jack backed away, terror clawing at his throat, but something caught his ankle. He looked down and screamed.

A hand—cold, wet, and impossibly strong—had wrapped around his leg, pulling him toward the water. Jack thrashed, kicking and screaming, but the grip tightened, dragging him inch by inch closer to the swirling blackness.

The last thing Jack saw before the water closed over his head was the pale, empty face of the thing that had been tapping at his window, its hollow eyes staring into his soul.

And then, silence.

In the morning, the creek ran quiet, the house stood empty, and Jack was gone—just another whispered story in Hollow Creek.

The town moved on, as it always had. But the creek remembered.

It always did.