The Echoes of Black Hollow

The villagers of Black Hollow had long whispered of the thundering nights—when the hills moaned and the earth trembled like something ancient stirred deep beneath. But those were just stories. Warnings old folks passed to children huddled near the fireplace. That is, until the night the throng returned.

It started with the birds. They vanished.

No calls at dawn. No flutters in the trees. The forest fell into a strange silence that pulsed through the air like a held breath. Then came the fog—thick, dark, and churning as if alive. It rolled down from the mountain’s mouth, swallowing fields, barns, and fences in a cold, creeping hush.

Thomas Hale, the village’s reclusive watchman, had seen it before—once, as a boy, when the ground had cracked open behind his father’s barn. No one had believed his stories of shadows with claws and whispers that clawed inside his head. He had carried the memory like a scar, waiting for the day it returned.

That night, the tremors began.

Not the soft quivers of an earthquake—but deep, rhythmic thuds like marching. Boom… boom… boom. The ground trembled with every beat. Dust rose from floorboards. Windows rattled in their panes.

And then came the sound—deep and layered, like a thousand voices chanting in a language never meant for human ears. The villagers poured into the streets, eyes wide, some clutching lanterns, others crosses. Children screamed. Dogs whimpered and fled.

Thomas knew: the Throng was rising.

He shouted for people to return to their homes, but it was too late. From the forest, black silhouettes emerged—twisted, tall, with antlers and bones protruding like armor. Their movements were synchronized, fluid, almost graceful. But their faces… if they had faces… were voids. Swirling dark pits of hunger.

“Back! Get back!” Thomas yelled, raising his old hunting rifle. But bullets wouldn’t help. He knew that.

A creature stepped forward, towering above the crowd, its breath a cloud of frost. In its hand was a staff made of intertwined spines, topped with a flickering red flame. Around it, the Throng formed a circle and began to chant.

An old woman, Margaret, collapsed to her knees, eyes glazed. Her voice joined the chant, mouth moving on its own.

“It’s the Binding,” Thomas muttered. “They’re awakening the Hollow.”

Suddenly, the earth split open in the center of the square. A sickening stench of rot and soil rose as a chasm spread, revealing a staircase descending into blackness. The Throng began to file down, one by one.

Thomas had to make a choice. Flee or follow. And he knew the answer.

Clutching a rusted lantern, he stepped into the chasm.

The deeper he went, the louder the whispers became. Not just in his ears—but in his mind. They offered him visions: promises of power, knowledge, eternity.

All we want… is the old world back, they said. Let us show you.

He stumbled upon a chamber lit by glowing veins in the rock. In the center was a monolith—an obsidian tower covered in ancient symbols. Around it, the Throng danced, clawed hands raised.

Then he saw her—Anna. His daughter. Lost in the forest ten years ago. Standing at the base of the monolith, eyes glowing faintly.

“Dad?” she whispered.

Thomas froze. “Anna?”

“They brought me back. They said they would bring us all back. If we help them awaken the Gate.”

“The Gate?” he asked, heart pounding.

She nodded slowly. “To the other side. The before place.”

Realization hit like a hammer. The Throng weren’t just monsters. They were the remnants of something older—something that had ruled long before mankind and was now trying to return.

With Anna as their key.

“No,” Thomas said, backing away. “You’re not her. You’re not my daughter.”

Her smile widened, unnatural. “But I remember everything. I am her… and more.”

He raised the lantern. Inside, a single match remained. The oil was nearly gone. He had one chance.

He flung it at the monolith.

The explosion ripped through the chamber. Fire spread. The Throng screeched in unison, twisting in agony. The walls trembled. Stones fell.

As Thomas tried to run, the chamber began to collapse.

Outside, in the village, the fog lifted. The earth stopped shaking. People emerged from homes, silent and shaken.

They never found Thomas Hale. But they say on certain foggy nights, you can hear his voice—echoing from deep underground.

Warning them.

Because the Throng may have fallen…

…but the Gate was never fully closed.


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End.