The Hollow Path: Descent into Black Hollow

The Map That Shouldn't Exist

It began with an old map, yellowed and fragile, discovered behind a false panel in the attic of a crumbling Victorian estate. Dust fell like ash as Marcus unfurled it across the dining table, the lines drawn in a reddish-brown ink that looked unsettlingly organic. At the center of the map, in jagged script, was a name that hadn’t appeared on any modern record: *Black Hollow*. The forest it described wasn’t marked on Google Earth, nor in any known survey. To Marcus, it was the adventure he had longed for—a mystery yet unsolved.

He didn’t go alone. Lyra, an ethnobotanist with a fascination for folklore; David, a seasoned survivalist; and Jules, a documentarian eager to film the unknown, joined the expedition. They laughed nervously when the map warned: “Enter not where the roots writhe and breath is stolen.” Superstition, they told themselves. Just old-world drama.

The First Step Into Silence

Black Hollow wasn’t on any road, but after three days of hiking through increasingly untouched wilderness, they found it. The edge of the forest was a wall of darkened trees—towering, gnarled, and unnaturally still. Birds that had chirped just moments before went quiet. Even the wind refused to enter.

As they stepped beyond the boundary, the temperature dropped. The ground felt soft, almost breathing beneath their boots. Lyra paused, touching the bark of one tree. “This wood… it’s not just old. It’s listening.” Marcus chuckled, but it didn’t echo. No sound did. Inside Black Hollow, even their voices felt hushed, like the forest was swallowing them word by word.

Whispers in the Canopy

That night, they made camp near a circle of moss-covered stones. Jules filmed the surroundings, capturing the unnatural curvature of trees that bent toward each other, forming arches like skeletal arms. As darkness thickened, faint whispers began drifting down from the canopy.

At first, they thought it was wind. Then they heard their names—spoken clearly, softly, intimately. David stood suddenly, flashlight in hand, and scanned the forest. “Something’s out there,” he muttered, finger resting on his hunting knife.

Lyra sat rigid, eyes wide. “The trees are speaking. I read about forests like this… where the wood carries memory, emotion. Pain.”

Marcus tried to laugh it off again but found he couldn’t. Not this time. The forest was awake—and aware.

The Vanishing Trail

By morning, their trail had disappeared. No footprints, no markers, not even broken twigs from the night before. It was as though the forest had healed itself, sealing them inside. Panic buzzed under their skin, but they pushed on, hoping to find a stream or clearing—anything familiar.

Hours passed, then days. Compass needles spun in slow, confused circles. The sun never seemed to rise or set properly, caught in a loop of dim orange and deep shadow. Hunger gnawed at them, but the berries Lyra identified turned to ash on their tongues.

One night, Jules vanished. His tent was undisturbed, camera still recording—only the last few seconds showed movement: a flicker of shadow crawling along the ground, reaching up. No scream. No struggle. Just gone.

Roots Beneath the Skin

David was the next to falter. He became erratic, paranoid, muttering about something beneath the soil watching them, breathing with them. Then he stopped sleeping altogether. One morning, they found him standing motionless, staring at a tree with his hands buried deep into the bark.

He wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t move. When Marcus and Lyra tried to pull him away, he screamed—not in fear, but rage. “I see it now!” he shouted, eyes wild. “We’re inside it! It’s not a forest, it’s a body!”

They left him. There was no choice.

The Heart of Black Hollow

Only Marcus and Lyra remained, navigating by instinct more than sense. They began to see things—glimpses of the others walking ahead, or beside them, only to vanish when approached. The forest fed them hallucinations and horrors alike. Roots sometimes slithered across the path behind them, subtly, deliberately.

Eventually, they found the heart of it all—a vast clearing encircled by trees so old their trunks were fossilized. In the center stood a monument of twisting wood, resembling a throne or perhaps a cocoon. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Whispered words became a chant, droning in a language neither of them knew but both understood: Stay. Feed. Become.

Lyra stepped forward as if drawn by invisible threads. Marcus grabbed her hand, shaking his head. “We have to go. Now.”

She looked back, tears streaming. “It’s beautiful. Can’t you hear it? It’s offering peace.”

“No,” he whispered. “It’s offering silence.”

The Last Light

Marcus ran. He didn’t look back. The forest fought him with every step—roots snaring his ankles, branches whipping his face, the air thickening with a weight that crushed his lungs. But something inside him burned hotter than fear: defiance.

Eventually, he broke through the trees. Just like that, they were behind him. The sky was blue, the birdsong returned. He collapsed in a heap, sobbing into the grass. When he looked back, Black Hollow was no longer there. Just endless green forest, ordinary and unremarkable.

He was alone. Lyra was gone. All of them were.

The Forest Waits

Months passed. Marcus told his story. Most dismissed it as trauma-induced hallucination. The footage from Jules’ camera was corrupted, and the map had dissolved in water days after his return. He tried to forget. He tried to move on.

But every now and then, he hears whispers in his dreams. Sees branches clawing at his windows. Feels roots writhing beneath the floorboards of his apartment.

He knows Black Hollow is still out there, hidden from maps, waiting for the next curious soul to follow the path.

And it’s always hungry.