The Hollowing of Alder Village

The letter had arrived with no return address, sealed in brittle, yellowed paper. The ink, faded but legible, claimed to be from a relative I’d never heard of—my "Aunt Miriam." She implored me to visit her in the village of Alder Hollow, far from any city or recognizable place. The letter spoke of old family matters, of an inheritance tied to a "sacred duty" I had to fulfill.

Curiosity mixed with unease, but I was drawn to it. By the time I drove into the village, dusk had settled, casting Alder Hollow in a muted, gray light. The air was thick, almost oppressive, as if the very atmosphere clung too tightly to the earth.

The village seemed untouched by time. Narrow, cobblestone streets wound between sagging cottages, their windows dark or boarded up. A few people shuffled along the roads, glancing at me with hollow, unblinking eyes. When I asked about Aunt Miriam, they would only nod, whispering, "You’ll find her soon enough."

There were no streetlights, and by nightfall, the village was drowned in shadow. My car's headlights cast eerie patterns on the road as I continued deeper, feeling as though the village were swallowing me whole. I found the house described in the letter—a crumbling, vine-choked structure at the edge of the village, looming like a forgotten tombstone. The front door was unlocked, creaking open with a low groan.

Inside, the air smelled of mildew and something else—something rancid. Dust clung to every surface, as if no one had lived there for years. I called out for Aunt Miriam, but there was no answer. Just silence. And then, faintly, a rhythmic hum—low, guttural chanting—reached my ears from somewhere deep within the house.

I followed the sound, my heart pounding against my ribs. In a back room, I found a large wooden chest, its lid slightly ajar. Inside were old, tattered robes and strange, occult symbols carved into the wood. And beneath it all, I found more letters—letters written to me, from Miriam, spanning decades. The ink in the oldest ones had bled, but one line stood out, sending ice through my veins:

_"We need you, Benjamin. You are the last."_

The chanting grew louder, more insistent. I rushed back outside, desperate for air, only to find the villagers gathered in a circle in the middle of the street. Their faces were pallid and void of expression, their eyes all fixed on me. They moved in unison, whispering something I couldn’t make out.

Panicking, I demanded to know what was happening. One of the villagers, an old man with sunken cheeks, stepped forward. "It is time," he rasped. "You have come to fulfill the bargain."

“What bargain?” I stammered, but they only stared, their whispers rising into a low drone.

I tried to flee back to my car, but no matter how fast I ran, the streets twisted and looped back to that same circle of villagers. It was as if the village itself was warping, pulling me deeper into its trap. The stars above seemed impossibly far, the sky a void that pressed down like a leaden weight.

Finally, they led me, without a word, to the village’s center—an ancient, crumbling stone altar covered in symbols I didn’t understand. They forced me to my knees, the chanting now deafening, a cacophony that shattered the silence of the night.

And then, Aunt Miriam appeared—frail, ghostly pale, her eyes glistening with something inhuman. “We needed you,” she whispered, her voice like dry leaves on a cold wind. “The village survives because of the pact. Our blood, bound to it forever.”

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Cold hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me toward the altar.

I realized too late that Alder Hollow wasn’t a village that anyone could leave. The villagers were bound to something ancient, something monstrous that required a sacrifice—an offering of blood to sustain its existence. And I, the last of the family, had been called to fulfill the darkest of inheritances.

The last thing I heard before the world went black was their chant, echoing in my skull:

_"The blood binds. The blood claims."_