The Whispering Hollow

The Whispering Hollow

The fog clung to Whispering Hollow like a shroud, muffling the world beyond the village’s sagging wooden gate. It was 1947, and Clara, a young widow, had come to settle her late husband’s ancestral home—a crumbling cottage at the edge of the forest. The villagers warned her: “Stay clear of the woods after dusk. The Hollow speaks, and its words are not kind.” Clara dismissed their tales as superstition, her grief numbing her to fear. She needed solitude, not ghost stories.

The cottage was a relic, its walls stained with damp, the air heavy with mildew. At night, the wind howled through cracks, carrying faint whispers—indistinct, like voices underwater. Clara chalked it up to exhaustion. She unpacked her husband’s journals, hoping to find comfort in his words. Instead, she found frantic entries: “The Hollow calls. It knows my name. I see her in the trees.” Her. He never explained who. Clara’s skin prickled, but she shoved the journals aside. Grief, she told herself, played cruel tricks.

On the third night, the whispers grew clearer. “Claraaaa,” they hissed, slithering from the forest. She bolted the door, heart pounding, and lit every candle. The flames flickered as if caught in a draft, though the windows were sealed. She clutched her husband’s rosary, muttering prayers, but the whispers persisted, now forming words: “Join us.” Sleep eluded her, and by dawn, her eyes were bloodshot, her nerves frayed.

The villagers avoided her when she ventured out for supplies. “You’ve heard it, haven’t you?” an old woman rasped, her gaze darting to the forest. Clara nodded, unable to lie. “It’s the Woman in the Hollow,” the woman said. “She takes those who linger too long.” Clara demanded answers, but the woman hobbled away, muttering about curses. Back at the cottage, Clara found the journals open on the table, though she hadn’t touched them. A new entry, in her husband’s handwriting: “She’s here.”

Panic clawed at her chest. She burned the journals in the fireplace, the pages curling into ash, but the whispers grew louder, now a chorus of anguished voices. “You can’t leave,” they moaned. Clara packed a bag, determined to flee, but the fog thickened, swallowing the path to the village. Her lantern’s light barely pierced the haze. She stumbled toward the gate, only to find herself back at the cottage, as if the forest had rearranged itself.

By the fifth night, Clara was unraveling. Shadows danced on the walls, forming shapes—tall, gaunt, with hollow eyes. The whispers now came from inside the cottage, echoing from the floorboards, the rafters, her own reflection in the cracked mirror. “Look at me,” a voice rasped, feminine and cold. Clara spun, but no one was there. She barricaded herself in the bedroom, clutching a kitchen knife. The air grew heavy, the temperature plummeting. Her breath fogged as the whispers turned to screams: “You’re mine!”

A figure materialized in the corner—a woman, or what was left of one. Her face was a sunken mask, eyes like black pits, her dress tattered and stained with earth. Roots coiled around her limbs, pulsing like veins. Clara screamed, slashing at the air, but the knife passed through the figure. “You can’t fight me,” the Woman whispered, her voice now inside Clara’s skull. “Your husband tried.”

Clara’s mind flashed to his journals. He’d written of guilt, of a woman he’d wronged years ago, left to die in the Hollow during a storm. Was this her? The Woman’s skeletal hand reached out, brushing Clara’s cheek, cold as death. Memories flooded Clara—her husband’s lies, his disappearances, the woman he’d abandoned. Clara hadn’t known, but the Hollow didn’t care. It judged her guilty by association.

She fled to the forest, desperate to escape. The trees seemed to lean closer, their branches clawing at her coat. The Woman’s laughter echoed, her form flickering between the trunks. Clara tripped over a root, falling into a clearing. In its center stood a gnarled tree, its bark carved with names—hundreds, some fresh, some weathered. Her husband’s name was there, etched deep. Beside it, half-formed, was hers.

The ground shuddered, roots bursting from the soil, wrapping around her ankles. Clara screamed, clawing at the earth, but the roots dragged her toward the tree. The Woman’s face appeared in the bark, smiling. “You’ll stay,” she said. “Forever.” Clara’s knife was useless; the roots tightened, pulling her into the soil. Her screams faded as the earth swallowed her, the fog sealing her fate.

Days later, the villagers noticed the cottage was silent. They found it empty, Clara’s bag abandoned by the door. The forest was quiet, the whispers gone. A new name appeared on the tree, fully carved. The Hollow was satisfied—for now.

Word count: 614