The Whispering Pines

On no map was Black Hollow, the settlement. It was not the kind of location you happened onto by mistake, and it most certainly was not the kind of place you stayed. For Jack Monroe, however, it was the only place he could go.

The driving force behind his beat-up Ford sputtered as he rolled into town, the headlights slicing through the heavy fog hanging to the ground like a shroud. The only sound in the empty streets was the steady click-clack of a rusting sign swinging in the breeze. The stores were dark. Welcome to Black Hollow, reads. population: 47. Jack sc wrinkled. forty-seven. That couldn’t be right. The village looked like it hadn’t seen a living human in decades.

He drew up to the sole motel in sight, a dilapidated two-story building with a flickering neon sign that buzzed like an agitated wasp. The Whispering Pines, it declared, though Jack couldn’t see a single pine tree for miles. He took his duffle bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the cold night air. The fog wrapped about him, moist and stifling, as he made his way to the main office.

The bell above the door jingled as he went inside, the sound too loud in the suffocating silence. The chamber was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something else—something metallic, like blood. Behind the counter sat an old man with a face like crumpled paper and eyes that shone like wet stones.

“Room for the night,” Jack replied, his voice sounding weird in the stillness.

The old man didn’t speak. He merely stared, his gaze cutting through Jack like he could see every secret, every fault. Finally, he slid a key across the counter. It was cool to the touch, the number 13 carved into the brass.

“Second floor,” the old man croaked, his voice like dried leaves scraping against stone. “Don’t go wanderin’ after dark.”

Jack nodded, though the warning sent a chill down his spine. He snatched the key and proceeded toward the stairs, the wood cracking under his weight. The corridor was long and narrow, the walls coated with old wallpaper that peeled at the corners. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, and Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Room 13 was at the end of the hall. The door groaned as he pushed it open, showing a small, poorly furnished room. The bed was freshly made, the sheets clean and white, but there was something odd about it. Something abnormal. Jack dumped his bag on the floor and perched on the edge of the bed, the springs squeaking in protest. He scratched his face, attempting to dislodge the dread that had crept in his chest.

The sound started immediately after midnight.

At first, it was faint—a quiet, almost undetectable whisper that appeared to originate from the walls themselves. Jack sat up, his heart beating in his chest. The room was dark, the only light coming from the gentle shine of the moon through the window. He strained his ears, trying to make out the words, but they were just out of reach, like a half-remembered dream.

Then it grew louder.

The murmurs became voices, overlapping and intertwined, speaking in a language Jack didn’t understand. They were everywhere—in the walls, under the floor, inside his thoughts. He clapped his palms over his ears, but it didn’t help. The whispers were inside him, creeping across his thoughts like insects.

“Stop,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Please, stop.”

But they didn’t stop. They grew louder, more insistent, until Jack couldn’t take it anymore. He bolted from the room, the key still clutched in his hand, and ran down the stairs. The old man was gone, the office dark and empty. Jack burst through the front door and into the night, the fog swallowing him whole.

The town was different now. The streets were no longer empty. Shadows moved in the corners of his vision, shapes that flickered and danced just out of sight. The whispers followed him, growing louder with every step. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he had to get away.

The road led him to the edge of town, where the trees grew thick and twisted, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The fog was thicker here, the air colder. Jack stumbled forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The whispers were deafening now, a cacophony of voices that screamed and laughed and cried.

And then he saw it.

The house stood at the end of the road, its windows dark and empty. It was old—older than the town itself—and it radiated a sense of malevolence that made Jack’s skin crawl. The whispers were coming from inside, calling to him, drawing him in.

He didn’t want to go. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to turn back, to run as far and as fast as he could. But his feet moved on their own, carrying him closer and closer to the house. The door creaked open as he approached, revealing a yawning black void.

The whispers stopped.

The silence was worse. It pressed down on him, suffocating and heavy, as he stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of decay, the floorboards groaning under his weight. The house was alive, he realized. It was breathing, its walls pulsing like the sides of some great beast.

“Welcome home, Jack.”

The voice came from behind him, soft and familiar. He turned, his heart pounding in his chest, and saw her. Sarah. His wife. She looked just as she had the day she died, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her eyes filled with warmth and love.

“Sarah,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “How…?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve been running for so long, Jack. But you can’t run from this. Not anymore.”

He reached for her, his hand trembling, but she stepped back, her form flickering like a dying light. The house groaned, the walls closing in around him. The whispers returned, louder than before, and he realized they weren’t just voices—they were memories. His memories. Every mistake, every regret, every sin he’d tried to bury.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

But it was. The house was inside him now, its roots digging deep into his soul. He fell to his knees, the weight of it crushing him. Sarah’s form dissolved into the darkness, her voice echoing in his mind.

“You can’t escape, Jack. You never could.”

The walls closed in, the darkness swallowing him whole. And then there was nothing.

When the sun rose over Black Hollow, the town was silent once more. The motel stood empty, its doors hanging open like gaping mouths. The sign outside creaked in the wind, the letters faded and cracked.

Welcome to Black Hollow. Population: 47.

But if you listened closely, you could hear it—a faint, almost imperceptible whisper, carried on the wind. And if you followed it, you’d find yourself at the edge of town, where the trees grew thick and twisted, and the house waited.

It was always waiting.