The Whispers Beneath Black Hollow

Black Hollow had been abandoned for nearly forty years, its twisted trees and rotted cabins a grim reminder of a town that vanished without a trace. Locals in the neighboring county warned hikers to stay away, claiming the place was cursed—filled with whispers that didn’t belong to the wind.

Of course, stories like that only attracted people like Noah.

Noah Chandler was a self-proclaimed urban explorer and horror vlogger, eager to capture genuine terror for his YouTube channel. He wasn’t afraid of ghost stories or superstitions. With a GoPro strapped to his chest and a drone hovering overhead, he crossed into Black Hollow at dusk, ignoring the rusted “KEEP OUT” signs nailed to trees like forgotten warnings.

He began with the old church, its steeple collapsed and stained-glass windows shattered. Inside, warped pews sat in splinters, and mildew coated the pulpit. He panned his flashlight across the altar and whispered into his mic, “Welcome to your worst nightmare.”

The church answered with a low groan, the wood shifting as though it breathed.

Noah smirked. “Nice touch.”

He moved on, entering what remained of the town square. The silence was absolute—no birds, no wind, not even the buzzing of insects. It was like nature itself had disowned the place. That’s when he first heard it.

A whisper.

Not quite a voice, not quite wind. Just behind him.

He spun around. No one.

He checked his mic. Static crackled faintly in his earpiece. Then another whisper: “Noah…”

His blood chilled. He hadn’t told anyone his exact location. He rationalized—someone found his channel, maybe followed him here. A prank? A stalker?

He drew his flashlight like a weapon and called out, “Who’s there?”

The only answer was laughter—dry, distant, childlike.

He followed the sound to the old schoolhouse. The double doors creaked open at his touch, revealing desks overturned and chalk dust floating through the air like ash. Faint scribbles were still visible on the blackboard:

“Do Not Listen to Them.”
“We Belong to the Hollow Now.”

Suddenly, his drone feed on his phone glitched. The screen went dark, then flashed a still image: him standing in front of the church—but something stood behind him. A tall, emaciated figure with eyes like black lanterns and a mouth far too wide, stretched in an eternal scream.

Then the screen went black again.

Noah’s breath came fast and ragged. He started to back out of the schoolhouse, but the doors slammed shut. Whispers erupted all around him—dozens, hundreds, all speaking at once in unintelligible fragments. Some cried. Some laughed. Some begged for help.

And one repeated his name. Over and over.

"Noah. Noah. Noah. Noah"

He screamed, hurling his flashlight at the blackboard. The room blinked—literally blinked—going dark for a second, then returning, but something had changed. The desks were back in place. Children sat at them.

But their faces were blank. No eyes. No mouths. Just smooth, pale skin.

One of them stood and walked toward him. As it neared, its face began to peel, slowly revealing a wide, wet grin and lidless eyes.

“Time to listen,” it whispered.

Noah bolted.

He burst through a window and ran. Trees clawed at him. Shadows moved between trunks like predators circling prey. His camera chest strap caught on a branch and tore free, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even notice he was bleeding until he tripped and landed in a shallow ravine.

At the bottom, he heard it again.

“Time to listen.”

He turned—and saw himself. His exact double, clothes and all, standing over him. Except its eyes were empty pits, and its mouth hung open, unhinged like a snake’s. From its mouth, a thousand whispers spilled.

Noah tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed.



They never found his body. Only the drone, stuck in a tree, and a livestream video that went viral for all the wrong reasons.

Viewers swore they could still hear whispers in the background, calling for someone else.

“Come to Black Hollow.”
“It’s your turn to listen.”