“Whispers Beyond the Hollow”

The villagers of Ebon Hollow knew better than to venture beyond the tree line after dusk. There were stories, of course—old wives’ tales, the elders said—but every generation had one or two fools who didn’t listen. And they never came back.

At the edge of the hollow, where the forest thickened and the wind stilled unnaturally, stood the remnants of an old chapel. It hadn’t been used in decades, not since the fire that consumed it along with the parish priest and seven villagers. The strange thing was, no one remembered lighting any candles that night.

Eleanor was new to Ebon Hollow. A literature student from the city, she had come to the quiet village to work on her thesis about rural folklore. She dismissed the tales as charming but overblown. The whispering woods? Cursed chapel? Clearly metaphors—symbols of grief, trauma, or superstitions passed down like heirlooms.

She rented a cottage near the edge of the forest. The villagers were kind but wary, especially when she asked about the old chapel. They’d wave her off or change the subject. Old Marla, who ran the bakery, was the only one who gave her anything close to an answer.

“Some places don’t want to be remembered, love,” she said, kneading dough with gnarled fingers. “And some voices… they find a way back when you dig too deep.”

Eleanor smiled politely and left with a loaf of rye and more questions than answers.

That evening, she stood at her back porch, sipping tea. The forest loomed in front of her, strangely silent. Not a single birdcall. Then, she heard it.

A whisper.

So faint she thought it was the wind. But it wasn’t.

“Help… me…”

She turned sharply, nearly dropping her cup. The whisper came again, clearer now, from beyond the hollow. She stepped toward the trees, only a few paces, but the temperature seemed to drop with each footfall.

Eleanor told herself it was her imagination, that she was simply immersed in her research. Still, that night, she dreamed of the chapel. In her dream, it was whole again—wooden pews, candles flickering, and a congregation of pale-faced villagers whispering in unison. At the altar stood a man with no eyes.

She woke covered in sweat, heart pounding.

The next day, she hiked into the woods with her notebook and camera. The deeper she went, the more unnatural the forest felt. The light dimmed despite the clear sky. And then she found it.

The chapel’s remains lay crumbled in a moss-choked clearing. Stone steps led to a blackened doorway. Ivy and dead vines clung to the scorched wood. Something about the place pulled at her, like gravity for the soul.

Inside, it was worse. The air was heavy, oppressive. The charred floorboards groaned under her weight. Her flashlight flickered.

That’s when she heard them again.

The whispers.

Only this time, it wasn’t just one voice—it was many.

They rose and fell like the wind, weaving into each other. Some were sobbing. Others chanting. She stepped closer to the altar and found the floorboards stained dark—old, dried blood.

She backed away, suddenly nauseous. Her head spun. She dropped her flashlight and as it rolled, its beam caught something in the corner: a cracked mirror leaning against the wall.

In it, she saw the chapel—not ruined, but alive. People filled the pews, whispering, faces twisted in anguish. The priest stood behind the altar, arms raised.

She turned around. The chapel was still in ruins.

But the mirror was not lying.

A force shoved her back, and her head struck the wall. Dazed, she scrambled outside and didn’t stop running until she was back at her cottage, trembling, breath ragged.

That night, the whispers followed her home.

They crept into her dreams, her waking thoughts, even the silence between heartbeats. She heard names. Screams. A child’s lullaby sung backward.

Determined to understand, Eleanor visited the village archive the next morning. In a locked drawer, she found a brittle folder marked “Chapel Incident—1897.”

The records were horrifying. The priest, Father Merrill, had gone mad, convinced he could “cleanse” the villagers of their sins through fire. On the night of the equinox, he sealed the chapel and set it ablaze with everyone inside. Those who tried to escape claimed to hear “a voice not of this world” speaking through the priest.

The most chilling part: none of the bodies were ever found. Just ashes. And whispers.

Eleanor decided to leave Ebon Hollow. She packed that night, resolved to abandon her research.

But as she zipped her suitcase, the lights flickered. The air turned cold.

And then, from behind her:

“You can’t leave us… Eleanor.”

She froze.

Turning slowly, she saw the mirror above her fireplace had gone dark. A figure stood inside—Father Merrill. His eyes were hollow. Black liquid ran from his lips as he whispered.

“You heard us. Now you are one of us.”

The room dissolved into darkness. Her scream was never heard.


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The cottage remains empty. Locals say you can still hear typing late at night, or a woman’s voice asking, “Did you hear that?” before the air goes still.

And deep in the woods, if you listen closely beyond the hollow, you’ll hear her.

Whispering.