Whispers from Hollow Creek

The road to Hollow Creek, Virginia, was long and silent.

Ethan, Clara, and David — three college friends — had come for a weekend photography trip. The town was said to be abandoned since 1974, after a mysterious flood that no one survived.

But according to Ethan, there was more to the story.

“Locals say the town reappears every October,” he said, eyes gleaming behind the steering wheel. “Just for one night.”

David laughed. “And ghosts hand out candy too, huh?”

Clara, sitting in the back seat, frowned. “Let’s just take the photos and leave before dark.”

The sun dipped low as they reached the broken wooden sign that read:

“Welcome to Hollow Creek — Population: 243.”

The number had been crossed out.

They parked beside an old church that leaned sideways like it was too tired to stand. The windows were shattered, the bell rusted and still. Yet inside, faint candlelight flickered.

“Someone’s here,” Clara whispered.

They stepped in cautiously.

The air smelled like wet earth and old incense.

Candles lined the pews, still burning — though no one was around.

David lifted his camera. “Perfect lighting. Creepy as hell.”

When the flash went off, something moved at the end of the aisle — a tall shadow that didn’t belong to any of them.

“Ethan?” Clara whispered.

But Ethan was beside her, frozen.

The shadow lingered, then vanished into the sacristy.

Outside, fog had rolled in thick and silent.

They could barely see the car anymore.

“Let’s go,” Clara urged. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

As they stepped back onto the dirt road, they saw something strange — houses that weren’t there before. Wooden porches glowing faintly, windows lit from inside.

David’s voice trembled. “Wasn’t this place supposed to be deserted?”

Ethan nodded slowly. “It was.”

And then, from one of the houses, came a sound — a faint hum. A woman’s voice singing a lullaby.

“Hush now, little one, don’t you weep…”

It echoed softly through the fog.

They followed the voice to a two-story house with a swinging porch light.

The front door creaked open on its own.

Inside, the air was warm, the lamps glowing.

A dining table was set — three chairs, steaming cups of tea, and bread that looked freshly baked.

David whispered, “It’s like they knew we were coming.”

Then a figure appeared at the top of the stairs — a woman in a 19th-century gown, her face pale as chalk, eyes dark as coal.

“You’re late,” she said. Her voice was calm.

Clara stumbled back. “Who are you?”

The woman smiled faintly. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Her head tilted at an unnatural angle — the sound of bones cracking filled the room.

David dropped his camera. “Run!”

They bolted outside, but the fog had thickened.

The road was gone. The church, gone. Even the car — gone.

They were standing in an endless field of gravestones.

Ethan picked one and brushed away the moss.

It read:

Ethan Cole — 1953–1974.

He froze. “That’s… my name.”

Clara checked another stone.

Clara James — 1953–1974.

And another:

David Ward — 1952–1974.

Her hands shook. “This can’t be real. We’re alive!”

From the mist, the woman’s voice returned — now closer.

“You never left, my dear ones. You drowned with the rest of us.”

They turned — the woman stood right behind them, her dress floating like smoke.

Water dripped from her fingers.

And then the ground began to tremble.

The field shimmered, turning into a black lake — the water rising around their knees.

David screamed. “We have to get out!”

But the car was there again, flickering in and out of sight like a fading dream.

Ethan grabbed Clara’s hand. “Run! Now!”

They splashed through the water, reaching the car just as the lake swallowed the last gravestone.

The engine roared to life — somehow — and they sped away through the fog.

For a moment, it seemed they’d escaped.

But when they reached the highway, everything was wrong —

no stars, no other cars, no sound. Just silence.

Hours later, a police cruiser found their abandoned vehicle by the roadside — doors open, headlights still on, but no sign of the three friends.

Only the camera remained, sitting on the passenger seat.

The last photo showed the three of them standing in front of the church — smiling.

Behind them, the woman in the white gown stood, her hand resting on Ethan’s shoulder.

By Muhammad Ishaq