Whispers from the Hollow

The small town of Durnwell had one rule—never go near Blackroot Hollow after sunset. Tucked behind dense trees and fog-drenched marshland, the hollow was more than just a place on a map; it was a wound in the land. A place that breathed when the wind stopped. A place that whispered.

Eliza Carver didn’t believe in ghost stories. A journalist for a regional blog, she specialized in debunking superstitions. So, when her editor assigned her to write a Halloween special on “America’s Most Haunted Places,” she chose Durnwell specifically to dismantle the legend of Blackroot Hollow.

She arrived on October 27th, armed with a camera, a flashlight, and her skepticism.

The townspeople were polite, but cold. Any mention of the hollow drew tight lips and darting eyes. The mayor politely declined an interview. The librarian shut her desk drawer when Eliza asked about old news articles. Only one person dared speak to her—an old woman named Martha Pike, who ran the town’s antique store.

“They buried her out there, you know,” Martha said, her voice gravelly with age and warning.

“Who?” Eliza asked.

“The girl. Sarah Wren. 1912. She went missing for three days. Came back... different. Eyes too wide, skin like wax. Kept whisperin’ in the night, sayin’ she heard voices from the trees. One morning, she was gone. Just a trail of blood from her bed to the edge of the woods.”

“Let me guess,” Eliza smirked, “they blamed the hollow.”

“No,” Martha said quietly. “The hollow blamed us.”

That night, Eliza packed a thermal jacket, her gear, and headed to the edge of Blackroot Hollow just before sunset.

It was quieter than she expected. Too quiet. The woods seemed to absorb sound, like the trees drank noise like water. As the light dimmed, an unnatural fog rose from the ground, curling around her ankles like fingers.

She clicked on her flashlight.

Branches snapped behind her.

She turned. Nothing.

“Just wildlife,” she whispered, forcing a laugh. But even her own voice seemed dampened, like it struggled to escape her throat.

She wandered deeper into the hollow. Then, she heard it.

A whisper.

So faint, it felt like it came from inside her skull.

“Eliza...”

She froze.

“Nope. Not happening,” she muttered, turning back the way she came. But the path was gone. She spun in a circle. Trees. Fog. Darkness.

Then, a voice, louder now.

“Stay...”

She ran. Branches whipped her face. Her flashlight flickered and died. She stumbled, fell, and rolled into a shallow depression—a pit overgrown with moss and old stone.

As she struggled to stand, her hand hit something cold.

Wood.

A piece of rotting coffin.

She screamed as skeletal fingers curled around her wrist from the dirt.

“Eliza...”

The voice was behind her now.

She turned, and there, standing at the rim of the pit, was a girl in a white dress, drenched in mud and blood. Her eyes glowed faintly green. Her mouth twitched.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the girl said.

Eliza tried to scramble away, but more hands clawed up from the earth, pulling her down. She kicked, screamed, bit—but they were strong. Too strong.

The girl stepped into the pit, kneeling beside her.

“One always stays. That’s the rule.”

And then everything went dark.

Eliza’s body was never found.

Her blog posted one final entry, timestamped 3:13 a.m. the next day:

“They whisper the truth when no one's listening. I heard her. I saw her. I understand now. The hollow doesn’t trap you. It chooses you.”

The post was deleted an hour later.

No one in Durnwell talks about her.

But if you walk near Blackroot Hollow on a foggy night, some say you’ll hear a woman’s voice whisper your name. And if you answer...

You may never leave.