"Whispers from the Hollow"

When Clara first heard of Black Hollow, it was from a faded postcard tucked between the pages of her grandmother’s journal. “Do not follow the whispers,” the note read, written in shaky cursive that had bled through the yellowed paper. The image was of a mossy path under arching trees, choked in mist. Beautiful. Haunted.

After her grandmother’s funeral, Clara couldn’t stop thinking about it. The village wasn’t on any modern map. No GPS signal reached its borders. But something about the postcard pulled her—an ache like homesickness for a place she had never been.

She went in the fall, when the woods turned to fire and gold. The road was narrow, flanked by old trees that arched like cathedral ceilings overhead. There were no signs. Only a single wooden post carved with the words: Black Hollow – Keep Out.

She passed it.

The village sat like a forgotten memory. Ivy swallowed the houses. The church steeple leaned like a drunk. And yet, Clara felt like someone was watching her—welcoming her back.

There were no people. No birdsong. Just silence so thick it buzzed.

She stayed in her car the first night, too unnerved to unpack her things. At midnight, she heard it: a whisper, soft as breath against her ear.

“Clara…”

She jolted awake, eyes wide, hand trembling as she reached for the flashlight. Nothing. Just the wind sliding through cracked shutters.

The next day, she explored the hollow. Her grandmother’s journal had mentioned a house at the edge of the woods. “Where the trees breathe,” the journal said. She found it by noon—three stories high, windows like eyes, and a porch that groaned under her weight.

Inside, it smelled of lavender and rot. Dust thick enough to write her name in. But it was beautiful in a way that unnerved her—like a memory trying to seduce her.

In the attic, she found an old mirror draped in a black veil. Something in her resisted touching it. She backed away.

That night, she dreamed of the mirror.

In the dream, she stood before it, and her reflection smiled first.

She woke up screaming.

Day three, the whispers got louder.

They didn’t just call her name—they begged, wept, laughed. The voices sounded familiar. One of them was her grandmother’s. “You shouldn't be here,” it said. “They’ll hollow you out.”

Clara tried to leave. Her car wouldn’t start. Her phone was dead.

The trees looked different now—closer. Watching.

She ran back to the house.

The mirror waited.

She didn’t want to look—but something pulled her.

This time, she pulled the veil away.

Her reflection stared back… and then it moved. It tilted its head, smiled wider, and whispered, “You belong here now.”

Clara screamed. But no sound came out. The mirror pulsed like it was breathing. Her reflection stepped forward—and Clara felt herself pulled toward the glass.

The attic went cold. Whispers swirled like a hurricane. Her grandmother’s voice screamed, “RUN!”

But it was too late.

Clara’s hand touched the glass—and vanished.

Her reflection stepped out.

It looked around the room, blinked once, and smiled.

It walked down the stairs, out the door, and into the woods.

Behind the mirror, Clara screamed and pounded the glass. But no one could hear her.

Not anymore.

Black Hollow had claimed another soul.

And the whispering never stopped.