The Hollow Tree

In the heart of a forest few dare to enter, there stands an ancient tree that does not bloom. It creaks without wind, bleeds sap as thick as blood, and whispers to those foolish enough to wander near. It is said that the tree is hollow—but not empty.

Legends grow from the roots of places like this. Some are forgotten. Others are buried. And a few… refuse to stay silent.

The following is a narrative poem inspired by that legend—a blend of folklore, psychological horror, and the eerie magic that haunts dark woods and darker hearts.

The Hollow Tree (Narrative Horror Poem)

There’s a hollow tree in the forest deep,

Where time forgets and shadows sleep.

Its trunk is black, its limbs are bare,

And yet you’ll feel it watching there.

Its bark is cracked, its roots exposed,

A wound upon the earth, composed

Of whispered names and stolen breath—

A monument to quiet death.

It hums at dusk a breathless song,

Not sweet nor sad, but deeply wrong.

The kind of sound that chills the bone,

And tells you that you're not alone.

A child once walked the wooded trail,

Her lantern dim, her face turned pale.

She wandered past the woven path,

And met the tree’s consuming wrath.

She heard her name within the wind,

A voice both cruel and strangely kin.

"Come closer, child," it seemed to say,

"One touch, and all will drift away."

She placed her hand upon the bark—

It pulsed like skin, it moved, it marked.

A sudden gasp, a blinding gleam,

Then silence swallowed up her scream.

The forest stilled, the tree grew tall,

Its branches stretched, as if in thrall.

Another soul had joined its core,

Another whisper, evermore.

A traveler came with boots and blade,

A cynic soul, unscarred, unswayed.

He laughed at tales the townsfolk told,

But pride dies fast in places cold.

He struck the tree and bark flew wide,

And from its hollow came a cry.

Not beast nor man, but something old—

A song of hunger uncontrolled.

Roots surged up from dirt below,

Wrapped round his throat, refused to go.

The final thing he saw that night

Was bark that bloomed with pale moonlight.

Some say he walks those woods today,

A silent shade that’s lost his way.

His eyes are gone, but still they see—

Forever bound to that cursed tree.

The seasons change, but still it stands,

Its roots like veins beneath the land.

It waits for dusk, for steps too near,

It feeds on grief, and drinks in fear.

At times, the bark will shift and show

A face, a hand, someone you know.

It mimics hope, it mimics love—

But all it offers comes from below.

They say the tree was never born,

But grown from grief, from rage and scorn.

A seed of sorrow long ago

That drank the tears the world let flow.

Now when the moon is high and red,

And winds howl loud with words unsaid,

You’ll hear the branches creak and sway—

The Hollow Tree has found its prey.

Afterword: The Roots of Fear

The Hollow Tree is more than a tale—it’s a reflection of how nature, memory, and myth intertwine. In folklore around the world, trees are often seen as gateways: to spirits, to secrets, and to other worlds. But what happens when the gateway stops letting people back out?

This poem is a meditation on temptation, grief, and the things we’re drawn to when we’re lost. The tree doesn't chase its victims—it waits. It calls to those with something missing. And like many real fears in life, it waits quietly, patiently, until someone steps just a little too close.

So if you ever find yourself in a forest you can’t name, with a tree that hums and branches that reach… walk the other way.

Some hollows are never meant to be filled.