The road leading to Black Hollow was cracked and overgrown, a forgotten pathway winding deep into the woods. Few had reason to visit the abandoned village, its name whispered only in hushed tones among locals.
Once a thriving settlement, Black Hollow had gained infamy for a series of mysterious disappearances spanning over a century. People who ventured into the village were never seen again. The authorities had long since given up investigating, leaving the town to decay in silence. Yet, despite its abandonment, the village remained eerily intact, as if time itself had ceased to exist there.
Curious and stubborn, journalist Ethan Carter set out to uncover the truth. He had heard the stories, the myths of shadowy figures lurking in the mist and the echoing cries of the vanished. To him, it was the perfect mystery to solve.
Equipped with a flashlight, a camera, and a voice recorder, Ethan entered Black Hollow just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The village was shrouded in an unnatural fog, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. The houses stood undisturbed, doors ajar, their interiors frozen in time. A dinner table set with plates of untouched food, a child’s toy abandoned mid-play, beds neatly made—as if their occupants had simply vanished into thin air.
As he explored, Ethan’s recorder picked up faint whispers, barely audible. He paused, heart pounding, and played it back. The whispers grew clearer, fragmented words emerging: “Run… They see… Don’t stay.”
A chill crawled up his spine, but he pressed on, determined to unravel the enigma. A journal found in one of the homes provided chilling insight. The last entry, dated over fifty years ago, read: “They come with the mist. Eyes in the dark. We are not alone.”
The words sent a shiver through him, but before he could process their meaning, a sound echoed through the village—a slow, deliberate knock coming from a house at the end of the street.
Ethan hesitated, but curiosity won over fear. He approached the house, the door creaking open before he even touched it. The interior was untouched by time, much like the others. But the air here was thick, suffocating. A staircase led upward, shadows pooling at its base.
As he took a cautious step inside, the whispers grew louder, more insistent. Footsteps creaked overhead. He wasn’t alone.
Ethan raised his flashlight, sweeping it up the stairs. At the top stood a figure, its face obscured by darkness. It didn’t move, didn’t breathe—just watched. The journalist’s blood ran cold as he reached for his camera. The flash illuminated the figure for a split second.
A face, distorted and hollow-eyed, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.
The camera slipped from his hands as the house groaned, the walls seeming to pulse as shadows slithered from the corners. A force yanked him backward, pulling him toward the door. Ethan stumbled outside, gasping for breath. The mist thickened, swirling unnaturally as more figures emerged from the darkness, their eyes voids of endless black.
He ran, blindly pushing through the fog, his own panicked breathing echoing in his ears. The village stretched endlessly around him, the road he had entered from nowhere to be found. The whispers grew deafening. Shadows clawed at his vision.
Then, silence.
Ethan awoke to daylight filtering through the trees. He was lying on the outskirts of Black Hollow, his belongings scattered around him. The village was gone. No houses, no streets—just an empty clearing where it once stood.
His camera remained in his grip, fingers frozen around it. With trembling hands, he played back the last image he had taken.
A blurred figure, its mouth open in an endless scream. And behind it, dozens more, their hollow eyes fixed on him.
The truth was clear—Black Hollow hadn’t been abandoned. It had simply taken its residents elsewhere.
And now, Ethan feared, it had taken him too.
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