Story 915: The House on Black Hollow Hill

The cabin stood at the edge of the world, where the trees grew twisted and the ground seemed to breathe. Moonlight bathed the slanted roof in silver, but the shadows clung to its walls like a second skin.

Draven and Mira approached cautiously. The howl of distant creatures sent a chill through the air. Behind them, Elias gripped his flask, muttering a prayer under his breath.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he said.

Draven ignored him and stepped onto the rotting porch. The wood groaned under his weight. He reached for the rusted handle—but before he could turn it, the door creaked open on its own.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and old blood. Candles burned on warped furniture, their flames flickering as if whispering secrets. The walls were covered in scratched symbols, warnings from past trespassers.

Then came the whispers.

Mira turned, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”

Elias swallowed hard. “Yeah. And I really wish I didn’t.”