Story 1017: Crone’s Hollow

The trees began to whisper long before the survivors reached the edge of Crone’s Hollow. Their branches curled like claws, tangled with moss, bone charms, and the brittle feathers of birds too afraid to fly. The mist that clung to the roots was thick as milk, and it moved against the wind.

“This place wasn't on the map,” Esmé muttered, her voice swallowed by the hush.

“It’s not supposed to be,” replied Gideon Moth, who once studied the forbidden cartography of the eldritch. “Crone’s Hollow finds you.”

At the heart of the forest stood a crooked house on birdlike stilts, its windows glowing with a sickly green light. Smoke spiraled from a chimney shaped like a screaming mouth. Something inside was stirring a pot that smelled of rot, rain, and regret.

The Crone.

A being older than bones. A whisperer of spells. And sometimes, a feeder of the dead.

Wrapped in patchwork rags and crowned with antlers, she greeted them with a smile too wide and eyes that saw across timelines.