Story 1149: The Hollow-Eyed Herd

They came at dusk, always in silence, always in a line.

The people of Graypast Hollow had long accepted the rules: no lanterns after sunset, no loud voices on the third night of the new moon, and never—never—look directly at the herd.

Malric Bane didn’t believe in rules. A traveler, ex-soldier, and fool in equal measure, he thought the village superstitions were cowardice disguised as wisdom. So, when the mayor warned him of the Hollow-Eyed Herd, he laughed and said, “Ghost cows? Really?”

The old man didn’t smile. “They are not cattle. They are penance in motion.”

That night, the wind died.

Malric sat outside the inn, pipe lit, eyes scanning the treeline for anything worth fearing.

He heard them before he saw them: soft footfalls, too many to count. A rhythmic cadence, like a funeral drum muffled beneath layers of earth.

Then they appeared—emerging from the mist that always clung to the edge of Graypast Hollow.