The Town of Cold Hollow

I was never one for small towns, but Cold Hollow seemed like a decent place to start over. Tucked away in a remote corner of New England, it was a small, religious town surrounded by dense forests and far removed from the bustling cities I was used to. While I wasn't particularly religious, I found the town quaint, almost charming. It was the kind of place that felt frozen in time, where people still greeted you with a nod and a smile, and everyone knew everyone. Life here moved at a slower pace—a stark contrast to the life I was accustomed to, but a change I welcomed.

I arrived on a crisp autumn afternoon, my car packed with everything I owned. The job as the new schoolteacher was a godsend after months of searching, and the small, cozy house the town provided was more than I could have hoped for. Nestled at the edge of town near the forest, it had a small garden and a picket fence—a perfect setting for a fresh start, a chance to leave the past behind.

The first few days went smoothly. The townsfolk were friendly, if a bit reserved, and the students at the school were polite and eager to learn. But beneath the surface, something about Cold Hollow felt off. It wasn't anything I could pinpoint at first—just a vague unease that settled in the pit of my stomach. In hindsight, I wish I had paid more attention to that feeling.

It all began with the church. Every town has its place of worship, but this one was different. It was an imposing structure made of dark stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The church loomed over the town square, its narrow windows like watchful eyes. I noticed that people often gathered there at odd hours, even during the day, but I dismissed it as just another quirk of small-town life—at least, that's what I told myself.

One Sunday, curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to visit the church to get a better sense of the community I was now a part of. As I approached the entrance, a few townspeople standing nearby watched me closely. When I got closer, an elderly woman with a pinched face stepped forward and blocked my path.

"You don't belong here," she said sharply, her voice laced with an edge of warning. "The church isn't for outsiders."

Before I could respond, a man joined her, his expression equally cold. "You'd do best to stay away," he added, his tone leaving no room for argument.

A prickle of unease crawled up my spine, and I decided to back off, mumbling an apology as I turned away. As I walked back to my house, I could feel their eyes boring into my back. The encounter only deepened the sense of wrongness that had been gnawing at me since I arrived in Cold Hollow. Why would a church, a place of worship, be so hostile to a newcomer?

The next strange event happened during my second week in town. I had just finished teaching for the day and was packing up when I noticed one of my students, a quiet girl named Lucy, lingering by the door. She was one of my best students—bright, attentive, but always a bit withdrawn. That day, she seemed more nervous than usual, her eyes darting around the empty classroom.

"Everything okay, Lucy?" I asked gently.

She hesitated, chewing on her lip. "Mr. Carter... do you believe in the Old Ones?"

I frowned, unsure if I had heard her correctly. "The Old Ones? What do you mean?"

She looked down at her shoes, shuffling her feet. "They're... our masters and protectors. My grandma says they're always watching."

A chill ran down my spine at her words. It was such an odd thing for a child to say, and the way she said it—so matter-of-factly—unsettled me.

"Lucy, why did you bring this up?" I asked, kneeling to her level.

She hesitated before speaking again. "I was just...curious. everyone in town knows about them. I was wondering if you did too."

I forced a smile, trying to mask the unease I felt. "No, this is the first I've heard of them. But I'd like to know more."

She paused briefly, then continued, her voice almost a whisper. "I shouldn't , grandma would be mad at me, they don't like out-of-towners knowing about them."

Before I could ask her more, Lucy turned and bolted out the door, leaving me with more questions than answers. I tried to convince myself it was just a child's overactive imagination or a local legend meant to scare kids. But the certainty in her voice gnawed at me.

In the days that followed, I began to notice other strange things. The way conversations would stop when I approached, the tight-lipped smiles that replaced whatever had been said. The increasing frequency with which people gathered at the church, especially at night. From my window, I could see dark shapes moving through the streets, heading toward that looming structure.

And then there was the incident at the school.

It was a Friday afternoon, and the students were restless, eager to head home for the weekend. I was midway through the lesson when the lights suddenly flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. The children gasped, their voices hushed in the sudden gloom. Power outages weren't uncommon in Cold Hollow, but this felt different.

A low hum filled the air, almost like a distant vibration. It was faint at first, barely noticeable, but it grew louder, more insistent, unsettling the students who began to fidget nervously in their seats, their whispers filling the darkened classroom.

Then, just as abruptly as it had started, the lights flickered back on, and the hum ceased, leaving an eerie silence behind. I forced a smile, quickly wrapping up the lesson and ushering the students out the door. But as they filed out, something on the blackboard caught my eye.

A strange symbol—a crude, looping design—was scrawled where I had been writing earlier. I knew I hadn't drawn it. The sight of it sent a chill down my spine. When I reached out to erase it, the chalk felt unnaturally cold in my hand, and the sensation lingered long after the symbol was gone.

That night, I couldn't sleep. Thoughts of the symbol, Lucy's unsettling words, and the peculiar behavior of the townspeople churned in my mind. There was something wrong in Cold Hollow, something that was becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.

The next morning, I decided to investigate. The town's library was small but held a surprising collection of local history. I spent hours sifting through old books and dusty records, searching for anything that might explain the strange events.

What I found only deepened my unease.

Cold Hollow's history stretched back to the early colonial days, but there were disturbing gaps—periods where records were missing or glossed over. There were also mentions of disappearances, strange rituals, and a secretive group called "The Order of the Old Ones." The more I read, the more the pieces began to fit together.

The strange church, the odd behavior of the townsfolk, the symbol on the blackboard—it all pointed to something sinister. Perhaps The Order of the Old Ones wasn't just a legend, but a very real, very active part of this town. Cold Hollow was not the quaint, religious community I had first imagined; it was something much darker, hiding its true nature behind a facade of simplicity.

As I left the library, the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the town. I could feel eyes on me, watching from the darkened windows of the old houses. The friendly smiles that had once greeted me now seemed like masks, concealing something much more sinister.

I tried to dismiss my thoughts as paranoia, as if I were simply overanalyzing things. But deep down, I knew I was right. There was something deeply wrong with this town, a hidden horror beneath the surface that I was no longer sure I wanted to uncover.

That night, I barricaded myself in my house, heart pounding as I listened to the sounds outside. Around midnight, a low, rhythmic chanting began, carried on the wind from the direction of the church. I tried to block it out, but it seeped into my mind, filling me with a primal fear.

By dawn, I had made up my mind—I had to leave Cold Hollow before it was too late. But as I packed my things, a sense of dread settled over me. It felt like it was already too late, like I had seen too much.

The next day, as I was about to get into my car, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my landlord, his usual friendly smile replaced with something colder, more sinister.

"Leaving so soon, Mr. Carter?" he asked, his grip tightening.

"I… I just need to take care of something in the city," I stammered, trying to pull away.

He didn't let go. "There's no need for that. Everything you need is right here in Cold Hollow."

The way he said it sent a chill through me. I looked around and realized we weren't alone. The townspeople had gathered, their faces blank, their eyes vacant, watching me with an unsettling intensity.

I knew then that I wasn't going to make it out of Cold Hollow. Whatever was happening here, I was now a part of it—whether I wanted to be or not.

That night, they took me to the church. This time, the doors opened for me, and I was led inside, surrounded by the townspeople in a tight circle. The air was thick with incense, and the chanting grew louder, more insistent.

As I was forced to kneel before the altar, I saw it. A grotesque, writhing figure at the center of the altar, its many eyes fixed on me, its tentacles reaching out, eager to claim another soul.

I screamed, but no one heard me, no one came to save me. The last thing I remember was the cold, slimy touch of the creature as it dragged me into the darkness, my mind unraveling as It consumed my very essence.

Now, I am part of Cold Hollow, just like the others. My mind is gone, lost to the ancient horrors that dwell beneath this town. I am a hollow shell, a puppet to the will of the Old Ones.

And soon, you will be too.