The sun didn’t set in the town of Hollow Creek; it simply sunk into a blanket of low-lying fog. You’d think the chill rolling in from the mountains would drive folks indoors, but not in this place. If anything, it drew the restless out; the kind of people who sought thrills in the shadows, who were drawn by the whisper of something ancient slumbering beneath the surface. I was one of them, though I’d learned long before that the thrill often came at a price.
My name is Izzy, and if you’d met me on any normal day, you might have found me at Mulligan’s Bar, polishing the bar top with old rags and nursing a whiskey the color of burnt caramel. But lately, there was nothing normal about my days. I spent them roving through the woods, armed and uneasy, seeking out something I didn’t fully understand, but I knew existed. I had a gut feeling, and that gut feeling was worth more than any sense of security a full magazine of bullets could provide.
Just last week, I’d found myself at the edge of the woods, heart hammering like a drummer at a funeral. The kind of woods that didn’t just smell of pine and damp earth but carried the sweetness of something wrong. I felt it in my bones, in the hairs on the back of my neck standing like soldiers at attention. My Glock was tucked snugly into my waistband, its weight a comfort as I stepped carefully through the underbrush.
You see, Hollow Creek was built on stories—old ones about spirits and shadows. There were whispers of a young girl named Clara who had vanished over a hundred years ago, her laughter once echoing through the trees. They said she lingered still, searching for her family, her laughter twisted into something sinister, a siren call to draw the unsuspecting into the woods where time zigzagged like a broken compass. She was said to appear at dusk, a flickering light among the trees, and if you followed that light—well, you’d either find your way home or lose yourself forever.
I hadn’t believed the tales at first, but then came the disappearances. Two weeks ago, the sheriff’s son went missing, and then it was the baker’s daughter. Just last night, the park ranger had given me a heads-up about a woman who’d been shouting from the edge of the woods, her voice trailing off into nothing. A spirit, perhaps? Or just madness? I was here to find out.
I pushed deeper into the thicket, the trees closing around me as the fading light turned everything to gray. I gripped my Glock, letting its cold steel ground me in this shifting reality. The shadows danced like phantoms as I moved, the underbrush crackling beneath my weight. There was a heaviness in the air, thick enough to choke on, and I could feel the weight of those stories pressing down upon me.
Just then, a flicker among the trees caught my eye—a light, faint and wavering. My heart quickened, and the hairs on my arms rose. I stepped closer, the heavy silence of the woods wrapping around me like a cloak. The light swayed, torturing my senses, pulling me forward as if I were a moth drawn to a flame. A foolish move, I knew, and yet, it felt inevitable.
As I drew closer, the woods fell silent, a stillness so profound I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I squinted through the fog, the light at the center of the clearing flickering like a dying ember. It was beautiful and terrible, a beacon promising warmth amidst the chill. I remembered the old tales, the warnings. The urge to turn and run was strong, but curiosity had always been my flaw.
Then I saw her, half-formed in the mist—Clara, or at least the ghost of her. She wore a white dress that seemed to float rather than cling to her body, her hair like strands of silver caught in the wind. She turned her head gently, and her eyes were two pools of darkness that swallowed the light around us.
“Help me,” she whispered, her voice a soft breeze that danced around the clearing. “I just want to go home.”
But behind her words, I felt the depth of something deeper, something that churned in the pit of my stomach. I gripped my gun tighter, my knuckles turning white. The legends had warned of this—a spirit that sought something from the living, and whatever she was after, I had a feeling I was about to find out.
The world faded around us, the trees swaying as if caught in a tempest only they could feel. “Please,” she said again, and in that moment, I saw glimpses of her past—snapshots of a life filled with laughter and love, fragments of a family searching in vain, their faces etched with worry. But then, as if the veil had lifted, horror twisted the images, revealing something darker, a pitiful tragedy turned malevolent.
“Your family,” I said slowly, my voice breaking the stillness. “You can’t find them because they’re gone.”
Her laughter echoed once more, but this time it was sharp, a knife scraping against bone. “Gone, yes, but I can still feel them,” she hissed, her form flickering like a malfunctioning bulb. “Join me—together, we can reunite.”
A shiver crawled down my spine. The stories spoke of betrayal—a spirit that sought to drag its prey into the depths of despair, sacrificing them to become whole. I understood then: she didn’t want my help; she wanted me to fill the void left by her family, to join them in whatever hell she endured.
“Back off!” I shouted, my voice rising against the wind. “I have a gun. I’m not afraid to use it!”
Her laughter, now tinged with rage, filled the clearing, a cacophony of voices rising from the depths. I could see shadows swirling around her, faces twisted in agony and fear. They reached for me with claw-like hands, begging for release, but I wouldn’t be another soul added to her collection.
“I’m not yours!” I yelled, raising my gun. I was shaking, heart racing, but I steadied my aim. “Get away from me!”
The ghostly figures shrieked, their voices melding into a scream that shook the leaves above. Clara’s expression twisted into one of anguish, fury coursing through her spectral form. The light dimmed, darkness engulfing everything around me.
Then I pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out like thunder, echoing through the hollow silence of the woods. The ghostly figures recoiled, their screams piercing through the fog, swallowed by the sound of that single, defiant shot. Clara’s form flickered, faltered, and for a moment, I thought I’d hit something real, something tangible.
But the darkness didn’t recede. Instead, it wrapped tighter around me, thick as smoke and cold as winter’s breath. And then silence—an absolute, unsettling silence.
I stood poised, gun still drawn, but I was alone. The light was extinguished, the ghosts silenced. My heart pounded in my chest as I grasped the gravity of what I’d done. The tales of Hollow Creek were never clear about how to banish a spirit, and I was beginning to think that no amount of gunfire could free me from this burden.
I turned and ran, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the thick fog. The trees closed in behind me, the shadows shifting like dark water, desperate to reclaim what they’d lost. I didn’t stop until I reached the edge of the woods, gasping for air as I stumbled back onto the damp ground of Hollow Creek.
The town seemed different now, the fog rolling through the streets, twisting around the lampposts like tendrils of smoke. Even the bar felt changed, as though it had become a refuge for secrets better left buried. I pushed through the door, greeted by familiar faces, all blissfully unaware of the horror I’d encountered. I ordered the strongest drink I could find and downed it in one gulp.
But even as I stared into the amber murk of my glass, I felt her presence lingering like the smoke of a gunshot. Hollow Creek had stories to tell, and I had added my own—a cautionary tale for those foolish enough to seek the light in the woods. In a town where spirits danced beneath the pines, I was now shackled by the weight of shadows that would haunt me far longer than any bullet could.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
