The road into Blackthorn Hollow was nothing but a thin scar cut through the trees. The forest pressed in on both sides, branches twisted like skeletal arms, their tips scratching the roof of the car as if to drag it back.
Maya gripped the steering wheel tighter. She told herself it was just another town—quiet, old, a little forgotten. But there was something wrong with the silence here. Even with her windows cracked, not a single bird called, not a single insect hummed. The air was thick, waiting.
She had come because of the letter. A single sheet of yellowed paper, folded three times, with no return address. "We know what happened to your brother. Come before the harvest moon."
Her brother had been missing for seven years.
The Hollow opened suddenly, the trees falling away to reveal a town that looked older than the road itself. Stone cottages leaned on one another like drunks, windows black, their shutters hanging loose. The gas lamps burned with a faint, sickly glow even in daylight. And at the center, rising above everything, stood the church—its steeple cracked, its bell long fallen silent.
As she drove slowly down the crooked main street, she saw them: the people. They stood perfectly still outside their houses, watching her. Their faces were pale, their eyes sunken, like dolls left too long in the rain. Not one of them spoke. Not one of them blinked.
Maya parked by the inn, her heartbeat drumming. She opened the door, stepped out—and only then did she hear it.
A low hum, faint at first, swelling as though the ground itself was singing. The townsfolk turned their heads in unison toward the church. The sound grew sharper, angrier, and for just a moment, Maya thought she saw a shadow moving inside the steeple—something vast, writhing against the stained-glass windows.
The hum stopped. The silence returned.
And every villager smiled.