MidnightScreams

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The village stood like a skeleton of the past, its bones of crumbling cottages and empty streets rising against the backdrop of a moonless sky. No one had dared enter for decades—not since the night in 1947 when every resident vanished without a trace. They called it Hollow Moor Village, named after the bog that swallowed those who tried to flee.

I had spent years debunking hauntings, exposing hoaxes, and rationalizing what others feared. But something about this place—about the way the air seemed thick with unspoken words—tugged at my instincts. This wasn't just a story. This was something else.

Equipped with my camera, an audio recorder, and a flashlight, I stepped onto the village's main road. The moment my boot touched the cobblestones, an unnatural silence consumed the world outside. The wind stopped. The trees no longer rustled. Even my own breathing sounded muted.

The long road yawned before me, doorways sagging like open mouths. My flashlight flickered as I whispered into my recorder.

“Initial entry. Hollow Moor Village. The air is stale, heavy, like something is pressing down on me. I feel... watched.”

I walked slowly, my footsteps softened by layers of dust and decay. The village smelled of damp rot and something chemical, like old medicine turned sour. On the walls of abandoned houses, peeling paint revealed words scratched into the wood:

DO NOT SPEAK TO THEM

The message was repeated over and over, some carvings fresh, others ancient. My fingers brushed the words as a sudden chill ran up my spine.

In the distance, a door creaked open.

I turned, flashlight beam shaking. The road stretched, impossibly long. At the far end stood a figure. Gaunt. Hollow-eyed. It did not move, yet I felt it watching me, waiting.

I lifted my camera, snapped a photo. When I looked at the screen, the figure was gone—but the door behind it remained open.

A whisper slid through the darkness: “You should leave.”

I held my breath, muscles taut. The voice was not a warning; it was a promise. But I had come too far.

I pressed on, my flashlight guiding me deeper. I passed rusted lanterns, overturned market carts, a child’s doll left in the middle of the road, its fabric face rotting away. Something about this place felt wrong in a way I couldn’t define—as if it weren’t abandoned, just... waiting.

I reached the old inn. Each door bore a number, but the names had been scratched away. Inside, the beds remained, some still with sheets attached. And then, in one room, I found something impossible.

A journal. Fresh, as if it had been written just days ago.

I picked it up, flipping to the last entry. The handwriting was jagged, desperate.

“They know when you’re alone. They know when you’re weak. If you hear them whisper, it’s already too late.”

A breath tickled my ear. I spun around, but no one was there. The silence pressed in again, heavier now. My fingers trembled over the pages as I read on.

“We tried to stop them. We locked the doors. We turned off the lights. But the walls remember. The walls remember.”


The walls. I raised my flashlight, scanning the room. Then I saw it—shapes beneath the wood, moving, shifting as if something inside were trying to break free. Faces, contorted in screams, pressed against the timber. Their mouths opened, but no sound came.

A deafening bang echoed down the road. The door I had entered through was now shut. The whisper returned, curling around my mind like fingers around a throat.

“You should have listened.”

The walls cracked. The floor trembled. I bolted, the village shifting around me, paths twisting, doors slamming open and shut. Shadows bled from the buildings, reaching for me with elongated fingers. I ran blindly, heart hammering, lungs burning.

I burst into the main square, the exit just ahead. But standing before it, waiting, was the figure from before.

Only now, it was not alone.

A dozen figures stood with it, their faces vacant, their bodies swaying in unison. Their eyes—black voids—locked onto me. One stepped forward, jaw unhinging impossibly wide.

“Stay.”

I turned, sprinting in the opposite direction. The village would not let me go. The walls pulsated, the air thick with whispers. A path appeared ahead, one I hadn’t seen before. It stood open, waiting.

With no other choice, I ran through.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

When I awoke, I was outside. The village loomed behind me, silent, unchanged. My camera was gone. My recorder was missing. Only the journal remained in my hands.

I never went back.

But sometimes, when the night is too quiet, I hear them whispering.

And I know they are waiting.