MidnightScreams

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The town of Hollow’s End wasn’t on any map.

Elliot had been driving for hours, the kind of aimless wandering that comes with too much time and too little purpose. The GPS on his phone had stopped working miles back, and the road had narrowed to little more than a dirt path flanked by dense, gnarled trees. The air smelled of damp earth and something else—something faintly metallic, like rust or old blood.

When he saw the sign—Hollow’s End, Pop. 47—he almost turned back. The letters were faded, the wood splintered and warped. But curiosity, that insidious little voice, urged him forward.

The town was eerily quiet. The buildings leaned precariously, their windows dark and lifeless. The streets were empty, save for a few scattered leaves that skittered across the cracked pavement. Elliot parked his car near what looked like a general store and stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel.

“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stillness.

No one answered.

He wandered deeper into the town, his unease growing with every step. The air felt heavier here, as if the very atmosphere was pressing down on him. He passed a church, its steeple crooked and its doors hanging open. Inside, the pews were overturned, and the altar was draped in what looked like black cloth.

And then he saw them.

Figures, standing in the shadows of the buildings. They didn’t move, didn’t speak. They just watched him with hollow eyes. Elliot’s heart raced, but he forced himself to approach the nearest one—a woman in a tattered dress, her face gaunt and pale.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice trembling. “Is everything okay here?”

The woman didn’t respond. She just stared past him, her lips moving silently as if reciting some unheard prayer.

Elliot backed away, his anxiety spiking. He turned to leave, but the figures began to move, stepping out of the shadows and into the dim light. They were all the same—pale, emaciated, their eyes empty yet somehow piercing.

“You shouldn’t be here,” one of them said, a man with a voice like dry leaves. “Not during the Hollow Harvest.”

“The… what?” Elliot stammered.

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed toward the edge of town, where the trees grew thicker and the shadows deeper. Elliot followed his gaze and saw something that made his blood run cold.

A field.

But it wasn’t a field of crops or flowers. It was a field of bodies.

They were arranged in neat rows, their faces covered with cloth and their hands bound. Some were still moving, writhing weakly against their restraints. Elliot’s stomach churned, and he took a step back, but the townsfolk closed in around him, their expressions blank but their eyes filled with a terrible, desperate hunger.

“It’s for the land,” the woman in the tattered dress said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The land demands it.”

Elliot tried to run, but they were too fast. Hands grabbed him, pulling him toward the field. He struggled, but there were too many of them, their strength unnatural and unyielding.


They dragged him to an empty spot in the field and forced him to his knees. The man with the dry voice leaned down, his breath cold against Elliot’s ear.

“The land must be fed,” he said. “It’s the only way to keep the darkness at bay.”

Elliot screamed as they bound his hands and covered his face with a rough, musty cloth. He could hear them chanting now, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed to pulse through the ground itself.

And then, silence.

When the cloth was removed, Elliot found himself alone. The townsfolk were gone, the field empty. But the air was heavier than ever, and the shadows seemed to stretch and twist, reaching for him.

He ran, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t stop until he reached his car, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the steering wheel. As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw them—the townsfolk, standing at the edge of the field, watching him go.

He never spoke of what happened in Hollow’s End. But sometimes, in the dead of night, he hears their chanting, faint and distant, and feels the weight of the land pressing down on him.

And he knows, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before it demands its due.