MidnightScreams

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I arrived in Black Hollow on the last day of autumn, the skeletal trees bending against the cold wind, their brittle leaves whispering against the road. The village sat in a valley untouched by time, its houses sagging under years of neglect. It was the kind of place the modern world had forgotten, and perhaps for good reason.

I was here on assignment. The town’s eerie reputation had drawn speculation for decades—locals who refused to speak of their past, disappearances that never made the papers, and, most disturbingly, the legend of the Hollow Ones. As a journalist, I prided myself on separating folklore from fact, and I was determined to uncover the truth behind Black Hollow.

The villagers were wary of me from the moment I set foot in town. Conversations halted as I approached, eyes flickered toward me before quickly averting. The air carried a strange, coppery scent that I couldn’t quite place. I checked into the only inn, run by an old woman named Edith, who seemed reluctant to take my money.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she muttered as she handed me the key. Her hands trembled, the wrinkles on her face deep-set with worry.

“I just want to learn about the village,” I said, forcing a smile.

She looked at me long and hard before saying, “We don't talk about them.”

“The Hollow Ones?” I pressed.

Her lips tightened. “You should leave before nightfall.”

I didn’t.

That evening, I wandered the streets, taking notes on the strange architecture—houses built in odd, circular formations, with thick wooden doors reinforced with iron. Every window had carvings above the frame, symbols that looked like eyes. I stopped a man on the street, a farmer with sunken cheeks and darting eyes.

“Can you tell me about the Hollow Ones?” I asked.

He inhaled sharply, glancing at the darkening sky. “They come when the moon is high,” he whispered. “They take what’s owed.”

“Owed?”

But he had already hurried away.

As night fell, the village changed. Lights dimmed behind shuttered windows. I saw shadows moving behind curtains, lips moving in silent prayers. A bell tolled somewhere deep within the village—a slow, deliberate chime that set my teeth on edge.


Then came the knocking.

It was rhythmic, calculated, not at one door but at several. A hollow, echoing knock, as if done by something without flesh. I pressed myself to the window of my room, peering into the darkness.

Figures stood in the streets. Tall, gaunt, their limbs too long, their heads tilted at unnatural angles. Their faces were obscured by the dark, but I could feel their hollow eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

The knocking continued, growing louder, more insistent. I heard a scream, cut short. Then silence.

I didn’t sleep. The night stretched endlessly, the wind carrying distant murmurs that didn’t sound human. When the sun finally broke over the hills, the village stirred as if nothing had happened. But there were fewer people in the streets.

I packed my bags. I had enough to write my story—enough to warn people. As I reached the outskirts of town, I saw Edith standing by the road.

“You can leave,” she said. “But you’ll never really escape.”

I didn’t understand what she meant.

Not until I heard the knocking at my own door that night.