Whispers of Hollow Wood

NOTE: This story contains the following

• Mild blood (self-harm)

• Child endangerment

• Psychological horror

• Supernatural elements

Sam heard the whispers long before he ever dared set foot in Hollow Wood.

They came at night, curling in from the crack in his window, slipping beneath his covers like cold fingers. The words were too soft to catch, but the feeling they left behind wasn’t. Restless longing gnawed at his chest, the kind of ache he couldn't explain. Something inside him ached to answer the call.

Adults in town acted like the woods didn’t exist. No one spoke about Hollow Wood unless it was in broken warnings, half-joking, half-afraid. It wasn’t on any map. School buses drove past it with the blinds pulled down. Teachers said stay away but never said why.

Sam’s parents were the worst of them. Smiles too tight. Eyes sliding past the treeline outside town. Once, when he asked his mother why Hollow Wood was so scary, she had only said, "Some promises shouldn't be made," before biting her lip until it bled.

No one explained anything. No one ever explained anything.

Sam wasn’t like the other kids. He heard things he wasn't supposed to. He believed in things everyone else tried to bury.

On the night of the first frost, when the stars hid and the moon disappeared, he made up his mind. He wouldn't be afraid anymore. He had to know.

He slipped from his bed, tugged on sneakers, and crept into the freezing dark, carrying only a flashlight, a battered pocketknife, and a crumpled piece of candy — a peace offering to whatever waited.

The air near Hollow Wood was wrong.

It smelled metallic, like blood and rust. The trees hunched forward, thick roots twisted like veins, black against the earth. Cold mist clung low to the ground, making it hard to tell where dirt ended and shadows began.

Every few feet, Sam caught glimpses of things — shapes, movement — just out of reach. At one point, he thought he saw a shadowy figure crouched between two trees, weeping quietly.

He gripped his flashlight tighter.

The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, pressing against his chest like invisible hands. Whispers danced around him, threading through the branches — not words, exactly, but something more primal. Longing. Hunger.

His flashlight flickered, dimming with every step. He smacked it once. Twice. It died completely, plunging him into darkness.

The whispers thickened around him, almost a song. A child's giggle. His mother’s voice, lilting and warm. His father's call, sharp and commanding.

Home, they promised.

Safety.

All he had to do was follow.

He knew better than to believe it.

Still, his feet moved, carrying him deeper.

He stumbled into a clearing.

At its center stood an ancient, withered tree, its trunk split open like a wound. Beneath it sat a creature.

At first, it looked like a fox — lean, russet-furred, with unsettlingly human eyes. Its mouth stretched wider than it should, peeling into a grin that showed blackened, sharp teeth.

"You're late, little one," it rasped, voice like cracked glass.

Sam hesitated, then held out the candy.

The fox’s nose twitched. It padded forward, accepting the offering without hesitation, crunching the wrapper in its blackened jaws.

"Sweetness for trust," it murmured. "How fitting."

"I heard you," Sam said. "You said you needed help."

The fox’s tail flicked lazily.

"Indeed. We have waited long for one who would listen."

From the twisted trees, a second figure emerged.

Tall. Cloaked in heavy black robes that seemed stitched from shadow itself. Where its face should have been, there was only a churning smear of darkness.

Sam stumbled back.

The fox remained perfectly still.

"You brought him," the figure hissed.

"I keep my bargains," said the fox smoothly. "Unlike some."

The figure’s head tilted toward Sam. "You know what you must do, child."

"I don't understand," Sam said, shaking his head.

"You will," the fox promised, its grin widening.

The ground at Sam's feet cracked, revealing a pit of swirling darkness. Thin, ghostly hands reached up, clawing silently at the air before vanishing back into the void.

Sam reeled, bile rising in his throat.

The fox circled him, brushing its tail against Sam's ankles.

"Only a child’s spirit can open the Gate fully," it whispered. "Only you can finish what was started long ago."

"What gate?" Sam choked out.

"The one that keeps the old ones away," said the villain. "The one that protects your precious world."

"And you want me to open it?"

"We want you to choose," the fox corrected gently. "Freedom... or safety."

Sam’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.

The fox moved closer, voice dropping into a soft croon. "Imagine it, Sam. No more rules. No more being ignored. No more feeling like you don't belong."

The villain leaned down. "We could give you power. Freedom from their lies. A life where you matter."

Home, Sam thought desperately.

He thought of his parents, their brittle smiles, their fearful glances at the woods.

He thought of how lonely he felt, even surrounded by people.

Temptation coiled tight in his gut.

He turned to run.

But the trees had moved. Their branches knitted together, forming walls of bark and bone. The path back was gone.

"You promised," the villain crooned.

"I never did!" Sam shouted.

"You came willingly," the fox purred. "That is enough."

Sam sprinted blindly, thorns tearing at his skin, sharp roots clawing his legs.

The woods distorted around him.

Faces formed in the bark — twisted, screaming — their mouths stretching impossibly wide. Whispers turned to wails. The ground rippled, sometimes solid, sometimes soft and wet like raw flesh.

He stumbled into another clearing.

An altar stood at its center, rough stone covered in writhing green runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

On the altar lay another child.

Or what had once been a child.

Its skin was grey, stretched thin over brittle bones. Hollow black pits stared skyward, mouth frozen in an eternal, silent scream.

Sam gagged and stumbled back.

"You see what happens when promises are broken?" the villain whispered.

The fox leapt onto the altar, pacing back and forth.

"Be brave, Sam. Fulfill your promise. It's the only way."

Sam’s hands curled into fists.

Memories flooded his mind — the warmth of home, the feel of clean sheets, the way his mother used to sing before fear took over her voice.

He knew then: none of it mattered to them. The fox and the villain didn’t care about freedom. They cared about power. About opening the Gate. About feeding whatever lurked beyond.

"No," Sam said, voice firm.

The villain drifted closer. "No?"

"I choose me," he said.

With trembling hands, he pulled out his pocketknife.

He dragged the blade across his palm, letting blood drip onto the cursed soil.

The earth shuddered violently.

The Gate shrieked, a sound that tore at the sky.

The villain unraveled into black ribbons, sucked into the earth.

The fox screeched, body flickering through shapes — wolf, serpent, crow, child — before the ground cracked open and swallowed it whole.

The air grew still.

Above, the stars blinked back into view, cold and distant.

Sam collapsed to his knees, trembling.

The whispers faded into silence.

He stumbled home as dawn streaked the sky grey and silver.

His parents found him asleep on the porch, blood crusted around his hand, clothes torn. They never asked what had happened.

And Sam never told.

Days passed.

Sam stopped laughing. He jumped at shadows. He couldn't stand the dark anymore.

He found strange things left for him — little bundles of hair and bone, tiny footprints in the dust by his bed. He caught glimpses of movement in mirrors. Sometimes he would wake with a mouthful of earth.

He knew Hollow Wood wasn’t finished with him.

Not really.

On nights when the wind rose high, whistling across the fields, he would wake to find mist curling under his door, and a soft, familiar voice at his ear:

"A promise is a promise."

Sam would pull the covers tight, squeeze his bleeding hand, and pray.

But deep down, he knew the woods always collect their debts — sooner or later.

And next time, there might be no choice at all.