Black Hollow, North Carolina – Present Day
The first thing Evelyn Hart noticed was how the sky seemed to darken the closer she got to Black Hollow. The clouds weren't just gray—they were heavy, bloated with an unnatural stillness, as though they were holding their breath.
She drove with one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other cradling a worn letter she'd read ten times already. The envelope had arrived two weeks after her grandmother's death, sealed with old-fashioned wax and the initials M.H. No lawyer. No phone call. Just a note written in shaky, almost frantic cursive:
> "The house is yours now. But don't trust the town. And whatever you do—never go into the woods after dark. You are not safe there. You are not one of them."
She should have ignored it. Tossed it in the trash, called it a scam. But she'd been fired from her editorial job a month earlier. Her boyfriend left her a week after. She had three unpaid bills and a broken heater in the middle of winter.
So when the letter promised her a fully paid-off house in her grandmother's name, nestled in rural North Carolina, she packed her bags and left New York behind.
But now, as she passed the cracked welcome sign reading Black Hollow – Pop. 689, she had the distinct feeling she was driving into something ancient… and watching.
---
The town was unnervingly quiet. No gas stations. No Walmarts. Just rows of old houses with gabled roofs and stained glass windows that looked like they hadn't changed since the 1800s.
People stood on porches and sidewalks, staring. Not in a friendly small-town kind of way, but in a way that made Evelyn feel like she had trespassed. Like she wasn't supposed to be here.
Some muttered under their breath. Others simply turned and walked inside.
She drove past them all, heart tapping against her ribs, until the GPS gave up completely and the road turned to gravel. Finally, the car rolled to a stop in front of a crooked wooden mailbox: M. Hart.
The house beyond it was swallowed in moss and shadow.
---
Her boots crunched against the damp leaves as she walked up the path. A crow cawed from the treetops, breaking the silence like a gunshot. The front door creaked open easily, the key fitting into the lock like it had been waiting for her.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and something darker—like rotting wood and forgotten time.
It wasn't dusty, but it wasn't clean either. The furniture was covered in faded floral patterns, the curtains drawn tight. Old portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes following her as she walked.
And then, above the cold fireplace, she saw it: a sealed envelope propped against a black candle.
It was addressed simply:
Evelyn
Hands trembling, she opened it.
> "If you're reading this, it means I am gone. And the curse still lives."
"Every ten years, they send a girl into the forest. They call it a sacrifice. A tradition. A deal. I escaped it once. But no one escapes it forever."
"They'll come for you at full moon."
"Don't run. It only makes him hunt harder."
— Margaret Hart
---
Outside, the wind howled through the trees like a warning.
And deep within the forest, something—somewhere—moved.