Hollow Brook

The old oak tree in Hollowbrook Cemetery had always whispered—or so the locals claimed. Teenagers dared each other to touch its gnarled trunk at midnight, but none ever stayed long enough to hear the truth. One fog-drenched evening, 17-year-old Mara accepted the challenge. Her fingers brushed the bark, and the world fell silent—no crickets, no wind. Then, a child’s lullaby seeped from the roots, soft and sourceless. Mara froze as the melody twisted into a chorus of weeping. Shadows pooled around the tree, solidifying into small, skeletal hands that clawed at her ankles.  

She stumbled back, but the hands clung, dragging her toward a hollow at the base of the oak. Inside, faces pressed against the rotting wood—dozens of them, mouths stretched in silent screams. They were the missing, the ones the town called runaways. Mara ripped free, sprinting home with bloody scratches etching her skin. The next morning, she returned with a shovel, determined to end the curse. But the hollow was gone, the tree flawless—save for a new face in the bark, lips parted in a scream that mirrored her own.  

Years later, villagers still swear the oak hums her name at dusk… and the hollow hungers again.