The fog clung to the twisted trees like a shroud, smothering Larkspur Hollow in an oppressive silence. The town, nestled deep within the Blackwood Forest, seemed forgotten by time—a relic of another era where secrets were kept and sins were buried. The road into the Hollow was narrow, winding through dense woods that whispered in the wind, their skeletal branches reaching out like the claws of something long dead but not entirely gone.
Evelyn Mercer’s car crawled through the mist, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. The GPS on her phone had lost signal miles ago, leaving her to navigate by memory and the vague directions her late grandmother had scrawled in a letter. The old woman’s words had been cryptic, almost desperate, urging Evelyn to come to Larkspur Hollow immediately. Now, with the sun setting behind a wall of gray clouds, Evelyn wondered if she had made a mistake.
Her grandmother’s house loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette in the fog. The manor had been abandoned for years, ever since Evelyn’s parents had left the Hollow when she was a child. The memories of those early years were hazy, obscured by time and distance, but a sense of unease settled in her chest as she parked the car and stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something old, something wrong.
The front door creaked open under her touch, the sound echoing through the empty halls. Dust motes danced in the dim light filtering through the grimy windows, and the floorboards groaned beneath her feet as she stepped inside. The house was exactly as she remembered it—large, cold, and filled with shadows that seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking. But there was something new, too—an undercurrent of malevolence that hadn’t been there before, or perhaps had always been there, lying in wait.
Evelyn set down her bags and walked further into the house, her footsteps hesitant, almost as if the walls were listening. She reached the living room, where the remains of a fire lay cold in the hearth. On the mantelpiece, an old photograph caught her eye—a picture of her grandmother, standing in front of the house with a stern expression, her eyes locked onto the camera. Evelyn picked up the photo, her fingers brushing over the cracked glass, and felt a chill run down her spine.
A noise came from the hallway—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper that sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She spun around, the photo still clutched in her hand, and stared into the darkness. The house seemed to breathe around her, the walls closing in, the shadows stretching. She took a step back, her heart pounding, and the whisper came again, clearer this time, a voice so faint she could barely make out the words.
“Welcome home, Evelyn.”
The photo slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor, the sound breaking the silence like a scream. Evelyn stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat, as the whispers grew louder, rising from the depths of the house, echoing through the corridors and wrapping around her like the fog outside.
There was no turning back now. The Hollow had her in its grip.