On the outskirts of a quiet town in rural Maine, there was a stretch of forest known to the locals as **Pine Hollow**. It was the kind of place no one talked about, where the trees grew thick and twisted, and where the wind, even on the calmest days, seemed to whisper secrets. People said the forest was cursed, but no one could agree on why. Some spoke of witches who had been burned there centuries ago; others of creatures older than man, who had always roamed the land. But everyone agreed on one thing: you didn't go into Pine Hollow after dark.
Grace Jennings had heard the stories all her life. Growing up in the town, her friends would dare each other to walk into the woods at night, but no one ever did. When she was a kid, she'd often stare at the tree line from her bedroom window, imagining what could be lurking just out of sight. Now, at 22, she had just returned home from college, looking for peace in the place she once felt safe.
One crisp October evening, after an argument with her parents, Grace needed to clear her head. Without thinking, she found herself walking toward the edge of Pine Hollow. The sky was turning a soft purple, the sun sinking low, and a chill hung in the air. As she neared the entrance to the forest, a strange feeling washed over her, a sense of being watched, though she saw no one. The trees loomed tall and dark, their branches intertwining like skeletal fingers. Against all better judgment, Grace stepped into the woods.
The further she went, the quieter the world became. Even the birds had stopped chirping. All around her, the forest seemed to close in, as if the trees themselves were shifting, watching her with unseen eyes. Grace told herself it was just her imagination, but her pulse quickened. She could hear her own footsteps crunching on the dead leaves beneath her feet, and beneath that, something elseâa faint rustling, as though something was moving just out of sight.
After walking for what felt like hours, Grace realized she had lost track of time. The sun was gone, and the woods were shrouded in darkness. She stopped, heart racing, and turned to head back, but the path was gone. The trees now formed an impenetrable wall around her, and the way she came was swallowed by shadows.
Panic set in. She took out her phone, but there was no signal, and the flashlight only seemed to make the darkness press closer. As she spun in circles, trying to find any sign of the trail, she heard itâa low, guttural whisper. It was close, too close. It wasn't just one voice, but many, layered over each other, murmuring in a language she didn't understand. The words were thick, unnatural, like they were being spoken by something that hadn't used its voice in centuries.
Grace froze, her breath coming in short gasps. She turned slowly, and there, standing between the trees, were figures. They were tall, impossibly tall, their bodies thin and elongated, faces shrouded in shadow. Their eyes, if they had any, gleamed with a sickly, faint light. The whispering grew louder, more insistent, filling her mind. She wanted to scream, but her voice wouldn't come. She wanted to run, but her legs were rooted to the ground.
The figures moved toward her, their limbs bending in ways that shouldn't be possible, their whispers turning into low, rhythmic chants. Grace backed away, stumbling, her eyes wide with terror. She knew these weren't humanâno, they were something older, something ancient, something that didn't belong to this world.
Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet shifted, soft and wet like it was sinking. She looked down to see that the earth was opening up, slowly swallowing her feet. The cold, damp soil clung to her like a living thing. She tried to pull free, but the harder she struggled, the deeper she sank. The figures loomed closer, their whispers turning into a cacophony, rising in volume until they filled the air like a storm.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the whispers stopped.
Grace looked up, heart pounding in her throat. The figures were gone, as if they had never been there at all. The trees around her were still, and the night was eerily quiet. She was no longer sinking, but her legs were stuck in the ground up to her knees. Desperate, she yanked at the roots and soil, finally managing to free herself. She scrambled back the way she thought she came, running blindly through the darkness.
By some miracle, Grace burst out of the forest and stumbled onto the road, gasping for air. Her clothes were torn, her hands scraped and bloody, but she was alive. She turned back to the forest, expecting to see the figures standing at the edge, watching her.
But there was nothing. The woods were dark and silent.
Grace made her way home, shaken and disoriented. When she told her parents what happened, they didn't believe her. No one did. They said she was imagining things, that the old stories had gotten into her head.
But Grace knew the truth. The Watchers were real, and they were still out there, waiting in the woods.
And she wasn't the only one who had seen them. Over the following weeks, she heard whispers in townâpeople vanishing near Pine Hollow, never to be seen again. The forest had always been hungry, and now it seemed to be waking, reaching out beyond its borders.
The last thing Grace heard before she packed up and left town for good was that the woods had claimed another victimâa hiker found deep in the forest, his body twisted and broken, his face frozen in a look of unspeakable terror.
No one goes into Pine Hollow anymore.
Not after dark. Not ever.